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Presented  to  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO 
LIBRARY 

by  the 

ONTARIO  LEGISLATIVE 
LIBRARY 

1980 


THE 

71429 


ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


A  MAGAZINE   OF 


literature,  Science,  &rt,  anD  ;potitic$ 


1911 


COFYKIGHT,  1910  and  1911, 
BY  THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY   COMPANY. 


2 
Ag 

v. 


Printed  at  The  Riverride  -Prw,  Cambridge,  Matt.,  U.  3.  A. 


CONTENTS 


INDEX  BY  TITLES 
Prose 


Abolition  of  the  Queue,  The,  Ching-Chun 

Wang 810 

After  He  was  Dead,  Melville  Davisson 

Post 464 

American  Methods  of  Production,  German 

and,  W.  H.  Dooley 649 

American  Naval  Expenditure,  A  British 

View  of,  Alexander  G.  McClellan  ...  34 
American  Spirit,  The,  Arthur  Christopher 

Benson 276 

American  Unthrift,  Charles  T.  Rogers  .  .  693 
Animal  Intelligence,  M.  E.  Haggerty  .  .  599 
Archaeology,  Oric  Bates 211 

Big  Mary,  Katherine  Mayo 112 

Birthplace,  The,  Margaret  Ashmun  .  .  .  233 
Boys,  What  is  Wrong  with  our  ?  William 

T.  Miller 789 

Boys    and   the   Theatre,    Frederick   Win- 

sor 350 

British  View  of  American  Naval  Expendi- 
ture, A,  Alexander  G.  McClellan    ...       34 

Christ  among  the  Doctors,  George  Hodges  .  483 

Class-Consciousness,  Vida  D.  Scudder  .  320 
Coddling  the  Criminal,  Charles  C.  Nott, 

Jr 164 

Confederate  Government,  Lee  and  the, 

Gamaliel  Bradford,  Jr 192 

Country  Minister,  The,  Charles  Moreau 

Harger 794 

Criminal,  Coddling  the,  Charles  C.  Nott,  Jr.  164 

Criticism,  W.  C.  Brownell 548 

Criticism  of  Two-Party  Politics,  A,  J.  N. 

Lamed 289 

Davis,  Lee  and,  Gamaliel  Bradford,  Jr.      .      62 
Diary  of  the  Reconstruction  Period,   A, 
(Conclusion)  Gideon  Welles       ....     118 


Dream-March  to  the  Wilderness,  A,  Morris 
Schaff 


632 


Educational  Efficiency,  Henry  Davis  Bush- 

nett  . 498 

Egalit6,  Henry  Seidel  Canby 331 

Embarrassed  Eliminators,  The,  E.  V.  Lu- 
cas   517 

Federal  Expenditures  under  Modern  Con- 
ditions, William  S.  Rossiter 625 

Fiddler's  Lure,  Robert  Haven  Schauffler    .    472 

Field  of  Scarlet  Treasure,  The,  Edmna 
Stanton  Babcock 182 

For  the  Honor  of  the  Company,  Mary  E. 
Mitchell 648 

Four  Winds,  The,  Frank  Jewett  Mather,  Jr.      91 

German  and  American  Methods  of  Pro- 
duction, W.  H.  Dooley 649 

German    and    British    Experience    with 

Trusts,  Gilbert  Holland  Montague       .     .     155 

If  the  United  States  should  go  to  War, 
Bigelow,  John,  Jr 833 

Ignominy  of  Being  Good,  The,  Max  East- 
man   131 

In  Praise  of  Parrots,  Franklin  James    .     .    355 

Jackson,  Lee  and,  Gamaliel  Bradford,  Jr.  778 
Journalism  as  a  Career,  Charles  Moreau 

Harger 218 

Journalist,  The  Training  of  the,  Herbert  W. 

Horwill 107 

Lee  and  Davis,  Gamaliel  Bradford,  Jr.  .     .  62 

Lee  and  Jackson,  Gamaliel  Bradford,  Jr.  .  778 
Lee  and  the  Confederate  Government, 

Gamaliel  Bradford,  Jr 192 


IV 


CONTENTS 


Lemnian,  The,  John  Buchan 45 

Letter  to  the  Rising  Generation,  A,  Cor- 
nelia A.  P.  Comer  145 

Life  beyond  Life,  Beulah  B.  Amram      .     .  205 

Little  Baby,  A,  Caroline  Brett  McLean      .  529 

Mine,  The  Tragedy  of  the,  Joseph  Hus- 
band   101 

Moliere's  Birthday,  Edwina  Stanton  Bab- 
cock  55 

Municipal  Government  in  the  United 
States,  The  Tendency  of,  George  B.  Mc- 
Clettan  433 

My  First  Summer  in  the  Sierra,  John  Muir 

1,  170,  339,  521 

North  and  South:  an  Island  Story,  Julia 
D.  Dragoumis 721 

Nullifying  the  Law  by  Judicial  Interpreta- 
tion, Harrison  S.  Smalley 452 

Nurse,  An  Untrained,  Lucy  Huston  Sturde- 
vant 820 

Old  Friends  and  New,  Margaret  Sher- 
wood   661 

Order  of  the  Garden,  The,  Elizabeth  Cool- 
idge 771 

Pace  that  Kills,  The,  Ford  Madox  Huef- 
fer 670 

Parrots,  In  Praise  of,  Franklin  James   .     .     355 

Patricians,  The,  John  Galsworthy 

75,  242,  385,  502,  674 

Pedigree  of  Pegasus,  The,  Frederick  Mor- 
gan Padelford 844 

•Persistence  and  Integrity  of  Plots,   The, 

Ellen  Duvall       619 

Poetry  of  William  Watson,  The,  Harold 
Williams 267 

Portrait  Incubus,  The,  Helen  Nicolay    .     .     805 

Prepare  for  Socialism,  J.  N.  Lamed     .     .     577 

Problem  of  Priscilla,  The,  Francis  E.  Leupp    762 

Production,  German  and  American  Meth- 
ods of,  W.  H.  Dooley 649 

Provincial  American,  The,  Meredith  Nich- 
olson   311 

Punch,  Robert  M.Gay 134 

Quality  of  Mercy,  The,  Florence  Converse  .     508 
Queue,  The  Abolition  of  the,  Ching-Chun 


Wang 


810 


Railroads  and  the  People,  The,  E.  P.  Rip- 
ley 12 

Reconstruction  Period,  A  Diary  of  the, 
(Conclusion)  Gideon  Welles 118 

Recreation  through  the  Senses,  Paul  W. 
Goldsbury 411 


Rising  Generation,  A  Letter  to  the,  Corne- 
lia A.  P.  Comer 145 

Russia,  Tolstoi  and  Young,  Rose  Strunsky  .     490 

Scenic  Novel,  The,  Ellis  Parker  Butler  .  .  424 
Sierra,  My  First  Summer  in  the,  John 

Muir 1,  170,  339,  521 

Sir  Walter's  Orphanage,  N.  P.  Dunn  .  .  709 
Slave  Plantation  in  Retrospect,  The,  Win- 

throp  More  Daniels 363 

Socialism,  Prepare  for,  J.  N.  Lamed  .  .  577 
Socialism  and  Human  Achievement,  J.  0. 

Fagan  24 

Socialism  and  National  Efficiency,  J.  0. 

Fagan  580 

South-African  Sweet-Tooth,  A,  Mark  F. 

Wilcox 830 

Step-Daughter  of  the  Prairie,  A,  Margaret 

Lynn 379 

Stranger  within  our  Gates,  The,  Francis  E. 

Leupp        702 


433 


Tendency  of  Municipal  Government,  The, 
in -the  United  States,  George  B.  McClel- 
lan 

Theatre,  Boys  and  the,  Frederick  Win- 
sor 350 

Tolstoi  and  Young  Russia,  Rose  Strunsky  .    490 

Tragedy  of  the  Mine,  The,  Joseph  Hus- 


band 


101 


Training  of  the  Journalist,  The,  Herbert  W. 
Horwill 107 

Trusts,  German  and  British  Experience 
with,  Gilbert  Holland  Montague  .  .  .  155 

Two  Doctors  at  Akragas,  Frederick  Peter- 
son   816 

Two  Generations,  The,  Randolph  S.  Bourne    591 

Two-Party  Politics,  A  Criticism  of,  J.  N. 
Lamed 289 

Undergraduate  Scholarship,  William  Jetc- 

ett  Tucker 740 

Unpainted  Portrait,  The,  Ellen  Duvall  .     .     370 
Untrained  Nurse,  An,  Lucy  Huston  Sturde- 
vant       ... 


War  against  War,  The,  Havelock  Ellis  .  . 
Watson,  William,  The  Poetry  of,  Harold 

Williams  

What  is  Wrong  with  our  Boys?  William  T. 

Miller  

Why  Not  ?  Ettwood  Hendrick 

Wild  Life  in  a  City  Garden,  Herbert  Ravenal 

Sass 

Word  to  the  Rich,  A,  Henry  L,  Higginson  .  301 

Younger  Generation,  The:  An  Apologia, 
Ann  Hard  .     538 


820 
751 
267 

789 
568 

226 


CONTENTS  v 

Poetry 

Do  You  Remember?   Margaret  P.  Man-  Old  Bridge,  The,  Henry  Van  Dyke  850 

tague 804 

Rhetorician  to  his  Spider,  The,  Katharine 
Homesickness,  Charles  Grant  Matthews      .    362          Fullerton  Gerould    .     .  74 

Japanese  Wood-Carving,  A,  Amy  Lowell    .     225      Safe,  Olive  Tilford  Dargan        .     .     .*  \\\ 

Song  of  Siva,  The,  Ameen  Rihani     ...  648 

Loom  of  Spring,  The,  Cornelia  K.  Rathbone    624 

To  a  Christian  Poet,  Lee  Wilson  Dodd       .  410 

Miserere,  Domine!  Jefferson  B.  Fletcher     .     203 

Myself  and  I,  Fannie  Stearns  Davis       .     .     479      Wave,  A,  Charles  Lemmi     .     .     .     .     ,     .  451 


INDEX  BY  AUTHORS 


Amram,  Beulah  B.,  Life  beyond  Life 
Ashman,  Margaret,  The  Birthplace  . 


205 
233 


Babcock,  Edwina  Stanton 

Moliere's  Birthday 55 

The  Field  of  the  Scarlet  Treasure     .     .  183 

Bates,  Oric,  Archaeology 211 

Benson,  Arthur  C.,  The  American  Spirit     .  276 
Bigelow,  John,  Jr.,  If  the  United  States 

should  to  War 833 

Bourne,  Randolph  S.,    The  Two  Genera- 
tions       590 

Bradford,  Gamaliel,  Jr. 

Lee  and  Davis 62 

Lee  and  the  Confederate  Government   .  192 

Lee  and  Jackson 778 

Brownett,  W.  C.,  Criticism 548 

Buchan,  John,  The  Lemnian 45 

Bushnett,  Henry  Davis,   Educational  Effi- 
ciency          498 

Butler,  Ellis  Parker,  The  Scenic  Novel       .  424 

Canby,  Henry  Seidel,  Egalite 331 

Comer,  Cornelia  A.  P.,  A.  Letter  to  the  Ris- 
ing Generation 145 

Converse,  Florence,  The  Quality  of  Mercy  .  508 
Coolidge,  Elizabeth,  The  Order  of  the  Gar- 
den      . 771 

Daniels,  Winthrop  More,  The  Slave  Plan- 
tation in  Retrospect    .......  363 

Dargan,  Olive  Tilford,  Safe Ill 

Davis,  Fannie  Stearns,  Myself  and  I      .     .  479 

Dodd,  Lee  Wilson,  To  a  Christian  Poet      .  410 
Dooley,  W.  H.,     German    and    American 

Methods  of  Production 649 

Dragoumis,  Julia  D.,  North  and  South:  an 

Island  Story       721 

Dunn,  H.  P.,  Sir  Walter's  Orphanage   .     .  709 
Duvall,  Ellen 

The  Unpainted  Portrait 370 

The  Persistence  and  Integrity  of  Plots  .  619 


Eastman,  Max,  The  Ignominy  of  Being 

Good 131 

Ellis,  Havelock,  The  War  against  War       .     751 

Fagan,  J.  0. 

Socialism  and  Human  Achievement  .  .  24 

Socialism  and  National  Efficiency      .  .  580 

Fletcher,  Jefferson  B.,  Miserere,  Domine  .  203 

Galsworthy,  John,  The  Patricians 

75,  242,  385,  502,  674 

Gay,  Robert  M.,  Punch 134 

Gerould,  Katharine,  The  Rhetorician  to  his 

Spider       73 

Goldsbury,  Paul  W.,  Recreation  through 

the  Senses 411 

Haggerty,  M.  E.,  Animal  Intelligence    .     .  599 
Hard,  Ann,  The  Younger  Generation :  An 

Apologia 538 

Harger,  Charles  Moreau 

Journalism  as  a  Career 218 

The  Country  Minister 794 

Hendrick,  Ellwood,  Why  Not?      ....  568 

Higginson,  Henry  L.,  A  Word  to  the  Rich  .  301 

Hodges,  George,  Christ  among  the  Doctors  .  483 
Horunll,  Herbert  W.      . 

The  Training  of  the  Journalist      ...  107 

The  New  Missionary  Outlook       .     .     .  441 

Hue/er,  Ford  Madox,  The  Pace  that  Kills  .  670 

Husband,  Joseph,  The  Tragedy  of  the  Mine  101 

James,  Franklin,  In  Praise  of  Parrots  .     .     355 

Lamed,  J.  N. 

A  Criticism  of  Two-Party  Politics     .     .  289 

Prepare  for  Socialism 577 

Lemmi,  Charles,  A  Wave *51 

Leupp,  Francis  E. 

The  Stranger  within  our  Gates      .     .     .  702 

The  Problem  of  Priscilla 763 

Lowell,  Amy,  A  Japanese  Wood-Carving   .  225 


VI 


CONTENTS 


Lucas,  E.  V .,  The  Embarrassed  Elimina- 
tors   517 

Lynn,  Margaret,  A  Step-Daughter  of  the 
Prairie 379 

Mather,  Frank  Jewett,  Jr.,  The  Four  Winds      91 
Matthews,  Charles  Grant,  Homesickness     .     362 

Mayo,  Katherine,  Big  Mary 112 

McClellan,  Alexander  G.,  A  British  View  of 

American  Naval  Expenditure        ...       34 
McClellan,   George  B.,  The  Tendency  of 
Municipal  Government  in   the   United 

States        433 

McLean,  Caroline  Brett,  A  Little  Baby      .     529 
Miller,  William  T.,  What  is  Wrong  with 

our  Boys  ? 789 

Mitchell,  Mary  E.,  For  the  Honor  of  the 

Company 641 

Montague,   Gilbert  Holland,   German  and 

British  Experience  with  Trusts     .     .     .     155 
Montague,  Margaret  Prescott,  Do  You  Re- 
member ? 804 

Muir,  John,  My  First  Summer  in  the  Sierra 

1,  170,  339  521 

Nicholson,  Meredith,  The  Provincial  Amer- 
ican    311 

Nicolay,  Helen,  The  Portrait  Incubus    .     .  805 

Nott,  Charles  C.,  Jr.,  Coddling  the  Criminal  164 

Padelford,  Frederick  Morgan,  The  Pedigree 
of  Pegasus 844 

Peterson,  Frederick,  Two  Doctors  at  Akra- 
gas 816 

Post,  Melville  Davisson,  After  He  was  Dead     465 


Rathbone,  Cornelia  K.,  The  Loom  of  Spring  624 
Rihani,  Ameen,  The  Song  of  Siva     .     .     .  648 
Ripley,  E.  P.,  The  Railroads  and  the  Peo- 
ple   12 

Rogers,  Charles  T.,  American  Unthrift  .     .  694 
Rossiter,  William  S.,  Federal  Expenditures 

under  Modern  Conditions    .     .     .     .     .  625 

Sass,  Herbert  Ravenal,  Wild  Life  in  a  City 

Garden      . 226 

Schaff,  Morris,  A  Dream-March  to  the  Wil- 
derness    632 

Schauffler,  Robert  Haven,  Fiddler's  Lure     .  472 

Scudder,  Vida  D.,  Class-Consciousness       .  320 

Sherwood,  Margaret,  Old  Friends  and  New  661 
Smalley,  Harrison  S.,  Nullifying  the  Law 

by  Judicial  Interpretation 452 

Strunsky,  Rose,  Tolstoi  and  Young  Russia  .  490 
Sturdevant,    Lucy  Huston,   An    Untrained 

Nurse 820 

Tucker,  William  Jewett,  Undergraduate 
Scholarship 740 

Van  Dyke,  Henry,  The  Old  Bridge        .     .     750 

Wang,  Chin-Chung,  The  Abolition  of  the 
Queue  810 

Welles,  Gideon,  A  Diary  of  the  Reconstruc- 
tion Period  (Conclusion) 118 

Wilcox,  Mark  F.,  A  South  African  Sweet- 
Tooth  830 

Williams,  Harold,  The  Poetry  of  William 
Watson 267 

Winsor,  Frederick,  Boys  and  the  Theatre  .     350 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


'Boots,  The' 431 

Born  out  of  Time 430 

By-Products  of  Bird-Study 716 

Call-Drum,  The 140 

Final  Word,  A       718 

Foundations  of  Simplicity 285 

Gentleman  Adventurer,  A 571 

Glory  of  Being  Wicked,  The 715 


How  Doth 


574 


Immorality  of  Travel,  The 851 

Inanimate  Objects,  On        137 

In  Praise  of  Journeys 850 

Invalids  and  their  Friends  .  .  427 


Little  Boy  that  lived  in  the  Lane,  The      .     712 
Little  House,  The 139 


Moment  of  Revolt,  A 
My  Views      .     .     .     , 


Pleasures  of  Acquaintance,  The  . 
Rain    . 


282 
855 

857 
573 


Tailor's  Paradox,  The 286 

Toleration 279 

Utterance  of  Names,  The 142 

Wedding  Journeys  by  Proxy       ....  854 

Wisdom  of  Foolishness,  The 575 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


JANUARY,  1911 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


BY  JOHN  MUIR 


IN  the  great  Central  Valley  of  Cali- 
fornia there  are  only  two  seasons  — 
spring  and  summer.  The  spring  begins 
with  the  first  rainstorm,  which  usually 
falls  in  November.  In  a  few  months  the 
wonderful  flowery  vegetation  is  in  full 
bloom,  and  by  the  end  of  May  it  is  dead 
and  dry  and  crisp,  as  if  every  plant  had 
been  roasted  in  an  oven. 

Then  the  lolling,  panting  flocks  and 
herds  are  driven  to  the  high,  cool,  green 
pastures  of  the  Sierra.  I  was  longing  for 
the  mountains  about  this  time,  but 
money  was  scarce,  and  I  could  n't  see 
how  a  bread-supply  was  to  be  kept  up. 
While  anxiously  brooding  on  the  bread 
problem,  so  troublesome  to  wanderers, 
and  trying  to  believe  that  I  might  learn 
to  live  like  the  wild  animals,  gleaning 
nourishment  here  and  there  from  seeds, 
berries,  etc.,  sauntering  and  climbing 
in  joyful  independence  of  money  or 
baggage,  Mr.  Delaney,  a  sheep-owner, 
for  whom  I  had  worked  a  few  weeks, 
called  on  me,  and  offered  to  engage 
me  to  go  with  his  shepherd  and  flock 
to  the  head  waters  of  the  Merced  and 
Tuolumne  rivers,  the  very  region  I  had 
most  in  mind. 

I  was  in  the  mood  to  accept  work  of 
any  kind  that  would  take  me  into  the 
mountains,  whose  treasures  I  had  tasted 
the  previous  summer  in  the  Yosemite 

VOL.  107 -NO.  1 


region.  The  flock,  he  said,  would  be 
moved  up  gradually  through  the  suc- 
cessive forest  belts  as  the  snow  melt- 
ed, stopping  a  few  weeks  at  the  best 
places  we  came  to.  These  I  thought 
would  be  good  centres  of  observation 
from  which  I  might  be  able  to  make 
many  telling  excursions  within  a  ra- 
dius of  eight  or  ten  miles  of  the  camps, 
to  learn  something  of  the  plants,  ani- 
mals, and  rocks;  for  he  assured  me  that 
I  would  be  left  perfectly  free  to  follow 
my  studies.  I  judged,  however,  that  I 
was  in  no  way  the  right  man  for  the 
place,  and  freely  explained  my  short- 
comings, confessing  that  I  was  wholly 
unacquainted  with  the  topography  of 
the  upper  mountains,  the  streams  that 
would  have  to  be  crossed,  the  wild 
sheep-eating  animals,  etc.,  and  in  short 
that  what  with  bears,  coyotes,  rivers, 
canons,  and  thorny,  bewildering  cha- 
parral, I  feared  that  half  or  more  of  his 
flock  would  be  lost.  Fortunately  these 
shortcomings  seemed  insignificant  to 
Mr.  Delaney.  The  main  thing,  he  said, 
was  to  have  a  man  about  the  camp 
whom  he  could  trust  to  see  that  the 
shepherd  did  his  duty;  and  he  assured 
me  that  the  difficulties  that  seemed  so 
formidable  at  a  distance  would  vanish 
as  we  went  on;  encouraging  me  further 
by  saying  that  the  shepherd  would  do 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


all  the  herding,  that  I  could  study  plants 
and  rocks  and  scenery  as  much  as  I 
liked,  and  that  he  would  himself  ac- 
company us  to  the  first  main  camp  and 
make  occasional  visits  to  our  higher 
ones  to  replenish  our  store  of  provisions 
and  see  how  we  prospered.  Therefore 
I  concluded  to  go,  though  still  fearing 
when  I  saw  the  silly  sheep  bouncing 
one  by  one  through  the  narrow  gate  of 
the  home  corral  to  be  counted,  that  of 
the  two  thousand  and  fifty  many  would 
never  return. 

I  was  fortunate  in  getting  a  fine  St. 
Bernard  dog  for  a  companion.  His  mas- 
ter, a  hunter  with  whom  I  was  slightly 
acquainted,  came  to  me  as  soon  as  he 
heard  that  I  was  going  to  spend  the 
summer  in  the  Sierra,  and  begged  me  to 
take  his  favorite  dog,  Carlo,  with  me, 
for  he  feared  that  if  compelled  to  stay 
all  summer  on  the  plains  the  fierce  heat 
might  be  the  death  of  him.  'I  think  I 
can  trust  you  to  be  kind  to  him,'  he 
said, '  and  I  am  sure  he  will  be  good  to 
you.  He  knows  all  about  the  mountain 
animals,  will  guard  the  camp,  assist  in 
managing  the  sheep,  and  in  every  way 
be  found  able  and  faithful.'  Carlo  knew 
we  were  talking  about  him,  watched 
our  faces,  and  listened  so  attentively 
that  I  fancied  he  understood  us.  Call- 
ing him  by  name,  I  asked  him  if  he  was 
willing  to  go  with  me.  He  looked  me  in 
the  face  with  eyes  expressing  wonder- 
ful intelligence,  then  turned  to  his  mas- 
ter, and  after  permission  was  given  by 
a  wave  of  the  hand  toward  me  and  a 
farewell  patting  caress,  he  quietly  fol- 
lowed me  as  if  he  perfectly  understood 
all  that  had  been  said,  and  had  known 
me  always. 

June  3,  1869.  —  This  morning  pro- 
visions, camp-kettles,  blankets,  plant- 
press,  etc.,  were  packed  on  two  horses, 
the  flock  headed  for  the  tawny  foothills, 
and  away  we  sauntered  in  a  cloud  of 
dust,  Mr.  Delaney,  bony  and  tall,  with 


sharply-hacked  profile  like  Don  Quixote, 
leading  the  pack-horses,  Billy,  the  proud 
shepherd,  a  Chinaman,  and  a  Digger 
Indian  to  assist  in  driving  for  the  first 
few  days  in  the  brushy  foothills,  and 
myself  with  notebook  tied  to  my  belt. 

The  home  ranch  from  which  we  set 
out  is  on  the  south  side  of  the  Tuo- 
lumne  River  near  French  Bar,  where 
the  foothills  of  metamorphic  gold-bear- 
ing slates  dip  below  the  stratified  de- 
posits of  the  Central  Valley.  We  had 
not  gone  more  than  a  mile  before  some 
of  the  old  leaders  of  the  flock  showed 
by  the  eager  inquiring  way  they  ran 
and  looked  ahead  that  they  were  think- 
ing of  the  high  pastures  they  had  en- 
joyed last  summer.  Soon  the  whole 
flock  seemed  to  be  hopefully  excited, 
the  mothers  calling  their  lambs,  the 
lambs  replying  in  tones  wonderfully 
human,  their  fondly  quavering  calls 
interrupted  now  and  then  by  hastily 
snatched  mouthfuls  of  withered  grass. 
Amid  all  this  seeming  babel  of  ba-as  as 
they  streamed  over  the  hills,  every  mo- 
ther and  child  recognized  each  other's 
voice.  In  case  a  tired  lamb  half  asleep 
in  the  smothering  dust  should  fail  to 
answer,  its  mother  would  come  running 
back  through  the  flock  toward  the  spot 
whence  its  last  response  was  heard,  and 
refused  to  be  comforted  until  she  found 
it,  the  one  of  a  thousand,  though  to  our 
eyes  and  ears  all  seemed  alike. 

The  flock  traveled  at  the  rate  of 
about  a  mile  an  hour,  outspread  in  the 
form  of  an  irregular  triangle  about  a 
hundred  yards  wide  at  the  base,  and 
a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  long,  with  a 
crooked  ever-changing  point  made  up 
of  the  strongest  foragers,  called  'the 
leaders,'  which  with  the  most  active 
of  those  scattered  along  the  ragged 
sides  of  the  'main  body'  hastily  ex- 
plored nooks  in  the  rocks  and  bushes 
for  grass  and  leaves;  the  lambs  and 
feeble  old  mothers  dawdling  in  the  rear 
were  called  the  'tail  end.' 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


About  noon  the  heat  was  hard  to 
bear;  the  poor  sheep  panted  pitifully, 
and  tried  to  stop  in  the  shade  of  every 
tree  they  came  to,  while  we  gazed  with 
eager  longing  through  the  dim  burn- 
ing glare  toward  the  snowy  mountains 
and  streams,  though  not  one  was  in 
sight.  The  landscape  is  only  wavering 
foothills,  roughened  here  and  there 
with  bushes  and  trees  and  out-crop- 
ping masses  of  slate.  The  trees,  mostly 
the  blue  oak  (Quercus  Douglasii),  are 
about  thirty  to  forty  feet  high,  with 
pale  blue-green  leaves  and  white  bark, 
sparsely  planted  on  the  thinnest  soil  or 
in  crevices  of  rocks  beyond  the  reach  of 
grass  fires.  The  slates  in  many  places 
rise  abruptly  through  the  tawny  grass 
in  sharp  lichon-covered  slabs,  like  tomb- 
stones in  deserted  bury  ing-grounds. 
With  the  exception  of  the  oak  and  four 
or  five  species  of  manzanita  and  ceano- 
thus,  the  vegetation  of  the  foothills  is 
mostly  the  same  as  that  of  the  plains. 

I  saw  this  region  in  the  early  spring, 
when  it  was  a  charming  landscape  gar- 
den, full  of  birds  and  bees  and  flowers. 
Now  the  scorching  weather  makes  ev- 
erything dreary.  The  ground  is  full  of 
cracks,  lizards  glide  about  on  the  rocks, 
and  ants  in  amazing  numbers,  whose 
tiny  sparks  of  life  only  burn  the  brighter 
with  the  heat,  fairly  quiver  with  un- 
quenchable energy  as  they  run  in  long 
lines  to  fight  and  gather  food.  How  it 
comes  that  they  do  not  dry  to  a  crisp 
in  a  few  seconds'  exposure  to  such  sun- 
fire  is  marvelous.  A  few  rattlesnakes 
lie  coiled  in  out-of-the-way  places,  but 
are  seldom  seen.  Magpies  and  crows, 
usually  so  noisy,  are  silent  now,  stand- 
ing in  mixed  flocks  on  the  ground  be- 
neath the  best  shade  trees,  with  bills 
wide  open  and  wings  drooped,  too 
breathless  to  speak;  the  quails  also  are 
trying  to  keep  in  the  shade  about  the 
few  tepid  alkaline  water-holes ;  cotton- 
tail rabbits  are  running  from  shade  to 
shade  among  the  ceanothus  brush,  and 


occasionally  the  long-eared  hare  is  seen 
cantering  gracefully  across  the  wider 
openings. 

After  a  short  noon-rest  in  a  grove,  the 
poor  dust-choked  flock  was  again  driven 
ahead  over  the  brushy  hills,  but  the 
dim  roadway  we  had  been  following 
faded  away  just  where  it  was  most 
needed,  compelling  us  to  stop  to  look 
about  us  and  get  our  bearings.  The 
Chinaman  seemed  to  think  we  were 
lost,  and  chattered  in  pigeon  English 
concerning  the  abundance  of  'litty 
stick'  (chaparral),  while  the  Indian  si- 
lently scanned  the  billowy  ridges  and 
gulches  for  openings.  Pushing  through 
the  thorny  jungle,  a  road  trending  to- 
ward Coulterville  was  at  length  dis- 
covered, which  we  followed  until  an 
hour  before  sunset,  when  we  reached  a 
dry  ranch  and  camped  for  the  night. 

Camping  in  the  foothills  with  a  flock 
of  sheep  is  simple  and  easy,  but  far  from 
pleasant.  The  sheep  were  allowed  to 
pick  what  they  could  find  in  the  neigh- 
borhood until  after  sunset,  watched  by 
the  shepherd,  while  the  others  gathered 
wood,  made  a  fire,  cooked,  unpacked, 
and  fed  the  horses,  etc.  About  dusk 
the  weary  sheep  were  gathered  on  the 
highest  open  spot  near  camp,  where 
they  willingly  bunched  close  together, 
and  after  each  mother  had  found  her 
lamb  and  suckled  it,  all  lay  down  and 
required  no  attention  until  morning. 

Supper  was  announced  by  the  call, 
'  Grub ! '  Each  with  a  tin  plate  helped 
himself  direct  from  the  pots  and  pans 
while  chatting  about  such  camp  studies 
as  sheep-feed,  mines,  coyotes,  bears,  or 
adventures  during  the  memorable  gold 
days  of  pay-dirt.  The  Indian  kept  in 
the  background,  saying  never  a  word, 
as  if  he  belonged  to  another  species. 
The  meal  finished,  the  dogs  were  fed, 
the  smokers  smoked  by  the  fire,  and 
under  the  influences  of  fullness  and  to- 
bacco the  calm  that  settled  on  their 
faces  seemed  almost  divine,  something 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


like  the  mellow  meditative  glow  por- 
trayed on  the  countenances  of  saints. 
Then  suddenly,  as  if  awakening  from  a 
dream,  each  with  a  sigh  or  grunt  knocked 
the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  yawned,  gazed 
at  the  fire  a  few  moments,  said,  'Well, 
I  believe  I'll  turn  in,'  and  straightway 
vanished  beneath  blankets.  The  fire 
smoldered  and  flickered  an  hour  or  two 
later;  the  stars  shone  brighter;  coons, 
coyotes,  and  owls  stirred  the  silence 
here  and  there,  while  crickets  and  hy- 
las  made  a  cheerful  continuous  music 
so  fitting  and  full  that  it  seemed  a  part 
of  the  very  body  of  the  night.  The  only 
discord  came  from  a  snoring  sleeper, 
and  the  coughing  sheep  with  dust  in 
their  throats.  In  the  starlight  the  flock 
looked  like  a  big  gray  blanket. 

June  4.  —  The  camp  was  astir  at 
daybreak;  coffee,  bacon,  and  beans 
formed  the  breakfast,  followed  by 
quick  dish-washing  and  packing.  A 
general  bleating  began  about  sunrise. 
As  soon  as  a  mother-ewe  arose,  her 
lamb  came  bounding  and  bunting  for 
its  breakfast,  and  after  the  thousand 
youngsters  had  been  suckled  the  flock 
began  to  nibble  and  spread.  The  restless 
wethers  with  ravenous  appetites  were 
the  first  to  move,  but  dared  not  go 
far  from  the  main  body.  Billy  and  the 
Indian  and  Chinaman  kept  them  head- 
ed along  the  weary  road  and  allowed 
them  to  pick  up  what  little  they  could 
find  on  a  breadth  of  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile.  But  as  several  flocks  had  al- 
ready gone  ahead  of  us,  scarce  a  leaf, 
green  or  dry,  was  left;  therefore  the 
starving  flock  had  to  be  hurried  on  over 
the  bare  hot  hills  to  the  nearest  of  the 
green  pastures,  about  twenty  or  thirty 
miles  from  here. 

The  pack-animals  were  led  by  Don 
Quixote,  a  heavy  rifle  over  his  shoulder 
intended  for  bears  and  wolves.  This 
day  has  been  as  hot  and  dusty  as  the 
first,  leading  over  gently-sloping  brown 


hills,  with  mostly  the  same  vegetation, 
excepting  the  strange-looking  Sabine 
pine  (P.  Sabiniand)  which  here  forms 
small  groves  or  is  scattered  among  the 
blue,  oaks.  The  trunk  divides  at  a 
height  of  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  into 
two  or  more  stems,  outleaning  or  nearly 
upright,  with  many  straggling  branches 
and  long  gray  needles,  casting  but  little 
shade.  In  general  appearance  this  tree 
looks  more  like  a  palm  than  a  pine. 
The  cones  are  about  six  or  seven  inches 
long,  about  five  in  diameter,  very  heavy, 
and  last  long  after  they  fall,  so  that  the 
ground  beneath  the  trees  is  covered 
with  them.  They  make  fine  resiny, 
light-giving  camp-fires,  next  to  ears 
of  Indian  corn  the  most  beautiful  fuel 
I  've  ever  heard  of.  The  nuts,  the  Don 
tells  me,  are  gathered  in  large  quanti- 
ties by  the  Digger  Indians  for  food. 
They  are  about  as  large  and  hard-shell- 
ed as  hazel-nuts,  —  food  and  fire  fit  for 
the  gods  from  the  same  fruit. 

June  5.  —  This  morning  a  few  hours 
after  setting  out  with  the  crawling 
sheep-cloud,  we  gained  the  summit  of 
the  first  well-defined  bench  on  the 
mountain  flank  at  Pino  Blanco.  The 
Sabine  pines  interest  me  greatly.  They 
are  so  airy  and  strangely  palm-like  I 
was  eager  to  sketch  them,  and  was  in 
a  fever  of  excitement  without  accom- 
plishing much.  I  managed  to  halt  long 
enough,  however,  to  make  a  tolerably 
fair  sketch  of  Pino  Blanco  peak  from 
the  southwest  side,  where  there  is  a 
small  field  and  vineyard  irrigated  by 
a  stream  that  makes  a  pretty  fall  on 
its  way  down  a  gorge  by  the  roadside. 

After  gaining  the  open  summit  of 
this  first  bench,  feeling  the  natural  ex- 
hilaration due  to  the  slight  elevation 
of  a  thousand  feet  or  so,  and  the  hopes 
excited  concerning  the  outlook  to  be 
obtained,  a  magnificent  section  of  the 
Merced  Valley  at  what  is  called  Horse- 
shoe Bend  came  full  in  sight  —  a  glori- 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


ous  wilderness  that  seemed  to  be  call- 
ing with  a  thousand  songful  voices. 
Bold,  down-sweeping  slopes,  feathered 
with  pines  and  clumps  of   manzanita 
with  sunny,  open  spaces  between  them, 
made  up  most  of  the  foreground;  the 
middle  and  background  presented  fold 
beyond  fold  of  finely-modeled  hills  and 
ridges  rising  into  mountain-like  masses 
in  the  distance,  all  covered  with  a  shaggy 
growth  of  chaparral,*  mostly  adeno- 
stena,  planted  so  marvelously  close  and 
even  that  it  looked  like  soft  rich  plush 
without  a  single  tree  or  bare  spot.  As 
far  as  the  eye  can  reach  it  extends,  a 
heaving,  swelling  sea  of  green  as  regular 
and  continuous  as  that  produced  by  the 
heaths  of  Scotland.    The  sculpture  of 
the  landscape  is  as  striking  in  its  main 
lines  as  in  its  lavish  richness  of  detail; 
a  grand  congregation  of  massive  heights 
with  the  river  shining  between,  each 
carved  into  smooth  graceful  folds  with- 
out leaving  a  single  rocky  angle  ex- 
posed, as  if  the  delicate  fluting  and. 
ridging  fashioned  out  of  metamorphic 
slates  had  been  carefully  sand-papered. 
The  whole  landscape  showed  design, 
like  man's  noblest  sculptures.    How 
wonderful  the  power  of  its  beauty! 
Gazing  awe-stricken  I  might  have  left 
everything  for  it.    Glad  endless  work 
would  then  be  mine  tracing  the  forces 
that  have  brought  forth  its  features, 
its  rocks  and  plants  and  animals  and 
glorious     weather.      Beauty     beyond 
thought  everywhere,  beneath,  above, 
made  and  being  made  forever.  I  gazed 
and  gazed  and  longed  and  admired  un- 
til the  dusty  sheep  and  packs  were  far 
out  of  sight,  made  hurried  notes  and  a 
sketch,  though  there  was  no  need  of 
either,  for  the  colors  and  lines  and  ex- 
pression of  this  divine  landscape-coun- 
tenance are  so  burned  into  mind  and 
heart  they  surely  can  never  grow  dim. 

June  7.  —  The  sheep  were  sick  last 
night,  and  many  of  them  are  still  far 


from  well,  hardly  able  to  leave  camp, 
coughing,  groaning,  looking  wretched 
and  pitiful,  all  from  eating  the  leaves 
of  the  blessed  azalea.  So  at  least  say 
the  shepherd  and  the  Don.  Having 
had  but  little  grass  since  they  left  the 
plains,  they  are  starving,  and  so  eat  any- 
thing green  they  can  get.  'Sheep  men' 
call  azalea  'sheep-poison,'  and  won- 
der what  the  Creator  was  thinking 
about  when  he  made  it.  So  desperately 
does  sheep  business  blind  and  degrade, 
though  supposed  to  have  a  refining  in- 
fluence in  the  good  old  days  we  read  of. 
The  California  sheep-owner  is  in  haste 
to  get  rich,  and  often  does,  now  that 
pasturage  costs  nothing,  while  the  cli- 
mate is  so  favorable  that  no  winter 
food-supply,  shelter-pens,  or  barns  are 
required.  Therefore  large  flocks  may 
be  kept  at  slight  expense,  and  large  pro- 
fits realized,  the  money  invested  doub- 
ling, it  is  said,  every  other  year.  This 
quickly  acquired  wealth  usually  creates 
desire  for  more.  Then  indeed  the  wool 
is  drawn  close  down  over  the  poor  fel- 
lows' eyes,  dimming  or  shutting  out 
almost  everything  worth  seeing. 

As  for  the  shepherd,  his  case  is  still 
worse,  especially  in  winter  when  he  lives 
alone  in  a  cabin.  For,  though  stimulated 
at  times  by  hopes  of  one  day  owning 
a  flock  and  getting  rich  like  his  boss,  he 
at  the  same  time  is  likely  to  be  de- 
graded by  the  life  he  leads,  and  seldom 
reaches  the  dignity  or  advantage,  or 
disadvantage,  of  ownership.  The  de- 
gradation in  his  case  has  for  cause  one 
not  far  to  seek.  He  is  solitary  most  of 
the  year,  and  solitude  to  most  people 
seems  hard  to  bear.  He  seldom  has 
much  good  mental  work  or  recreation 
in  the  way  of  books.  Coming  into  his 
dingy  hovel-cabin  at  night,  stupidly 
weary,  he  finds  nothing  to  balance  and 
level  his  life  with  the  universe.  No, 
after  his  dull  drag  all  day  after  the  sheep, 
he  must  get  his  supper;  he  is  likely  to 
slight  this  task  and  try  to  satisfy  his 


6 


MY   FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


hunger  with  whatever  comes  handy. 
Perhaps  no  bread  is  baked;  then  he  just 
makes  a  few  grimy  flapjacks  in  his 
unwashed  frying-pan,  boils  a  handful 
of  tea,  and  perhaps  fries  a  few  strips  of 
rusty  bacon.  Usually  there  are  dried 
peaches  or  apples  in  the  cabin,  but  he 
hates  to  be  bothered  with  the  cooking 
of  them,  just  swallows  the  bacon  and 
flapjacks,  and  depends  on  the  genial 
stupefaction  of  tobacco  for  the  rest. 
Then  to  bed,  often  without  removing 
the  clothing  worn  during  the  day.  Of 
course  his  health  suffers,  reacting  on 
his  mind;  and  seeing  nobody  for  weeks 
or  months,  he  finally  becomes  semi- 
insane  or  wholly  so. 

The  shepherd  in  Scotland  seldom 
thinks  of  being  anything  but  a  shep- 
herd. He  has  probably  descended  from 
a  race  of  shepherds  and  inherited  a  love 
and  aptitude  for  the  business  almost  as 
marked  as  that  of  his  collie.  He  has  but 
a  small  flock  to  look  after,  sees  his  fami- 
ly and  neighbors,  has  time  for  reading  in 
fine  weather,  and  often  carries  books  to 
the  fields  with  which  he  may  converse 
with  kings.  The  Oriental  shepherd,  we 
read,  called  his  sheep  by  name,  that 
they  knew  his  voice  and  followed  him. 
The  flocks  must  have  been  small  and 
easily  managed,  allowing  piping  on  the 
hills  and  ample  leisure  for  reading  and 
thinking.  But  whatever  the  blessings 
of  sheep-culture  in  other  times  and 
countries,  the  California  shepherd,  so 
far  as  I  Ve  seen  or  heard,  is  never  quite 
sane  for  any  considerable  time.  Of  all 
Nature's  voices  ba-a  is  about  all  he 
hears.  Even  the  howls  and  kiyis  of 
coyotes  might  be  blessings  if  well  heard, 
but  he  hears  them  only  through  a  blur 
of  mutton  and  wool,  and  they  do  him 
no  good. 

The  sick  sheep  are  getting  well,  and 
the  shepherd  is  discoursing  on  the  va- 
rious poisons  lurking  in  these  high 
pastures  —  azalea,  kalmia,  alkali.  Af- 
ter crossing  the  North  Fork  of  the 


Merced  we  turned  to  the  left  toward 
Pilot  Peak,  and  made  a  considerable  as- 
cent on  a  rocky  brush-covered  ridge  to 
Brown's  Flat,  where  for  the  first  time 
since  leaving  the  plains  the  flock  is  en- 
joying plenty  of  green  grass.  Mr.  De- 
laney  intends  to  seek  a  permanent  camp 
somewhere  in  the  neighborhood,  to  last 
several  weeks. 

Poison  oak  or  poison  ivy  (Rhus  di- 
versiloba) ,  both  as  a  bush  and  a  scram- 
bler up  trees  and  rocks,  is  common 
throughout  the  foothill  region  up  to  a 
height  of  at  least  three  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea.  It  is  somewhat  trouble- 
some to  most  travelers,  inflaming  the 
skin  and  eyes,  but  blends  harmonious- 
ly with  its  companion  plants,  and  many 
a  charming  flower  leans  confidingly 
upon  it  for  protection  and  shade.  I 
have  oftentimes  found  the  curious 
twining  lily  (Stropholirion  Californi- 
curri)  climbing  its  branches,  showing 
no  fear  but  rather  congenial  compan- 
ionship. Sheep  eat  it  without  appar- 
ent ill  effects;  so  do  horses  to  some 
extent,  though  not  fond  of  it,  and  to 
many  persons  it  is  harmless.  Like  most 
other  things  not  apparently  useful  to 
man,  it  has  few  friends,  and  the  blind 
question,  'Why  was  it  made?'  goes  on 
and  on  with  never  a  guess  that  first  of 
all  it  might  have  been  made  for  itself. 

June  9.  —  How  deep  our  sleep  last 
night  in  the  mountain's  heart,  beneath 
the  trees  and  stars,  hushed  by  solemn- 
sounding  waterfalls  and  many  small 
soothing  voices  in  sweet  accord  whis- 
pering peace !  And  our  first  pure  moun- 
tain day,  —  warm,  calm,  cloudless,  — 
how  immeasurable  it  seems,  how  se- 
renely wild!  I  can  scarcely  remember 
its  beginning.  Along  the  river,  over 
the  hills,  in  the  ground,  in  the  sky, 
spring  work  is  going  on  with  joyful 
enthusiasm,  new  life,  new  beauty,  un- 
folding, unrolling  in  glorious  exuberant 
extravagance,  —  new  birds  in  their 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


nests,  new  winged  creatures  in  the  air, 
and  new  leaves,  new  flowers  spreading, 
shining,  rejoicing  everywhere. 

The  trees  about  the  camp  stand  close, 
giving  ample  shade  for  ferns  and  lilies, 
while  back  from  the  riverbank  most  of 
the  sunshine  reaches  the  ground,  calling 
up  the  grasses  and  flowers  in  glorious 
array,  tall  bromus  waving  like  bam- 
boos, starry  composite,  monardella, 
Mariposa  tulips,  lupines,  gilias,  violets, 
glad  children  of  light.  Soon  every  fern 
frond  will  be  unrolled,  great  beds  of 
common  pteris  and  woodwardia  along 
the  river,  wreaths  and  rosettes  of 
pellsea  and  cheilanthes  on  sunny  rocks. 
Some  of  the  woodwardia  fronds  are 
already  six  feet  high. 

The  sheep  do  not  take  kindly  to  their 
new  pastures,  perhaps  from  being  too 
closely  hemmed  in  by  the  hills.  They 
are  never  fully  at  rest.  Last  night  they 
were  frightened,  probably  by  bears  or 
coyotes  prowling  and  planning  for  a 
share  of  the  grand  mass  of  mutton. 

June  12.  —  A  slight  sprinkle  of  rain, 
—  large  drops  far  apart,  falling  with 
hearty  pat  and  plash  on  leaves  and 
stones  and  into  the  mouths  of  the  flow- 
ers. Cumuli  rising  to  the  eastward. 
How  beautiful  their  pearly  bosses! 
How  well  they  harmonize  with  the  up- 
swelling  rocks  beneath  them.  Moun- 
tains of  the  sky,  solid-looking,  finely 
sculptured,  their  richly  varied  topo- 
graphy wonderfully  defined  by  the  sun- 
shine pouring  over  them.  Thunder 
rolling  in  rounded  muffled  tones  like 
the  clouds  from  which  it  comes.  Never 
before  have  I  seen  clouds  so  substantial- 
looking  in  form  and  texture.  Nearly 
every  day  toward  noon  they  rise  with 
visible  swelling  motion  as  if  new  worlds 
were  being  created.  And  how  fondly 
they  brood  and  hover  over  the  gardens 
and  forests  with  their  cooling  shadows 
and  showers,  keeping  every  petal  and 
leaf  in  glad  health  and  heart.  One  may 


fancy  the  clouds  themselves  are  plants, 
springing  up  in  the  sky-fields  at  the  call 
of  the  sun,  growing  in  beauty  until  they 
reach  their  prime,  scattering  rain  and 
hail  like  berries  and  seeds,  then  wilting 
and  dying. 

June  13.  Another  glorious  Sierra 
day  in  which  one  seems  to  be  dissolved 
and  absorbed  and  sent  pulsing  onward 
we  know  not  where.  Life  seems  neither 
long  nor  short,  and  we  take  no  more 
heed  to  save  time  or  make  haste  than 
do  the  trees  and  stars.  This  is  true  free- 
dom, a  good  practical  sort  of  immor- 
tality. Yonder  rises  another  white  sky- 
land.  How  sharply  the  yellow  pine 
spires  and  the  palm-like  crowns  of  the 
sugar  pines  are  outlined  in  its  smooth 
white  domes.  And  hark !  the  grand 
thunder-billows  booming,  rolling  from 
ridge  to  ridge,  followed  by  the  faithful 
shower. 

A  good  many  herbaceous  plants  come 
thus  far  up  the  mountains  from  the 
plains,  and  are  now  in  flower,  two 
months  later  than  their  lowland  rela- 
tives. Saw  a  few  columbines  to-day. 
Most  of  the  ferns  are  in  their  prime  — 
rockferns  on  the  sunny  hillsides,  chei- 
lanthes, pellaea,  gymnogramma;  wood- 
wardia, aspidium,  woodsia  along  the 
stream-banks,  and  the  common  pteris 
aquilina  on  sandy  flats.  This  last,  how- 
ever common,  is  here  making  shows  of 
strong  exuberant  abounding  beauty 
to  set  the  botanist  wild  with  admira- 
tion .  I  measured  some  scarce  full  grown 
that  are  more  than  seven  feet  high. 
Though  the  commonest  and  most  wide- 
ly distributed  of  all  the  ferns,  I  might 
almost  say  that  I  never  saw  it  before. 
The  broad-shouldered  fronds  held  high 
on  smooth  stout  stalks  growing  close 
together,  overleaning  and  overlapping, 
make  a  complete  ceiling,  beneath  which 
one  may  walk  erect  over  several  acres 
without  being  seen,  as  if  beneath  a 
roof.  And  how  soft  and  lovely  the  light 


8 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


streaming  through  this  living  ceiling, 
revealing  the  arching,  branching  ribs 
and  veins  of  the  fronds  as  the  frame- 
work of  countless  panes  of  pale  green 
and  yellow  plant-glass  nicely  fitted 
together  —  a  fairyland  created  out  of 
the  commonest  fern-stuff.  The  smaller 
animals  wander  about  in  it  as  if  in  a 
tropical  forest.  I  saw  the  entire  flock 
of  sheep  vanish  at  one  side  of  a  patch 
and  reappear  a  hundred  yards  farther 
on  at  the  other,  their  progress  betrayed 
only  by  the  jerking  and  trembling  of 
the  fronds;  and  strange  to  say  very  few 
of  the  stout  woody  stalks  were  broken. 

I  sat  a  long  time  beneath  the  tallest 
field,  and  never  enjoyed  anything  in 
the  way  of  a  bower  of  wild  leaves  more 
strangely  impressive.  Only  spread  a 
fern-frond  over  a  man's  head,  and 
worldly  cares  are  cast  out,  and  free- 
dom and  beauty  and  peace  come  in. 
The  waving  of  a  pine  tree  on  the  top 
of  a  mountain,  —  a  magic  wand  in 
nature's  hand,  —  every  devout  moun- 
taineer knows  its  power,  but  the  mar- 
velous beauty- value  of  what  the  Scotch 
call  a  breckan  in  a  still  dell,  what  poet 
has  sung  this?  It  would  seem  impos- 
sible that  any  one,  however  incrusted 
with  care,  could  escape  the  Godful  in- 
fluence of  these  sacred  fern  forests. 
Yet  this  very  day  I  saw  a  shepherd 
pass  through  one  of  the  finest  of  them 
without  betraying  more  feeling  than 
his  sheep.  '  What  do  you  think  of  these 
grand  ferns?'  I  asked.  'Oh,  they're 
only  d d  big  brakes,'  he  replied. 

Lizards  of  every  temper,  style,  and 
color  dwell  here,  seemingly  as  happy 
and  companionable  as  the  birds  and 
squirrels.  Lowly,  gentle  fellow  mortals, 
enjoying  God's  sunshine,  and  doing  the 
best  they  can  in  getting  a  living,  I  like 
to  watch  them  at  their  work  and  play. 
They  bear  acquaintance  well,  and  one 
likes  them  the  better  the  longer  one 
looks  into  their  beautiful,  innocent  eyes. 
They  are  easily  tamed,  and  one  soon 


learns  to  love  them,  as  they  dart  about 
on  the  hot  rocks,  swift  as  dragon-flies. 
The  eye  can  hardly  follow  them;  but 
they  never  make  long-sustained  runs, 
usually  only  about  ten  or  twelve  feet, 
then  a  sudden  stop,  and  as  sudden  a 
start  again ;  going  all  their  journeys  by 
quick,  jerking  impulses.  These  many 
stops  I  find  are  necessary  as  rests,  for 
they  are  short-winded,  and  when  pur- 
sued steadily  are  soon  out  of  breath, 
pant  pitifully,  and  are  easily  caught. 

Their  bodies  are  more  than  half  tail, 
but  these  tails  are  well  managed,  never 
heavily  dragged  nor  curved  up  as  if 
hard  to  carry;  on  the  contrary,  they 
seem  to  follow  the  body  lightly  of  their 
own  will.  Some  are  colored  like  the 
sky,  bright  as  bluebirds,  others  gray 
like  the  lichened  rocks  on  which  they 
hunt  and  bask.  Even  the  horned  toad 
of  the  plains  is  a  mild,  harmless  crea- 
ture, and  so  are  the  snake-like  species 
which  glide  in  curves  with  true  snake 
motion,  while  their  small  undeveloped 
limbs  drag  as  useless  appendages.  One 
specimen  fourteen  inches  long  which  I 
observed  closely  made  no  use  whatever 
of  its  tender  sprouting  limbs,  but  glided 
with  all  the  soft,  sly  ease  and  grace  of 
a  snake.  Here  comes  a  little  gray,  dusty 
fellow  who  seems  to  know  and  trust 
me,  running  about  my  feet,  and  look- 
ing up  cunningly  into  my  face.  Carlo 
is  watching,  makes  a  quick  pounce  on 
him,  for  the  fun  of  the  thing  I  suppose, 
but  Liz.  has  shot  away  from  his  paws 
like  an  arrow,  and  is  safe  in  the  recesses 
of  a  clump  of  chaparral.  Gentle  sauri- 
ans,  dragons,  descendants  of  an  an- 
cient and  mighty  race,  Heaven  bless 
you  all  and  make  your  virtues  known! 
for  few  of  us  yet  know  that  scales  may 
cover  fellow  creatures  as  gentle  and 
lovable  as  do  feathers,  or  hair,  or  cloth. 

Mastodons  and  elephants  used  to  live 
here  no  great  geological  time  ago,  as 
shown  by  their  bones,  often  discovered 
by  miners  in  washing  gold-gravel.  And 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


bears  of  at  least  two  species  are  here 
now,  besides  the  California  lion  or 
panther,  and  wild  cats,  wolves,  foxes, 
snakes,  scorpions,  wasps,  tarantulas; 
but  one  is  almost  tempted  at  times  to 
regard  a  small  savage  black  ant  as  the 
master-existence  of  this  vast  mountain 
world.  These  fearless,  restless  wander- 
ing imps,  though  only  about  a  quarter 
of  an  inch  long,  are  fonder  of  fighting 
and  biting  than  any  beast  I  know.  They 
attack  every  living  thing  around  their 
homes,  often  without  cause  so  far  as  I 
can  see.  Their  bodies  are  mostly  jaws 
curved  like  ice-hooks,  and  to  get  work 
for  these  weapons  seems  to  be  their 
chief  aim  and  pleasure.  Most  of  their 
colonies  are  established  in  living  oaks 
somewhat  decayed  or  hollowed,  in 
which  they  can  conveniently  build  their 
cells.  These  are  chosen  probably  on 
account  of  their  strength  as  opposed 
to  the  attacks  of  animals  and  storms. 
They  work  both  day  and  night,  creep 
into  dark  caves,  climb  the  highest 
trees,  wander  and  hunt  through  cool 
ravines  as  well  as  on  hot,  unshaded 
ridges,  and  extend  their  highways  and 
byways  over  everything  but  water  and 
sky.  From  the  foothills  to  a  mile  above 
the  level  of  the  sea  nothing  can  stir 
without  their  knowledge;  and  alarms 
are  spread  in  an  incredibly  short  time, 
without  any  howl  or  cry  that  we  can 
hear. 

I  can't  understand  the  need  of  their 
ferocious  courage;  there  seems  to  be 
no  common  sense  in  it.  Sometimes 
no  doubt  they  fight  in  defense  of 
their  homes,  but  they  fight  anywhere 
and  always  wherever  they  can  find 
anything  to  bite.  As  soon  as  a  vulner- 
able spot  is  discovered  on  man  or  beast 
they  stand  on  their  heads  and  sink 
their  jaws,  and  though  torn  limb  from 
limb  they  will  yet  hold  on  and  die  bit- 
ing deeper.  When  I  contemplate  this 
fierce  creature  so  widely  distributed  and 
strongly  intrenched,  I  see  that  much 


remains  to  be  done  ere  the  world  is 
brought  under  the  rule  of  universal 
peace  and  love. 

On  my  way  to  camp  a  few  minutes 
ago,  I  passed  a  dead  pine  nearly  ten 
feet  in  diameter.  It  has  been  envel- 
oped in  fire  from  top  to  bottom  so  that 
now  it  looks  like  a  grand  black  pillar 
set  up  as  a  monument.  In  this  noble 
shaft  a  colony  of  large  jet-black  ants 
have  established  themselves,  labori- 
ously cutting  tunnels  and  cells  through 
the  wood,  whether  sound  or  decayed. 
The  entire  trunk  seems  to  have  been 
honeycombed,  judging  by  the  size  of 
the  talus  of  gnawed  chips  like  sawdust 
piled  up  around  its  base.  They  are 
more  intelligent-looking  than  their 
small,  belligerent,  strong-scented  breth- 
ren, and  have  better  manners,  though 
quick  to  fight  when  required.  Their 
towns  are  carved  in  fallen  trunks  as 
well  as  in  those  left  standing,  but  never 
in  sound,  living  trees  or  in  the  ground. 

When  you  happen  to  sit  down  to  rest 
or  take  notes  near  a  colony,  some  wan- 
dering hunter  is  sure  to  find  you  and 
come  cautiously  forward  to  discover 
the  nature  of  the  intruder  and  what 
ought  to  be  done.  If  you  are  not  too 
near  the  town  and  keep  perfectly  still 
he  may  run  across  your  feet  a  few  times, 
over  your  legs  and  hands  and  face,  up 
your  trousers,  as  if  taking  your  meas- 
ure and  getting  comprehensive  views, 
then  go  in  peace  without  raising  an 
alarm.  If  however  a  tempting  spot  is 
offered  or  some  suspicious  movement 
excites  him,  a  bite  follows,  and  such  a 
bite!  I  fancy  that  a  bear-  or  wolf-bite 
is  not  to  be  compared  with  it.  A  quick 
electric  flame  of  pain  flashes  along  the 
outraged  nerves,  and  you  discover  for 
the  first  time  how  great  is  the  capacity 
for  sensation  you  are  possessed  of.  A 
shriek,  a  grab  for  the  animal,  and  a  be- 
wildered stare  follow  this  bite  of  bites 
as  one  comes  back  to  consciousness 
from  sudden  eclipse.  Fortunately,  if 


10 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


careful,  one  need  not  be  bitten  oftener 
than  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime. 

This  wonderful  electric  ant  is  about 
three  fourths  of  an  inch  long.  Bears  are 
fond  of  them,  and  tear  and  gnaw  their 
home-logs  to  pieces,  and  roughly  devour 
the  eggs,  larvae,  parent  ants,  and  the 
rotten  or  sound  wood  of  the  cells,  all  in 
one  spicy  acid  hash.  The  Digger  In- 
dians also  are  fond  of  the  larvae  and 
even  of  the  perfect  ants,  so  I  have  been 
told  by  old  mountaineers.  They  bite 
off  and  reject  the  head,  and  eat  the 
tickly  acid^body  with  keen  relish.  Thus 
are  the  poor  biters  bitten,  like  every 
other  biter,  big  or  little,  in  the  world's 
great  family. 

There  is  also  a  fine  active  intelligent- 
looking  red  species,  intermediate  in  size 
between  the  above.  They  dwell  in  the 
ground,  and  build  large  piles  of  seed- 
husks,  leaves,  straw,  etc.,  over  their 
nests.  Their  food  seems  to  be  mostly 
insects  and  plant-leaves,  seeds  and  sap. 
How  many  mouths  nature  has  to  fill, 
how  many  neighbors  we  have,  how 
little  we  know  about  them,  and  how 
seldom  we  get  in  one  another's  way! 
Then  to  think  of  the  infinite  numbers 
of  smaller  fellow  mortals,  invisibly 
small,  compared  with  which  the  small- 
est ants  are  as  mastodons. 

June  14.  —  The  pool-basins  below 
the  falls  and  cascades  hereabouts, 
formed  by  the  heavy  down-plunging 
currents,  are  kept  nicely  clean  and  clear 
of  detritus.  The  heavier  parts  of  the 
material  swept  over  the  falls  is  heaped 
up  a  short  distance  in  front  of  the  ba- 
sins in  the  form  of  a  dam,  thus  tending, 
together  with  erosion,  to  increase  their 
size.  Sudden  changes,  however,  are  ef- 
fected during  the  spring  floods,  when 
the  snow  is  melting  and  the  upper  trib- 
utaries are  roaring  loud  from  'bank  to 
brae.'  Then  boulders  which  have  fall- 
en into  the  channels,  and  which  the  or- 
dinary summer  and  winter  currents 


were  unable  to  move,  are  suddenly 
swept  forward  as  by  a  mighty  besom, 
hurled  over  the  falls  into  these  pools, 
and  piled  up  in  a  new  dam  together 
with  part  of  the  old  one,  while  some  of 
the  smaller  boulders  are  carried  far- 
ther down  stream  and  variously  lodged 
according  to  size  and  shape,  all  seek- 
ing rest  where  the  force  of  the  current 
is  less  than  the  resistance  they  are  able 
to  offer. 

But  the  greatest  changes  made  in 
these  relations  of  fall,  pool,  and  dam 
are  caused,  not  by  the  ordinary  spring 
floods,  but  by  extraordinary  ones  that 
occur  at  irregular  intervals.  The  tes- 
timony of  trees  growing  on  flood  boul- 
der-deposits shows  that  a  century  or 
more  has  passed  since  the  last  master- 
flood  came  to  awaken  everything  mov- 
able to  go  swirling  and  dancing  on 
wonderful  journeys.  These  floods  may 
occur  during  the  summer,  when  heavy 
thunder-showers,  called  'cloud-bursts,' 
fall  on  wide,  steeply-inclined  stream- 
basins  furrowed  by  converging  chan- 
nels, which  suddenly  gather  the  waters 
together  into  the  main  trunk  in  boom- 
ing torrents  of  enormous  transporting 
power,  though  short-lived. 

One  of  these  ancient  flood-boulders 
stands  firm  in  the  middle  of  the  stream- 
channel,  just  below  the  lower  edge  of 
the  pool-dam  at  the  foot  of  the  fall 
nearest  our  camp.  It  is  a  nearly  cub- 
ical mass  of  granite  about  eight  feet 
high,  plushed  with  mosses  over  the  top 
and  down  the  sides  to  ordinary  high- 
water  mark.  When  I  climbed  on  top 
of  it  to-day  and  lay  down  to  rest,  it 
seemed  the  most  romantic  spot  I  had 
yet  found,  —  the  one  big  stone  with  its 
mossy  level  top  and  smooth  sides  stand- 
ing square  and  firm  and  solitary,  like 
an  altar,  the  fall  in  front  of  it  bathing 
it  lightly  with  the  finest  of  the  spray, 
just  enough  to  keep  its  moss  cover 
fresh ;  the  clear  green  pool  beneath,  with 
its  foam-bells  and  its  half  circle  of  lilies 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


11 


leaning  forward  like  a  band  of  admirers, 
and  flowering  dogwood  and  alder  trees 
leaning  over  all  in  sun-sifted  arches. 
How  soothingly,  restfully  cool  it  is  be- 
neath that  leafy,  translucent  ceiling, 
and  how  delightful  the  water  music  — 
the  deep  bass  tones  of  the  fall,  the 
clashing,  ringing  spray,  and  infinite 
variety  of  small  low  tones  of  the  cur- 
rent gliding  past  the  side  of  the  boul- 
der-island, and  glinting  against  a  thou- 
sand smaller  stones  down  the  ferny 
channel.  All  this  shut  in;  everyone  of 
these  influences  acting  at  short  range 
as  if  in  a  quiet  room.  The  place  seemed 
holy,  where  one  might  hope  to  see  God. 
After  dark,  when  the  camp  was  at 
rest,  I  groped  my  way  back  to  the  altar- 
boulder  and  passed  the  night  on  it,  — 
above  the  water,  beneath  the  leaves 
and  stars,  —  everything  still  more  im- 
pressive than  by  day,  the  fall  seen  dim- 
ly white,  singing  nature's  old  love-song 
with  solemn  enthusiasm,  while  the  stars 
peering  through  the  leaf-roof  seemed 
to  join  in  the  white  water's  song.  Pre- 
cious night,  precious  day,  to  abide  in 
me  forever.  Thanks  be  to  God  for  this 
immortal  gift. 

June  16.  —  One  of  the  Indians  from 
Brown's  Flat  got  right  into  the  middle 
of  the  camp  this  morning,  unobserved. 
I  was  seated  on  a  stone,  looking  over 
my  notes  and  sketches,  and  happen- 
ing to  look  up,  was  startled  to  see  him 
standing  grim  and  silent  within  a  few 
steps  of  me,  as  motionless  and  weather- 
stained  as  an  old  tree-stump  that  had 
stood  there  for  centuries.  All  Indians 
seem  to  have  learned  this  wonderful  way 
of  walking  unseen,  —  making  them- 


selves invisible  like  certain  spiders  I 
have  been  observing  here,  which,  in 
case  of  alarm,  caused  for  example  by  a 
bird  alighting  on  the  bush  their  webs 
are  spread  upon,  immediately  bounce 
themselves  up  and  down  on  their  elastic 
threads  so  rapidly  that  only  a  blur  is 
visible.  The  wild  Indian  power  of  es- 
caping observation,  even  where  there 
is  little  or  no  cover  to  hide  in,  was  prob- 
ably slowly  acquired  in  hard  hunting 
and  fighting  lessons  while  trying  to  ap- 
proach game,  take  enemies  by  surprise, 
or  get  safely  away  when  compelled  to 
retreat.  And  this  experience  trans- 
mitted through  many  generations  seems 
at  length  to  have  become  what  is 
vaguely  called  instinct. 

June  17.  —  Counted  the  wool  bun- 
dles this  morning  as  they  bounced 
through  the  narrow  corral  gate.  About 
three  hundred  are  missing,  and  as  the 
shepherd  could  not  go  to  seek  them,  I 
had  to  go.  I  tied  a  crust  of  bread  to  my 
belt,  and  with  Carlo  set  out  for  the  up- 
per slopes  of  the  Pilot  Peak  ridge,  and 
had  a  good  day,  notwithstanding  the 
care  of  seeking  the  silly  runaways.  I 
went  out  for  wool,  and  did  not  come 
back  shorn.  A  peculiar  light  circled 
around  the  horizon,  white  and  thin 
like  that  often  seen  over  the  auroral 
corona,  blending  into  the  blue  of  the 
upper  sky.  The  only  clouds  were  a  few 
faint  flossy  pencilings  like  combed  silk. 
I  pushed  direct  to  the  boundary  of  the 
usual  range  of  the  flock,  and  around  it 
until  I  found  the  outgoing  trail  of  the 
wanderers.  It  led  far  up  the  ridge  into 
an  open  place  surrounded  by  a  hedge- 
like  growth  of  ceanothus  chaparral. 


(To  be  continued.) 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  PEOPLE 


BY   E.    P.   RIPLEY 


THERE  is  just  one  point  about  the 
present  relations  between  the  railroads 
and  the  people  of  the  United  States  as 
to  which  all  agree.  This  is  that  they 
are  very  unsatisfactory.  Opinions  dif- 
fer as  to  why  this  is  so.  Many  say  that 
the  roads  themselves,  by  numerous 
sins  of  omission  and  commission,  raised 
and  have  prolonged  the  storm  of  hos- 
tile public  sentiment  which  has  been 
sweeping  over  them  for  some  years. 
The  shortcomings  and  abuses  in  rail- 
way management,  it  is  argued,  have 
made  necessary,  for  the  protection  of 
the  public,  strict  and  detailed  public 
regulation;  and  railway  owners  and 
managers,  it  is  asserted,  have  not  met 
in  the  right  spirit  efforts  to  secure  such 
regulation.  Senator  A.  B.  Cummins 
of  Iowa  expressed  a  widely-taken  view 
when  he  said  on  August  17  in  a  letter 
to  me,  'The  trouble  with  the  railway 
owners  and  railway  managers  is  that, 
instead  of  loyally  and  finally  accepting 
the  supervising  and  regulating  power 
of  the  government,  and  helping  to  make 
its  exercise  fair  and  effective,  they  re- 
sist every  proposal  to  enlarge  public 
authority,  and  resent  every  attempt  to 
interfere  with  their  management.  The 
outcome  is  constant  irritation  and  in- 
creasing turmoil.' 

Railway  managers  do  not  deny  that 
many  mistakes  have  been  made  and 
many  abuses  have  grown  up  in  the 
development  and  administration  of 
American  railways.  But  they  do  deny 
the  truth  and  fairness  of  many  of  the 
counts  in  the  sweeping  indictments  of 
the  roads  that  have  been  made  and 

12 


printed  throughout  the  country,  and 
feel  strongly  that  most  of  the  public 
hostility  to  the  carriers  is  unjust.  They 
do  not  doubt  that  the  public  means  to 
be  fair.  But  they  feel  that  it  has  al- 
lowed itself  to  be  misled,  to  its  own 
injury,  by  these  wholesale  charges  of 
wrong-doing.  They  believe  that  some 
of  the  legislation  that  has  been  passed 
recently  is  wholesome.  But  they  think 
that  many  laws  that  have  been  enacted, 
and  many  projects  for  further  regula- 
tion which  are  receiving  popular  sup- 
port, are  unwise,  because  they  aim  to 
do  things  that  are  undesirable,  or  to 
secure  ends  the  attainment  of  which 
would  be  impracticable  even  if  it  were 
desirable. 

Railway  transportation  is  one  of  our 
largest  industries.  It  employs  over  a 
million  and  a  half  of  men  to  whom  have 
been  paid  over  a  billion  dollars  in  wages 
in  a  single  year.  The  concerns  that 
make  and  deal  in  railway  equipment 
and  supplies,  whose  prosperity  de- 
pends on  that  of  the  railways,  employ 
perhaps  as  many  more.  Upon  the 
amount  their  employers  can  pay  these 
men  depends  the  amount  they  can 
spend  with  the  local  merchant.  Upon 
how  much  goods  the  local  merchant 
can  sell  depends  the  quantity  he  can 
buy  from  the  jobber.  Upon  how  much 
the  jobber  can  sell  depends  how  much 
he  can  buy  from  the  manufacturer.  And 
upon  how  much  the  manufacturer  can 
sell  depends  how  much  wages  he  can 
pay  and  how  much  raw  materials  he 
can  purchase.  Therefore,  the  prosper- 
ity of  the  entire  country  depends  to  a 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  PEOPLE 


13 


very  large  degree  on  the  prosperity  of 
the  transportation  industry.  I  do  not 
take  the  narrow  view  that  this  is  true 
only  of  the  transportation  industry. 
But  how  much  all  classes  will  be  affected 
by  the  condition  of  any  industry  de- 
pends on  how  large  and  important  it  is, 
and  how  extensive  are  its  ramifications; 
and  the  prosperity  of  all  depends  so 
much  on  the  condition  of  the  transport- 
ation industry  because  it  is  the  largest, 
the  most  important,  and  the  most 
extensive  in  its  ramifications,  except 
agriculture. 

The  country  has  been  feeling  the 
effects  for  the  last  three  years  of  an 
unhealthy  condition  of  the  railway 
business.  If  the  railways  had  spent 
as  much  in  proportion  during  this  time 
for  operation  and  additions  and  bet- 
terments as  they  did  in  1907,  their  ex- 
penditures for  these  accounts  would 
have  been  during  this  period  about 
four  hundred  million  dollars  larger 
than  they  were.  If  there  had  been  dur- 
ing the  last  three  years  as  much  new 
railway  construction  in  proportion  as 
there  was  in  1907,  the  mileage  built 
would  have  been  seventy-two  hundred 
miles  greater  than  it  was,  which  would 
have  involved  an  additional  expend- 
iture of  approximately  three  hundred 
million  dollars.  Who  can  doubt  that 
the  fact  that  the  railways  during  these 
years  greatly  curtailed  their  expend- 
itures has  been  one  of  the  main  influ- 
ences protracting  the  depression?  In 
order  to  keep  abreast  of  the  growth  of 
commerce  they  should  have  increased 
instead  of  reducing  their  expenditures. 

That  the  relations  of  the  railways 
and  the  people  have  not  been  put  on  a 
better  basis  has  not  been  because  there 
is  any  antagonism  between  their  inter- 
ests, but  largely  because  the  officers 
of  the  railways,  on  the  one  hand,  and 
the  leaders  of  public  opinion,  on  the 
other,  often  have  not  approached  the 
subject  in  the  right  spirit.  It  would  be 


a  thankless  and  fruitless  task  to  inquire 
who  has  been  the  more  to  blame;  both 
sides  have  been  at  fault.  The  discus- 
sion of  railway  regulation  has  too  often 
resolved  itself  into  arguing  over  what 
rights  are  guaranteed  to  the  railways, 
and  what  power  over  them  is  given  to 
the  people  by  the  Federal  Constitution. 
Now,  it  is  very  desirable  that  the  rela- 
tive constitutional  rights  of  the  public 
and  the  carriers  should  be  clearly  de- 
fined, thoroughly  understood,  and  faith- 
fully respected.  But  the  people  and  the 
railways  have  a  relation  which  is  even 
more  important  than  their  constitu- 
tional relation.  This  is  the  relation  in- 
dicated by  the  subject  on  which  the 
editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  has 
asked  me  to  write  —  their  '  ethical  re- 
lation.' An  ethical  relation  involves 
reciprocal  duties;  and  the  constitu- 
tional rights  of  the  railway  and  the 
constitutional  power  of  the  public  do 
not  mark  the  boundaries  of  their  du- 
ties to  each  other.  There  are  many 
things  railways  ought  to  do  for  the 
convenience  and  benefit  of  the  public 
that  they  could  not  constitutionally  be 
forced  to  do.  And  on  the  other  hand, 
the  criterion  of  the  duty  of  the  public 
as  to  adopting  any  proposed  policy 
regarding  the  railways  is,  not  merely 
whether  it  would  be  constitutional, 
but  whether  it  would  be  just  to  the  rail- 
ways and  for  the  good  of  the  people. 
The  proper  relation  between  the  rail- 
ways and  the  people  is  that  which,  not 
merely  temporarily,  but  in  the  long 
run,  will  best  promote  the  'greatest 
happiness  of  the  greatest  number.' 

The  formulation  of  correct  general 
principles  is  important.  Their  practi- 
cal application  to  specific  cases  is  more 
important,  and  also  more  difficult.  The 
principle  that  the  proper  ethical  rela- 
tion between  the  railroads  and  the 
people  is  that  which  will,  in  the  long 
run,  best  promote  the  'greatest  happi- 
ness of  the  greatest  number'  is  easy  to 


14 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  PEOPLE 


formulate;  it  will  be  universally  ac- 
cepted; but  wide  differences  of  opinion 
will  arise  as  to  its  application.  Yet 
it  must  be  applied  to  practical  affairs 
to  be  of  any  value. 

The  part  of  the  railroad's  business 
which  has  received  the  most  discussion 
and  regulation  is  its  rates.  Both  the 
law  and  sound  ethics  require  rates  to 
be  '  fair  and  reasonable' :  that  is,  equi- 
table as  between  different  commod- 
ities, shippers,  and  localities,  and  not 
exorbitant. 

Two  widely  different  theories  have 
been  advanced  as  those  which  ought 
to  govern  the  making  of  rates.  These 
theories  may  be  denominated  as,  — 

(1)  The  value  of  the  service. 

(2)  The  cost  of  the  service. 

The  railroads  themselves  (and  I 
think  nearly  all  intelligent  students  of 
the  question)  advocate  the  former. 
There  is  little  difference  in  the  cost  of 
transporting  a  car  of  automobiles  and 
a  car  of  sand,  yet  it  is  manifest  that  a 
rate  which  would  be  much  less  than 
fair  for  the  automobiles  would  prohibit 
the  movement  of  the  sand;  therefore, 
the  rate  on  the  sand,  if  moved  at  all, 
must  be  actually  less  than  the  average 
cost  of  moving  all  freight,  while  the 
rate  on  the  automobiles  must  be  very 
largely  in  excess  of  the  average  cost. 
A  mere  statement  of  this  proposition 
should  suffice  to  prove  it.  There  is  one 
point  regarding  this  matter  that  many 
forget:  this  is  that  in  all  affairs  there 
are  two  kinds  of  discrimination.  There 
is  the  kind  which,  as  the  dictionary 
expresses  it,  '  sets  apart  as  being  differ- 
ent,' which  'distinguishes  accurately,' 
and  there  is  the  widely  different  kind 
which  'treats  unequally.'  In  all  or- 
dinary affairs  of  life  we  condemn  as 
'undiscriminating'  those  who  have  so 
little  judgment  or  fairness  as  not  to 
'distinguish  accurately'  or  'set  apart 
things  that  are  different '  —  who  either 
treat  equally  things  that  are  unequal, 


or  treat  unequally  things  that  are 
equal.  Now,  when  the  railway  traffic- 
manager  'sets  apart  things  that  are 
different,'  and  treats  them  differently, 
he  simply  does  what  it  is  the  duty  of 
every  one  to  do. 

This  shows  what  is  meant  by  basing 
rates  on  the '  value  of  the  service '  —  on 
'what  the  traffic  will  bear.'  This  meth- 
od of  making  rates  has  been  widely  and 
vigorously  denounced;  but,  when  pro- 
perly carried  out,  it  is  merely  the  '  set- 
ting apart  of  things  which  are  differ- 
ent' in  a  way  that  is  highly  beneficial. 
The  free  movement  of  all  commodities 
promotes  the  'greatest  good  of  the 
greatest  number';  and  as  the  adjust- 
ment of  the  rates  on  the  various  com- 
modities roughly  in  proportion  to  the 
value  of  the  services  rendered  in  haul- 
ing them  is  an  imperative  condition  to 
the  free  circulation  of  the  cheaper  and 
bulkier  commodities,  in  so  adjusting  its 
rates  the  railway  simply  does  its  pub- 
lic duty.  At  all  events,  this  policy  has 
built  up  the  business  of  the  country 
to  its  present  proportions. 

Many,  while  conceding  that  the  rates 
on  different  commodities  must  be  ad- 
justed according  to  the  value  of  the 
service,  contend  that  the  rates  for  dif- 
ferent hauls  of  the  same  commodity 
should  be  based  on  cost,  or  on  distance, 
which  is  a  rough  measure  of  cost.  Rail- 
road men  do  not  believe  that  rates 
ought  always  to  increase  in  proportion 
to  distance.  They  believe  that  here 
again  we  should  'set  apart  things  that 
are  different.'  All  statesmen  and  eco- 
nomists agree  that  free  industrial  and 
commercial  competition  promotes  the 
public  welfare.  Now,  the  policy  of 
American  railways  in  generally  mak- 
ing their  rates  lower  in  proportion  for 
long  than  for  short  distances  —  in 
basing  them  on  the  value  rather  than 
the  cost  of  service  —  has  enabled  pro- 
ducers throughout  a  large  territory  to 
compete  in  every  market,  and  consum- 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  PEOPLE 


15 


ers  to  get  commodities  from  every  point 
of  production  in  that  territory;  and 
has  therefore,  I  believe,  been  of  great 
benefit  to  the  public. 

Many  persons  who  concede  that  dis- 
tance must,  to  a  considerable  extent, 
be  disregarded,  argue  that  at  least 
there  can  be  no  excuse  for  so  far  ignor- 
ing it  as  to  charge  a  higher  rate  for'a 
shorter  than  for  a  longer  haul  over  the 
same  line.  But  this,  again,  is  often 
merely  'setting  apart  things  that  are 
different.'  When  a  railway  makes  a 
lower  rate  for  a  longer  than  for  a  short- 
er haul,  it  is  usually  because  it  meets 
controlling  competition  either  by  water 
or  by  rail  at  the  more  distant  point, 
which  it  does  not  meet  at  the  nearer 
point.  It  could  no  more  afford  to  make 
rates  proportionately  as  low  to  the 
intermediate  as  to  the  more  distant 
point  than  it  could  afford  to  make  as 
low  rates  on  all  commodities  as  it  makes 
on  sand.  If  it  quit  meeting  the  com- 
petition at  the  more  distant  point,  the. 
shipper  at  the  nearer  point  would  not 
be  benefited,  because  he  would  still  have 
to  pay  the  same  rates  as  before,  while 
the  snipper  at  the  more  distant  point 
would  still  be  able  to  get  his  goods  by 
the  competing  rail  or  water  line  at  the 
same  rate  as  before.  The  railway  which 
had  withdrawn  from  competing  would 
be  injured,  because  it  would  no  longer 
get  any  of  the  competitive  traffic;  and 
shippers  and  consumers  at  the  more 
distant  point  would  be  injured,  be- 
cause they  would  no  longer  enjoy  the 
benefit  of  its  competition  with  the  other 
lines  serving  them. 

This  shows  that  the  'greatest  good 
of  the  greatest  number'  is  often  best 
promoted  by  almost  entire  disregard 
of  distance  in  rate-making. 

No  doubt  many  will  say  that  theo- 
retically the  value-of-the-service  prin- 
ciple is  right,  but  that  many  mistakes 
have  been  made  and  many  abuses  have 
developed  in  its  application.  This  is 


quite  true;  there  have  been  many  dis- 
criminations which  have  consisted  in 
'treating  unequally,'  and  for  them  the 
railways  deserve  condemnation.  But 
unfair  discriminations  in  rates  afford 
the  best  illustration  of  the  fact  that,  in 
order  that  the  railway  may  do  its  full 
duty  to  the  public,  the  public  must  do 
its  duty  to  the  railway.  Secret  rebating 
has  been  practically  extirpated.  For 
the  fact  that  it  and  other  forms  of 
unfair  railroad  discrimination  contin- 
ued so  long,  and  that  some  still  exist, 
the  public  is  much  to  blame.  Since  the 
original  Interstate  Commerce  Act  was 
passed,  there  has  not  been  a  time  when 
our  laws  regulating  railways  have  not 
been  so  inconsistent  and  conflicting 
that  railway  men  could  not  obey  one 
part  of  them  without  violating  another 
part.  The  best  parts  of  the  Interstate 
Commerce  Act  are  those  prohibiting 
unfair  discrimination.  The  big  shippers 
and  large  centres  of  industry  and  com- 
merce control  a  great  deal  of  traffic. 
By  withholding  their  business  from 
roads  which  will  not  give  them  unfair 
concessions,  and  giving  it  to  those 
which  will,  they  have  got  many  un- 
fair advantages.  In  compliance  with 
the  provisions  of  the  Interstate  Com- 
merce Act,  and  in  the  performance  of 
their  duty  to  the  public,  the  railways 
ought  to  abolish  these  unfair  discrim- 
inations. But  to  do  so,  all  competing 
railways  must  act  in  concert  regarding 
rates;  and  under  the  Sherman  Anti- 
Trust  Law  such  a  perfectly  reasonable 
and  salutary  combination  by  the  rail- 
ways has  been  held  to  be  an  illegal 
conspiracy!  In  other  words,  existing 
laws  forbid  the  railways  to  discrimin- 
ate unfairly,  and  then  make  it  criminal 
conspiracy  for  them  to  take  the  only 
action  that  will  effectually  prevent  un- 
fair discrimination. 

It  may  be  said  that,  as  the  Interstate 
Commission  now  has  authority  to  re- 
duce any  rate,  and  to  prevent  any  ad- 


16 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  PEOPLE 


vance  in  rates  that  'it  finds  unreason- 
able, it  is  unnecessary  for  the  railways 
to  be  allowed  to  act  together  to  stop 
or  to  prevent  unfair  discrimination; 
that  the  Commission  can  do  this.  But 
unfair  discrimination  consists  in  the 
fixing  of  unfair  relations  between  two 
or  more  rates,  and  may  be  due  either 
to  the  fact  that  one  rate  is  too  high  or 
that  some  related  rate  is  too  low. 
Therefore,  anybody,  in  order  in  all 
cases  fairly  to  correct  discriminations, 
must  be  able  either  to  reduce  a  rate 
that  is  too  high  or  raise  a  rate  that  is 
too  low.  But  the  law  confers  on  the 
Commission  only  authority  to  reduce 
rates  and  prevent  advances. 

The  public  very  properly  requires 
the  railways  to  give  it  and  all  its 
patrons  a  'square  deal.'  Have  not  the 
railways  an  equal  right  to  demand  a 
square  deal  from  the  public?  And  can 
they  be  said  to  be  getting  it  as  long 
as  the  laws  are  such  that  they  cannot 
obey  part  of  them  without  incurring 
the  danger  of  punishment  for  violating 
another  part  of  them?  The  Interstate 
Commerce  Law  and  the  Sherman 
Anti-Trust  Law  should  be  so  modified 
as  to  permit  railways  to  enter  into 
reasonable  agreements  regarding  rates. 
This  is  allowed  in  every  other  leading 
country  in  the  world.  The  Interstate 
Commerce  Act  should  be  further 
amended  so  as  to  authorize  the  Com- 
mission, when  it  finds  a  certain  adjust- 
ment of  rates  unfairly  discriminatory, 
to  correct  it  by  ordering  either  ad- 
vances in  the  lower  or  reductions  in 
the  higher  rates,  according  to  which 
may  be  most  fair. 

For  the  last  two  or  three  years  the 
public  has  been  giving  less  attention 
than  formerly  to  unfair  discrimination, 
and  more  to  the  question  of  the  abso- 
lute amount  of  the  rates  that  ought  to 
be  allowed  to  be  charged.  As  has  al- 
ready been  said,  it  is  the  duty  of  the  rail- 
way not  only  to  make  its  rates  fair  as 


between  different  commodities,  ship- 
pers, and  communities,  but  also  to  make 
them  reasonable  —  that  is,  not  excess- 
ive. I  believe  the  railways  of  the 
United  States  have  fully  discharged 
that  duty.  Traffic  cannot  grow  rapidly 
on  excessive  rates;  and  industry  and 
commerce  cannot  thrive  on  them.  But 
traffic  and  industry  and  commerce  have 
increased  in  an  unprecedented  and  un- 
paralleled degree  on  the  rates  made  by 
American  railways. 

If  further  evidence  be  desired  that 
the  rates  of  the  railways  of  the  United 
States  have  been  reasonable,  it  can  be 
found  in  a  comparison  of  them  with 
those  of  the  railways  of  other  countries. 
Such  comparisons  are  deceptive  unless 
account  be  taken  of  the  differences 
between  transportation  and  industrial 
conditions  here  and  abroad ;  but,  making 
generous  allowance  for  all  these  differ- 
ences, it  is  conceded  by  every  com- 
petent economist  who  has  ever  investi- 
gated the  subject  that  the  rates  of  our 
railways  are  the  lowest  in  the  world. 

A  railway,  however,  has  not  dis- 
charged its  full  public  duty  even  when 
it  has  made  its  rates  both  fair  and  low. 
It  is  also  its  duty  to  treat  its  employees 
well,  and  to  give  good  service  to  the 
public.  That  the  railways  of  the  Unit- 
ed States,  while  keeping  their  rates 
low,  have  done  well  by  their  em- 
ployees, is  amply  demonstrated  by  the 
statistics  regarding  the  wages  paid 
them.  While  railway  rates  have  remain- 
ed almost  stationary,  railway  wages 
have  been  increased  during  the  past 
ten  years  about  twenty-three  per  cent ; 
and  railway  employees  are  to-day  — 
as,  in  fact,  they  have  been  for  years  — 
the  highest-paid  workingmen  in  this 
or  any  other  country.  It  is  the  duty  of 
railways,  not  only  to  treat  their  em- 
ployees well,  but,  whenever  at  all  pos- 
sible, to  reach  settlements  of  disputed 
points  with  them  in  an  amicable  way. 
This  duty  was  not  fully  appreciated  in 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  PEOPLE 


17 


past  years,  and  the  consequence  was 
strikes  and  lockouts  which  caused 
enormous  trouble  and  loss  to  the  pub- 
lic. It  is  a  duty  which  has  been  fully 
appreciated  and  performed  in  later 
years,  and,  in  consequence,  there  has 
been  no  very  serious  interruption  to 
commerce,  due  to  railway  strikes,  for 
a  long  time. 

As  to  railway  service  in  general  in 
the  United  States,  it  has  many  short- 
comings; but  the  managements  of  the 
roads  are  constantly  striving  to  make 
it  better;  and  the  great  improvements 
that  have  been  made  in  it  in  recent 
years  ought  to  be  sufficient  evidence 
that  they  will  in  course  of  time  make  it 
as  good  as  any  one  can  reasonably  ask, 
if  they  are  allowed  to  charge  rates  that 
are  reasonably  proportionate  to  the 
value  _of  the  services  they  render  for 
them. 

There  are  many  persons,  however, 
who  think  that  the  reasonableness  of 
rates  should  be  measured  by  some  other 
standard  than  the  value  of  the  services 
rendered  for  them.  They  contend  that 
all  a  railway  is  entitled  to  is  a  '  fair  re- 
turn' on  the  fair  value  of  its  property; 
that  a  fair  return  is  the  current  rate 
of  interest;  and  that  if  it  is  earning,  or 
in  future  shall  earn,  more  than  this, 
then  its  rates  should  be  reduced.  Is  that 
an  equitable  proposition?  It  is  true 
that  the  railway's  service  is  public  and 
it  is  therefore  subject  to  regulation; 
but  its  ownership  is  private.  When 
private  capitalists  built  our  railways 
they  did  so  with  the  understanding 
that  if  they  gave  good  service  at  fair 
and  reasonable  rates  their  duty  to  the 
public  would  be  discharged;  and  that, 
in  return,  the  public  would  no  more 
limit  the  profits  they  derived  from  their 
business  than  it  would  limit  the  pro- 
fits derived  by  investors  from  any 
other  business.  The  railways  have  in 
the  main  carried  out  their  part  of  the 
bargain.  Now,  obviously,  the  proposi- 

VOL.  107 -NO.  1 


tion  so  to  regulate  rates  as  to  limit  the 
earnings  of  railways  to  a  '  fair  return ' 
is  a  proposition,  not  merely  to  require 
their  rates  to  be  reasonable,  but  to 
limit  their  profits  in  a  way  that  profits 
in  no  other  business  ever  have  been 
limited  in  any  other  commercial  un- 
dertakings in  any  country  on  earth. 

It  is  sometimes  said  that  the  fact 
that  railways  exercise  the  power  of 
eminent  domain  gives  the  public  a 
special  right  narrowly  to  limit  their 
profits.  But  the  power  of  eminent  do- 
main can  be  exercised  only  for  the  pub- 
lic benefit;  railways  are  allowed  to 
exercise  it  only  because  otherwise  they 
could  not  be  built  at  all,  and  because 
their  construction  and  operation  is  of 
benefit  to  the  public.  On  what  theory 
of  equity  can  the  exercise  by  the  rail- 
road of  a  power  which  is  conferred  on 
it,  and  which  it  exercises  for  the  public 
good,  be  turned  into  an  argument  for 
so  regulating  it  as  to  make  it  less  pro- 
fitable than  concerns  which  do  not 
serve  a  public  use,  but  merely  serve  a 
private  purpose? 

One  of  the  greatest  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  so  regulating  rates  as  to  limit 
each  railway  to  a  'fair  return'  is  that 
railways  differ  as  widely  as  individual 
men.  Some  roads  are  favorably,  others 
unfavorably  located.  Some  manage- 
ments have  great,  and  others  only 
moderate  foresight  and  ability,  and 
others  almost  none.  To  limit  the  pro- 
fits of  the  favorably  located  and  well- 
managed  railways  to  the  current  rate 
of  interest  would  deprive  them  of  the 
rewards  of,  and  the  incentive  to,  good 
management.  As  rates  on  all  compet- 
ing roads  must  be  the  same,  it  would 
prevent  weaker  roads  from  earning 
any  return,  and  bankrupt  them.  How 
is  it  possible  that  any  one  can  believe 
that  such  a  policy  would  be  just  either 
to  the  strong  or  to  the  weak  roads? 

If  one  formed  his  opinion  solely  by 
following  the  discussions  of  railway 


18 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  PEOPLE 


rates,  he  would  conclude  that  all  the 
public  wants  is  low  rates,  and  that  it 
is  willing  that  the  railways  should  re- 
duce the  quality  of  their  service  in- 
definitely if  this  be  accompanied  by 
proportionate  reductions  in  rates.  But 
this  is  far  from  the  case.  Railway  men 
are  beset  constantly  by  demands  for 
reductions  and  opposition  to  advances 
in  rates.  But  they  are  beset  just  as 
constantly  by  demands  for  improve- 
ments in  service.  The  public  cannot 
both  eat  its  cake  and  have  it.  It  can- 
not at  the  same  time  get,  and  ought 
not  to  ask,  both  lower  rates  and  more 
expensive  and  better  service.  Which  of 
the  public's  demands,  then,  ought  the 
railways,  with  the  cooperation  of  the 
regulating  authorities,  chiefly  to  seek 
to  meet? 

It  seems  to  me  that  they  ought  main- 
ly, at  least  for  some  years  to  come,  to 
try  to  meet  the  public's  demand  for 
better  service.  For  railway  rates  in 
this  country  are  the  lowest  in  the  world. 
In  some  respects,  railway  service  here 
is  the  best  and  most  efficient;  but 
every  one  knows  that  there  are  many 
improvements  in  service  which  ought 
to  be  made  in  the  interest  of  the  pub- 
lic safety,  convenience,  and  economic 
welfare. 

The  statistics  of  accidents  on  Amer- 
ican railways  are  only  too  familiar.  I 
need  not  repeat  here  the  harrowing  de- 
tails to  show  the  need  of  making  our 
transportation  safer.  About  eighty  per 
cent  of  railway  accidents  are  caused 
by  mistakes,  or  reckless  violations  of  the 
rules  of  the  companies  by  employees; 
but  a  great  many  are  due  to  de- 
fects and  shortcomings  of  the  physical 
plants  of  the  railways.  The  total  num- 
ber of  miles  of  railway  in  the  United 
States  on  June  30,  1909,  was  236,869. 
Block-signals  are  very  useful  in  pre- 
venting accidents,  even  on  roads  where 
traffic  is  comparatively  light,  and  are 
absolutely  requisite  to  safe  operation 


where  it  is  heavy.  Yet  a  report  of  the 
Block-Signal  and  Train-Control  Board 
of  the  Interstate  Commerce  Commis- 
sion shows  that  on  January  1,  1910, 
the  mileage  operated  by  block-signals 
was  but  65,758  miles,  or  only  twenty- 
seven  per  cent  of  the  total,  and  that  of 
this  only  14,237  miles  were  operated 
by  automatic  blocks.  In  the  interest 
of  public  safety  there  should  be  a  very 
great  increase  in  the  mileage  of  block- 
signals. 

In  order  to  make  their  service  safe, 
many  roads  will  have  to  do  an  amount 
of  work  for  the  strengthening  of  their 
tracks  which  will  amount  practically 
to  reconstruction  of  large  parts  of  them, 
or,  in  the  cases  of  not  a  few  roads,  of 
all  of  them.  In  the  course  of  time  all 
grade-crossings  between  railways,  and 
between  railways  and  highways,  ought 
to  be  eliminated.  Many  other  costly 
improvements  ought  to  be  made  to 
render  transportation  safe;  and  the 
roads  are  not  only  willing,  but  anxious 
to  make  them  as  fast  as  their  financial 
resources  will  permit,  and  also  to  sub- 
mit to  and  comply  with  all  reasonable 
legislation  intended  to  promote  safety. 
It  is  significant  that  while  the  railways 
have  contested  in  the  courts  a  great 
deal  of  legislation  regarding  rates,  they 
have  never  tested  the  validity  of  the 
original  federal  safety-appliances  acts, 
although  their  constitutionality  has  al- 
ways been  doubtful,  but  have  faith- 
fully complied  with  them;  and  that  at 
great  expense,  they  are  now  pursuing 
the  same  policy  in  reference  to  the  new 
safety-appliance  act  passed  by  Con- 
gress in  1910.  Railway  managers  are 
just  as  anxious  to  make  their  service 
safe,  both  for  their  employees  and  for 
passengers,  as  the  public  is  to  have 
them  do  so.  The  main  difference  be- 
tween them  and  those  who  criticise 
them  is  that  the  railway  managers  ap- 
preciate more  keenly  the  expense  that 
must  be  incurred,  and  the  difficulties 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  PEOPLE 


19 


that  must  be  overcome,  in  making 
transportation  safe. 

Every  railway  manager  in  the  coun- 
try has  in  his  files  scores  of  petitions 
for  the  construction  of  new  passenger 
stations.  These  vary  in  importance 
and  amounts  of  money  involved  from 
the  request  of  villages  that  their  little 
wooden  depots  be  replaced  by  larger 
and  more  pretentious  brick  ones,  to  the 
demands  of  cities,  such  as  Kansas  City, 
Washington,  Chicago,  and  New  York, 
for  new  passenger  terminals  and  sta- 
tions costing  from  $20,000,000  to  $100,- 
000,000  each.  In  many  cases  the  roads 
are  asked  to  build,  not  only  handsome 
and  expensive  stations,  but  to  surround 
them  with  beautiful  parks.  The  rail- 
ways at  Kansas  City,  as  one  of  the 
conditions  of  the  passage  by  the  city 
of  an  ordinance  authorizing  them  to 
build  a  new  union  station,  are  giving 
the  public  a  park  adjacent  to  it  cost- 
ing $500,000.  The  appearance  of  the 
railway  station  and  grounds  consider- 
ably influences  the  opinions  visitors 
form  of  a  town  or  city,  and  it  is  per- 
fectly natural  that  the  people  should 
desire  them  to  be  commodious  and 
beautiful.  The  public  constantly  grows 
more  exacting  in  its  demands  for  com- 
fort, and  even  luxury,  on  passenger 
trains,  and  for  their  strict  adherence  to 
their  schedules,  so  that  the  traveler  can 
tell  with  unvarying  accuracy  at  what 
time  he  will  reach  his  destination. 

Shippers  constantly  ask  more  and 
faster  freight  service.  There  has  been 
during  the  last  several  years  a  great 
deal  of  complaint  because  the  roads 
have  been  unable  in  the  busiest  parts 
of  the  year  to  handle  promptly  all  of 
the  freight  traffic  that  has  been  offered 
them.  In  order  that  they  may  become 
able  to  do  this  they  must  build  numer- 
ous extensions  and  branches,  and  many 
miles  of  second,  third,  and  fourth  track. 
The  railways  of  the  United  States  to- 
day are  practically  a  single-track  sys- 


tem: of  the  236,869  miles  of  line,  only 
21,000  miles  are  double-tracked.  The 
roads  must  also  greatly  enlarge  their 
terminal  facilities  and  provide  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  new  cars  and 
locomotives. 

The  roads  ought  to  make  all  these 
great  improvements.  But  it  is  per- 
fectly evident  that  if  ttyey  are  to  be 
made,  they  must  be  paid  for;  and  that 
if  they  are  to  be  paid  for,  the  public 
has  a  part  to  perform  —  that  of  let- 
ting the  roads  earn  whatever  is  neces- 
sary to  make  it  practicable  to  pay  for 
them.  Now,  while  some  improvements 
increase  the  earning  capacity  of  a  rail- 
way, others  do  not.  For  example,  from 
the  $500,000  the  roads  are  spending 
on  a  park  at  Kansas  City  they  will 
never  derive  a  dollar  of  return.  They 
are  spending  two  or  three  million  dol- 
lars on  the  union  depot  at  Kansas 
City.  A  station  which  would  serve  ad- 
equately all  purely  transportation  pur- 
poses could  be  built  for  $200,000.  On 
the  difference  between  these  amounts 
the  roads  will  receive  no  return.  Simi- 
lar comment  might  be  made  on  all 
large  passenger  stations.  They  are 
built  for  the  benefit  of  the  public,  not 
for  the  profit  of  the  railroads.  Eleva- 
tion of  tracks  and  separation  of  grades 
increase  to  some  extent  the  efficiency 
of  railway  operation,  but  the  amount  by 
which  they  reduce  operating  expenses 
is  far  less  than  the  interest  on  their  cost. 
The  amounts  by  which  the  enlargements 
of  terminal  facilities  in  big  cities,  which 
must  be  made  if  the  growing  traffic  is 
to  be  properly  handled,  will  increase 
net  earnings,  will  in  many  cases  be  less 
than  the  interest  on  their  cost. 

Improvements  which  increase  earn- 
ing capacity  ought  to  be  capitalized 
because  they  afford  the  means  for  pay- 
ing interest  and  dividends.  But  sup- 
pose the  total  investment  of  $2,000,000 
in  a  passenger  station  be  capitalized. 
In  twenty-five  years  the  interest  on 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  PEOPLE 


the  investment  at  four  per  cent  will 
have  equaled  the  original  cost.  At  the 
rate  this  country  grows,  the  station 
may  then  be  so  obsolescent  that  it  must 
be  replaced  by  another  station,  cost- 
ing perhaps  $6,000,000.  If  this  station 
also  be  capitalized,  the  road  will  there- 
after have  to  pay  interest  on  the 
$8,000,000  it  has  spent  on  the  two  sta- 
tions, although  it  will  have  but  one 
station. 

Now,  if  a  railway  is  allowed  to 
earn  nothing  over  a '  fair  return,'  it  will 
have  no  earnings  to  invest  in  improve- 
ments; in  that  event  it  will  have  to 
make  from  capital  improvements  that 
do  not  increase  earning  capacity;  and 
that  would  result  in  a  rapid  and  heavy 
increase  of  capitalization.  Would  that 
be  fair  to  posterity?  That  the  Eng- 
lish roads  have  piled  up  a  capitaliza- 
tion of  $314,000  a  mile  is  very  largely 
because  they  have  paid  for  all  im- 
provements and  betterments  out  of 
capital  whether  they  increased  earn- 
ing capacity  or  not.  Unable  to  raise 
their  rates  high  enough  to  earn  a  re- 
turn on  this  enormous  capitalization 
without  imposing  an  intolerable  bur- 
den on  commerce,  they  are  now  threat- 
ened with  general  insolvency.  This  is 
the  situation  American  railways  would 
be  facing  in  a  comparatively  few  years 
if  the  policy  of  narrowly  limiting  their 
net  earnings,  and  thus  forcing  them  to 
make  all  improvements  from  capital, 
were  adopted. 

If  the  public  can  and  shall  regulate 
railway  profits,  it  should  adopt  the 
policy  of  letting  the  railways,  or  at 
least  the  better-managed  ones,  earn  as 
much  to  be  spent  on  improvements  as 
they  pay  out  in  dividends  on  a  reason- 
able stock  capitalization.  If,  for  exam- 
ple, a  road  is  paying  seven  per  cent  on 
its  stock,  it  ought  to  be  allowed  to  earn 
an  equal  additional  amount  with  which 
to  make  improvements.  This  policy, 
which  is  the  one  followed  by  well-man- 


aged industrial  corporations,  would 
both  allow  the  better-managed  roads 
to  enjoy  the  benefits  of  their  good  man- 
agement, and  protect  the  weaker  roads 
from  reductions  in  rates  which  would 
bankrupt  them.  It  would  also  strength- 
en railway  credit.  That  the  railway 
exercises  the  right  of  eminent  domain,  is 
held  to  give  the  public  a  special  power 
to  regulate  it;  but  when  it  goes  into 
the  money  market  to  raise  capital,  the 
power  of  eminent  domain  gives  it  no 
better  credit  than  that  possessed  by  an 
industrial  corporation.  If  it  is  barely 
able  to  earn  its  dividends,  the  investor 
will  know  that  if  bad  times  come  it 
will  become  unable  to  meet  its  obliga- 
tions to  its  bond-  and  stock-holders, 
and  he  will  not  invest  in  its  securities 
except  at  a  discount  proportionate  to 
the  risk  taken.  Therefore  it  is  necessary 
for  the  railway  in  good  times  to  earn 
more  than  its  interest  and  reasonable 
dividends,  not  only  that  it  may  have 
surplus  earnings  to  invest  in  improve- 
ments that  will  not  increase  its  earn- 
ing capacity,  but  also  that  it  may  be 
able  to  get  on  reasonable  terms  the 
capital  necessary  to  make  extensions 
and  improvements  which  will  increase 
its  earning  capacity. 

It  may  be  replied  that  if  the  railways 
are  allowed  to  earn  large  profits  in  or- 
der to  have  earnings  to  invest  in  im- 
provements, they  will  subsequently 
capitalize  all  such  investments,  and  then 
seek  to  make  the  public  pay  a  return 
on  them,  and  that,  to  prevent  this,  the 
public  should  regulate  their  issuance 
of  securities.  The  past  history  of  our 
railways,  which  is  the  only  thing  we 
can  judge  by,  is  against  this  theory. 
Some  railways  have  capitalized  earn- 
ings invested  in  the  properties,  but 
many  have  not.  The  amount  of  invest- 
ed earnings  that  has  not  been  capitalized 
greatly  exceeds  the  amount  that  has 
been.  And  it  is  due  largely  to  this  that 
American  railways  are  now  the  most 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  PEOPLE 


21 


conservatively  capitalized  railways  in 
the  world.  This  statement  will  be  re- 
ceived with  incredulity  by  most  peo- 
ple. The  public  has  lent  an  all  too 
willing  ear  to  the  oft-repeated  mis- 
statement  that  our  railways  are  over- 
capitalized. It  is  true  that  some  of  them 
are,  but  who  can  believe  that  they  are 
as  a  whole  after  reading  the  following 
figures  regarding  the  capitalization  per 
mile  of  the  railways  of  our  own  and 
other  countries :  United  States,  $59,259 ; 
Argentina,  $59,930;  New  South  Wales, 
$63,999;  Canada,  $66,752;  Switzer- 
land, $109,000;  Germany,  $109,788; 
France,  $139,290;  United  Kingdom, 
$275,040;  England  alone,  $314,000? 

If  the  public,  in  order  to  enable  the 
roads  to  make  needed  improvements 
in  their  facilities,  shall  permit  them  to 
earn  more  than  enough  to  pay  sub- 
stantial dividends,  the  roads,  no  doubt, 
will  be  under  a  moral  obligation  pro- 
perly to  invest  the  surplus  earnings  in 
the  properties  and  to  abstain  from  cap- 
italizing them.  It  has  been  proposed 
to  subject  the  issuance  of  railway  se- 
curities to  regulation  by  the  Interstate 
Commerce  Commission;  and  undoubt- 
edly, if  the  roads  did  not  deal  fairly 
with  the  public  in  regard  to  this  mat- 
ter, this  would  strongly  reinforce  the 
argument  for  such  regulation. 

There  are  many  other  points  regard- 
ing the  relations  of  the  railways  and 
the  people  on  which  I  should  like  to 
touch  if  space  permitted.  The  one 
point,  however,  that  I  am  most  anx- 
ious to  drive  home  is  the  one  that  comes 
out  most  prominently  in  the  intelligent 
discussion  of  every  phase  of  the  rail- 
way question  —  namely,  that  the  du- 
ties of  the  railways  and  the  people, 
whether  in  regard  to  rates,  or  service, 
or  capitalization,  or  any  other  feature 
of  railway  policy,  are  equal  and  recip- 
rocal. This  must  always  be  true  while 
the  service  of  the  railways  is  public 
and  their  ownership  is  private.  The 


public,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  pri- 
vate owners  of  the  railways,  on  the 
other  hand,  have  exactly  equal  rights 
to  demand  that  each  shall  give  the 
other  a ' square  deal.'  When  either  asks 
much,  it  must,  for  equitable  as  well  as 
economic  and  legal  reasons,  be  prepared 
and  willing  to  give  much  in  return. 

Up  to  a  comparatively  few  years 
ago,  the  public  probably  did  its  duty 
by  the  railways  better  than  the  rail- 
ways did  their  duty  by  the  public. 
Broadly  speaking,  the  management  of 
our  railways  was  good;  but  some  de- 
plorable abuses  characterized  railway 
management.  The  public  was  amply 
justified  in  growing  incensed  at  these 
conditions,  and  taking  vigorous  meas- 
ures to  remedy  them.  But  the  course 
the  public  actually  has  adopted  has 
not  been  fair  to  the  railways,  or  to  it- 
self. It  has  not  been  content  merely 
to  pass  and  enforce  laws  for  the  sup- 
pression of  the  real  evils  in  railway 
management.  It  allowed  itself  to  be 
hurried  into  a  fit  of  passion  against  the 
roads ;  and  this  has  been  succeeded  by 
a  prejudiced  mental  attitude  toward 
them.  The  result  has  been  that  it  has 
given  willing  ear  to  innumerable  glar- 
ing misrepresentations  of  them,  and 
has  passed  numerous  laws  which  are 
extremely  unjust  and  injurious. 

Take,  for  example,  its  attitude  to- 
ward secret  rebating.  This  was  the 
most  pervading  and  pernicious  abuse 
that  ever  developed  in  the  railway 
business  in  this  country,  and  the  public 
was  justified  in  adopting  measures  for 
its  suppression.  But  the  public  has 
been  unfair  in  that  it  has  habitually 
refused  to  give  due  weight  to  the  fact 
that  no  rebate  was  ever  given  which  was 
not  received  by  some  one;  and  that  the 
recipients  were  just  as  guilty  as  the 
givers;  or  to  the  further  fact  that  the 
railways  tried  repeatedly  to  stop  re- 
bating, and  did  more  than  any  one  else 
to  get  passed  the  Elkins  Act  of  1903, 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  PEOPLE 


which  did  more  to  suppress  that  evil 
practice  than  any  other  piece  of  legis- 
lation. 

Again,  the  railways  have  been  bit- 
terly denounced  by  the  press,  public 
men,  and  the  people,  for  having  at  times 
used  corrupt  means  to  prevent  the 
passage  of  laws  which  their  managers 
thought  would  hurt  them.  The  use  of 
such  means  was  ethically  indefens- 
ible; but  the  people  were  largely  to 
blame  for  it.  The  people  elected  cor- 
rupt men  to  the  legislatures  who  intro- 
duced measures  whose  passage  would 
have  been  injurious  to  the  roads,  and 
the  purpose  of  whose  introduction  was 
to  blackmail  them.  No  doubt  the  roads 
should  have  submitted  to  the  passage 
of  these  unfair  measures  instead  of 
submitting  to  being  blackmailed.  But 
can  the  people  who  elected  these  men 
»  to  office  fairly  lay  all  the  blame  on 
the  railways  for  the  corrupt  bargains 
which  their  chosen  representatives 
struck  with  the  representatives  of  the 
railways?  The  railways  all  over  the 
country  are  now  trying  very  hard  to 
avoid  entirely  the  use  of  improper 
measures  to  influence  legislation.  They 
have  a  right  to  ask  that  the  public  shall 
meet  them  halfway  in  this  matter. 
But  the  blackmailing  law-maker  still 
regularly  turns  up  in  many  of  our  city 
councils  and  state  legislatures. 

Once  more,  some  newspapers  and 
public  men  have  purveyed  for  public 
consumption,  and  the  public  has  ac- 
cepted, the  most  tropical  misrepresent- 
ations of  railway  capitalization.  For 
example,  certain  public  men  have  re- 
peatedly asserted  that  the  railways  of 
this  country  are  overcapitalized  to  the 
extent  of  $8,000,000,000.  Now,  there 
is  not  one  scintilla  of  evidence  to  sup- 
port that  statement.  Every  fair  valu- 
ation of  railways  which  has  been  made 
by  commission  or  court  has  shown  that 
most  of  the  railways  valued  were  cap- 
italized for  less  than  it  would  cost  to 


reproduce  their  physical  properties. 
Only  a  short  time  ago  I  saw  the  state- 
ment in  the  Washington  correspond- 
ence of  one  of  our  leading  newspapers 
that  our  railways  are  capitalized  for  an 
average  of  $235,000  a  mile.  The  writer 
of  that  statement,  and  the  readers  of 
it,  could  have  found  by  investigation 
that  there  is  not  a  single  railway  in  this 
country  capitalized  for  as  much  as  the 
amount  stated,  and  that  the  average 
capitalization  of  our  railways,  as  re- 
ported by  the  Interstate  Commerce 
Commission,  was,  on  June  30,  1909, 
as  already  stated,  but  $59,259  per  mile. 
But  the  public  has  not  investigated 
misstatements  such  as  this,  which  are 
quite  worthy  of  Baron  Munchausen. 
It  has  accepted  them  as  the  true  gos- 
pel, and  it  is  mainly  owing  to  this  that 
there  is  to-day  in  progress  a  wide- 
spread agitation  for  a  physical  valua- 
tion of  railways  which  is  being  con- 
ducted on  the  utterly  erroneous  theory 
that  the  railways  are  charging  excess- 
ive rates  to  pay  a  return  on  excessive 
capitalization,  and  that  for  the  pro- 
tection of  the  public  their  value  must 
be  ascertained  and  used  in  future  as 
a  basis  for  the  regulation  of  rates. 

Meanw  hile,  the  attitude  of  the  railway 
managements  has  been  changing.  The 
duty  of  the  railways  to  the  public  is 
now  more  clearly  recognized  by  their 
managers,  more  frankly  conceded,  and 
more  fully  and  faithfully  performed, 
than  it  ever  was  before.  In  consequence 
of  these  changes,  I  believe  that  it  can 
truthfully  be  said  that,  whereas  up  to 
a  few  years  ago  the  public  did  its  duty 
to  the  railways  better  than  the  rail- 
ways did  theirs  to  the  public,  the  re- 
verse is  now  the  fact;  and  that  the  rail- 
ways have  a  right  to  complain  that 
they  are  now  doing  their  duty  to  the 
public  much  better  than  the  public  is 
doing  its  duty  to  them. 

To  remedy  the  present  unsatisfac- 
tory condition  it  is  needful,  on  the  one 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  PEOPLE 


23 


hand,  that  railway  managers  as  a  class 
shall  clearly  see  and  frankly  concede 
that  they  are  quasi-public  servants, 
owing  a  different  and  a  higher  duty  to 
the  public  than  almost  any  other  busi- 
ness men,  and  act  accordingly.  They 
must  also  recognize  that  their  duty 
does  not  consist  merely  in  making  rea- 
sonable rates,  giving  good  service,  and 
honestly  managing  the  properties  en- 
trusted to  their  care  for  the  benefit  both 
of  the  owners  and  the  public,  for  the 
public  has  a  right  to  interest  itself  in 
all  the  various  questions  about  railway 
policy  that  arise;  many  of  these  ques- 
tions are  very  complicated;  and  it  is  a 
duty  of  railway  men,  which  usually  has 
been  rather  poorly  done,  to  discuss  these 
questions  with  the  public  fully  and  can- 
didly, that  the  public  may  know  the 
imperative  practical  conditions  which 
require  the  railway  business  to  be  man- 
aged on  much  the  same  commercial 
principles  as  other  businesses,  and  why 
it  is  to  the  interest  of  the  public  that  it 
shall  be  so  conducted. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  the  duty  of 
the  public  to  disabuse  its  mind  of  much 
of  the  misinformation  and  prejudice 
about  railways  with  which  it  has  been 
filled  by  the  anti-railway  agitation  of 
the  last  five  or  six  years.  As  it  is  the 


duty  of  railway  managers  to  remember 
and  to  act  always  in  accordance  with 
the  fact  that  the  railway  is  a  public  serv- 
ice corporation,  so  it  is  the  correlative 
duty  of  the  public  always  to  remember 
and  act  in  accordance  with  the  fact 
that  the  railway's  ownership  is  private; 
that  the  private  persons  who  own  it 
have  the  same  right  to  demand  protec- 
tion in  the  enjoyment  of  their  property 
rights  as  the  owners  of  any  other  priv- 
ate property;  and  that  unjust  attacks 
on  their  rights  of  property  are  just  as 
immoral  as  attacks  on  the  property 
rights  of  the  manufacturer,  the  mer- 
chant, or  the  farmer,  and  will,  in  the 
long  run,  react  just  as  disastrously  on 
the  welfare  of  the  country.  The  people 
can  make  the  ownership  as  well  as  the 
service  of  our  railways  public  if  they 
wish  to;  and  as  long  as  they  do  not  do 
so  they  cannot  fairly  treat  them  as  if 
they  were  public  property. 

It  is  perfectly  feasible  to  establish 
proper  ethical  relations  between  the 
railway  and  the  people;  but  I  know  of 
no  way  in  which  this  can  be  done 
except  by  following  substantially  that 
noble  rule,  whose  influence  is  all  too 
seldom  felt  in  modern  politics  and  busi- 
ness, of  each  doing  by  the  other  as  he 
would  be  done  by. 


SOCIALISM  AND   HUMAN  ACHIEVEMENT 


BY   JAMES   O.   FAGAN 


THE  history  of  achievement  in  the 
United  States  contains  many  of  the 
characteristics  of  a  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream.  For  the  first  time  in  the  annals 
of  nations,  democracy  has  had  full 
swing,  and  has  said  to  a  whole  people, 
'Come  now,  let  us  see  what  you  will 
do  with  this  word  Liberty.' 

So  the  people  have  gone  out  into  the 
woods,  as  it  were,  with  no  let  or  hin- 
drance but  their  own  passions  and  their 
own  powers.  Time-honored  social  and 
political  standards  have  been  aban- 
doned. Whatever  plans  they  possessed 
were  indefinite  and  governed  by  cir- 
cumstances. Consequently,  to  begin 
with,  there  have  been  many  strange 
and  unexpected  results,  the  contem- 
plation of  which  gave  the  world  abroad 
much  complacent  amusement.  In  this 
way,  for  generations,  the  worn-out 
civilization  of  the  past  has  continued 
to  titter  and  to  point  the  finger  of  de- 
rision at  the  fantastical  struggles  of  the 
new  order  of  things,  and  to  reiterate 
the  warning,  *  I  told  you  so.' 

In  many  directions  there  appear 
to  be  numerous  glaring  reasons  for 
this  attitude.  For  the  story  of  the 
early  struggles  of  this  youthful  demo- 
cracy contains  the  strangest  conglom- 
eration of  social  happenings  that  has 
ever  been  witnessed  on  any  human 
stage.  These  happenings  were  by  no 
means  forced  or  artificial,  but  abso- 
lutely human,  and  springing  from  the 
blood  and  the  soil.  Such  a  mixture  of 
excellencies  and  crudities,  of  heroism 

24 


and  social  escapades,  had  never  before 
called  itself  a  system  of  government, 
and  kept  on  battling,  in  a  seemingly 
haphazard  way,  for  the  existence  and 
supremacy  of  a  principle.  Applied  to 
a  whole  continent,  to  states  with  divers 
and  conflicting  interests,  to  social  and 
industrial  problems  all  the  way  down 
to  the  regulation  of  individual  conduct 
and  the  ideals  of  a  community,  the 
principle  on  trial  was  the  idea  that  the 
freest  self-government  of  the  parts  pro- 
duces the  strongest  self-government  of 
the  whole.  The  comments  of  histor- 
ians, philosophers,  and  travelers  who 
have  watched  the  development  of  this 
principle  are  all  set  to  one  key. 

'The  sword  of  Damocles,'  they  af- 
firm, 'hangs  over  you  and  your  coun- 
try. Your  social  and  political  concep- 
tions are  impossible  of  attainment. 
Every  lesson  and  precedent  of  the  past 
is  against  you.  For  one  thing,  the  dis- 
comforts of  life  in  your  country  are 
simply  unbearable.  Meanwhile,  you 
have  an  entire  continent  to  bring  under 
subjection.  You  have  roads  to  con- 
struct, forests  to  clear,  rivers  to  span, 
churches  and  schools  to  build,  politics 
to  purify,  and  a  continuous  and  count- 
less stream  of  incoming  foreigners  to 
provide  for  and  assimilate.  Then  again 
you  have  no  leisure  class,  consequent- 
ly as  a  people  you  have  little  refine- 
ment or  delicacy.  To  crown  all,  your 
voices  are  harsh,  your  manners  boor- 
ish, and  your  self-conceit  absurd.' 

The  above  is  not  a  fanciful  estimate 
of  outside  opinion.  Well-nigh  word  for 
word  for  nearly  one  hundred  years  it 


SOCIALISM  AND  HUMAN  ACHIEVEMENT 


has  been  the  uniform  tale  of  historians, 
travelers,  and  critics,  who  have  made 
it  their  business  to  comment  on  the 
nature  and  prospects  of  American  de- 
mocracy. Democracy,  however,  accept- 
ed the  situation,  with  all  its  inconsist- 
encies and  prophesied  terrors.  It  had 
no  excuses  or  explanations  to  make, 
no  finely-drawn  theories  to  submit  to 
the  public  opinion  of  the  world,  no 
time,  in  fact,  to  bother  about  anything 
but  the  work  in  hand.  It  simply  be- 
lieved in  the  democratic  ship;  and  this 
ship  was  an  instinct,  and  not  a  plan. 
Monarchy  and  Socialism  are  plans. 
Democracy,  on  the  other  hand,  is  at 
bottom  the  science  of  growth,  of  well- 
regulated  freedom,  and  of  the  making 
of  men.  In  those  early  days,  this  plan- 
less democracy,  with  no  scheme  for  the 
debasement  and  dethronement  of  the 
individual,  received  but  scant  sym- 
pathy from  other  nations.  With  the 
odds  against  her  in  this  way,  she  nar- 
rowed the  justification  for  her  exist- 
ence to  one  main  issue.  She  simply  said 
to  the  rest  of  the  world,  'Watch  us 
grow.' 

This  growth  has  been  phenomenal 
and  all-embracing.  From  the  beginning 
until  to-day  it  has  been  the  work  of 
an  enchanter,  and  this  social  wizard  is 
the  Democratic  Institution.  In  the 
United  States  the  democratic  idea  has 
now  been  in  full  swing  for  generations, 
and  in  every  honest  aspect  and  detail 
it  has  been  in  the  main  continuously 
successful.  The  wilderness  has  been 
reclaimed,  railroads  have  been  con- 
structed, rivers  have  been  spanned, 
cities  have  been  tunneled,  the  seas  are 
covered  with  ships,  the  people  have 
been  educated,  and  everywhere  indus- 
try flourishes  and  expands. 

This  industrial  expansion  is  now  a 
game  of  millions  and  billions.  During 
the  past  twenty-five  years  one  hundred 
thousand  miles  of  new  railroads  have 
been  built,  requiring  an  expenditure 


each  year  of  not  less  than  two  hundred 
million  dollars  for  labor  and  material. 
We  are  both  producers  and  consumers. 
While  our  population  is  only  a  little 
over  five  per  cent  of  the  population  of 
the  world,  we  produce  twenty  per  cent 
of  the  wheat,  forty  per  cent  of  the  iron 
and  steel,  fifty-five  per  cent  of  the  cop- 
per, seventy  per  cent  of  the  cotton,  and 
eighty  per  cent  of  the  corn  of  the  world. 

Furthermore,  with  inconceivable  ra- 
pidity, machinery  has  taken  the  place 
of  human  toil,  and  incidentally  millions 
of  slaves  have  been  set  free.  The  same 
triumphant  progress  has  unvaryingly 
characterized  every  phase  of  human 
endeavor  on  the  American  continent. 
Civil  and  religious  liberty  is  a  natural 
condition  as  well  as  an  attitude  of 
mind.  The  story  of  agriculture,  of 
manufacturing,  of  mining,  of  the  arts 
and  sciences,  demonstrates  the  un- 
broken progress  and  uplift  of  the  whole 
people.  Finally,  the  health  and  well- 
being  of  the  toiling  masses  have  be- 
come, with  constantly  increasing  ear- 
nestness of  endeavor,  the  individual 
and  collective  purpose  of  the  nation. 
And  above  all,  the  democratic  idea, 
through  good  and  evil  report,  has  en- 
couraged the  personal  work  and  char- 
acter of  the  individual  citizen.  It  has 
always  believed  that  competition  which 
encourages  merit  and  skill  should  re- 
main paramount.  It  has  always  gloried 
in  this  personal  competitive  type  as 
the  ideal  and  preserver  of  democratic 
traditions. 

This  type  is  purely  and  simply  the 
workingman.  It  includes  the  man  at 
the  forge,  the  man  at  the  desk,  the  man 
in  the  study,  and  the  man  on  the  rail- 
road. These  workers  are  to  be  counted 
by  the  tens  of  thousands  in  every  in- 
dustry and  in  every  field  of  endeavor. 
The  big  railroad  worker,  for  example, 
is  but  a  drop  in  the  bucket;  but  let  us 
hear  what  one  of  these  modern  Titans 
of  industry  has  to  say  for  himself:  — 


26 


SOCIALISM  AND  HUMAN  ACHIEVEMENT 


'I  believe  every  man  who  works  is 
entitled  to  be  classed  as  a  workingman, 
and  I  am  still  working  as  I  have  work- 
ed in  the  different  departments  of  rail- 
roading. My  first  railroad  work  was 
on  a  section;  from  there  to  the  traffic 
and  operating  departments,  until  I 
reached  my  work  of  construction. 
Within  the  past  twelve  years  I  have 
planned  and  carried  out  the  construc- 
tion of  more  than  five  thousand  miles 
of  railroad.  I  am  proud  of  this  work. 
The  railroads  I  have  built  are  now  em- 
ploying thirty  thousand  men,  and  with 
these  employees  and  their  families, 
these  railroads  are  now  supporting 
over  one  hundred  thousand  souls.  I 
wish  I  could  continue  to  build  roads 
in  sections  where  they  are  needed,  fur- 
nishing employment  to  deserving  men, 
support  of  families  and  means  of  edu- 
cation for  their  children.' 

In  its  own  sphere  there  is  ethical 
and  economic  grandeur  in  this  Amer- 
ican ideal  of  a  workingman.  In  spite 
of  faults  and  backslidings,  all  the  best 
strains  of  the  democratic  instinct  are 
stowed  away,  as  it  were,  in  this  intel- 
ligent and  stalwart  representative.  Let 
no  one  imagine  that  he  is  simply  a  crea- 
tion of  the  times,  or  an  occasional  pro- 
duct. He  is  rather  the  hammered-out 
result  of  at  least  two  centuries  of  social 
and  industrial  battle.  This  ethical  and 
economic  frame  of  mind,  this  attitude 
of  skill  and  capital  toward  society  in 
general  and  the  toilers  in  particular, 
is  the  result  of  the  pounding  of  public 
opinion  on  the  business  and  social  con- 
ceptions of  the  community.  This  rail- 
road workingman  is  the  coming  type 
of  the  captain  of  American  industry. 
Pushed  forward  by  his  own  abilities 
and  by  public  opinion,  he  is  now  crowd- 
ing to  the  front  in  every  trade  and  call- 
ing. He  is  the  justification  of  things 
as  they  are,  and  as  they  are  unceasingly 
tending  to  become. 

This  glorious  record  of  the  achieve- 


ment of  democracy  has  its  lesson  for 
the  present  generation.  Some  time  ago, 
in  addressing  the  workingmen  of  Chi- 
cago, ex-President  Roosevelt  partially 
described  the  function  and  opportun- 
ity of  the  individual  in  American  life 
in  these  words:  — 

'We  can  build  up  the  standard  of 
individual  citizenship  and  individual 
well-being  and  make  it  what  it  can  and 
shall  be,  only  by  each  one  of  us  bearing 
in  mind  that  there  can  be  no  substitute 
for  the  world-old,  humdrum,  common- 
place qualities  of  truth,  justice  and 
courage,  thrift,  industry,  common  sense 
and  genuine  sympathy  with  others.' 

He  might  have  added  that  any  social 
proposition  or  system  of  government 
that  threatens  in  any  way  to  interfere 
with  the  private  ownership,  control,  and 
management  of  these  faculties,  threat- 
ens at  the  same  time  the  whole  fabric 
of  democracy;  and  the  quickest  way  to 
bring  about  this  confusion  of  interests 
and  ideals  is  by  means  of  the  public 
ownership  and  direction  of  the  jobs,  the 
homes,  and  the  business  of  the  people 
which  depend  upon  the  free  play  of 
these  personal  faculties  for  their  inspir- 
ation and  success.  For  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  this  is  a  country  whose 
every  chapter  of  growth,  progress,  and 
prosperity  is  an  unbroken  narrative  of 
the  individual  effort  of  its  citizens.  The 
absolute  negation,  therefore,  of  the  de- 
mocratic idea  of  government  and  the 
achievement  behind  it,  is  contained,  as 
it  seems  to  the  writer,  in  the  doctrine 
of  Socialism.  This  conclusion  has  been 
arrived  at  from  a  consideration  of  the 
subject  from  a  definite  and,  as  the 
writer  thinks,  from  a  neglected  point 
of  view,  which  must  at  once  be  focused 
and  explained. 

Briefly  stated,  then,  most  discussion 
concerning  Socialism  is  based  on  a 
tacit  acknowledgment  that  our  indi- 
vidualist civilization  is  a  failure.  This 
assumption  is  based  on  ignorance  and 


SOCIALISM  AND  HUMAN  ACHIEVEMENT 


27 


blindness.  Facts  and  tendencies  point 
the  other  way.  All  serious  discussion 
should  be  based  on  the  value  of  actual 
civilization,  not  on  the  relative  mer- 
its of  possible  panaceas.  Progressive, 
healthy,  and  persistent  improvement 
are  cogent  reasons  for  faith  in  existing 
institutions,  faith  which  should  not  be 
upset  by  any  criticism  of  conditions, 
however  distressing,  especially  when  it 
can  be  shown  that  the  trend  of  the 
very  worst  of  these  conditions  is  con- 
tinuously upward. 

But  to  be  passively  or  theoretically 
conscious  of  the  democratic  idea  in  gov- 
ernment is  one  thing;  to  be  actively 
helpful  and  assertive  of  its  merits  is  an- 
other. Just  at  present  the  public  mind 
is  so  preoccupied  with  a  multitude  of 
material  undertakings  that  it  is  becom- 
ing somewhat  forgetful  of  the  meaning 
and  social  value  of  its  democratic  her- 
itage. 

In  the  following  pages  the  writer 
endeavors  to  illustrate  these  facts  in 
relation  to  certain  well-known  theories 
of  Socialism.  It  is  a  stock  observ- 
ation with  many  prominent  Socialists 
that  if  an  inhabitant  from  some  other 
sphere  should  pay  a  visit  to  this  planet 
of  ours,  he  would  be  inexpressibly 
shocked  at  the  unjust  and  ridiculous 
nature  of  our  civilization.  In  the  opin- 
ion of  the  writer,  however,  the  surprise 
of  a  properly  informed  and  intelligent 
visitor  would  be  tuned  to  a  totally  dif- 
ferent key.  Bearing  in  mind  the  road 
traveled,  the  obstacles  surmounted,  the 
victories  won,  and  then  listening  to  an 
account  of  the  widespread  doubt  and 
criticism  with  which  the  fundamentals 
of  our  civilization  are  now  being  assail- 
ed, he  would  be  much  more  likely  to 
express  an  opinion  of  the  situation  in 
the  well-known  words  of  King  Lear,  — 

How  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is 
To  have  a  thankless  child! 

This  view  of  the  matter  points  the  way 
to  a  number  of  interesting  details. 


ii 


As  we  all  know,  in  spite  of  the  glori- 
ous past  and  present,  and  the  dazzling 
prospect  on  the  horizon  ahead  of  us, 
this  is  not  the  whole  picture.  It  is  not 
the  consummation,  but  it  is  the  way. 
We  are  still  confessedly  on  the  high 
seas  of  improvement  and  discovery. 
As  one  generation  of  newcomers  is  ad- 
mitted to  the  national  partnership  and 
is  successfully  passed  upward  and  on- 
ward, another  works  its  way  to  the  foot 
of  the  social  ladder.  In  this  way  the 
body  politic  is  being  continually  called 
upon  to  assimilate  fresh  supplies  of  hu- 
man nature,  for  the  most  part  in  the 
raw.  Consequently,  society  is  at  all 
times  in  a  state  of  strenuous,  yet  healthy 
fermentation,  resulting  in  a  strange 
conglomeration  of  conflicting  situations 
and  conditions. 

As  the  most  sanguine  among  us  are 
willing  to  admit,  the  picture  is  at  times, 
and  in  many  respects,  'a  spectacle  shot 
strangely  with  pain,  with  mysterious 
insufficiencies  and  cruelties,  with  as- 
pects unaccountably  sad.'  It  is  a  conse- 
quence, and  a  natural  one,  that  from  top 
to  bottom  of  the  social  and  industrial 
fabric,  there  is  an  ever-present  unrest 
and  a  consciousness  of  injustice  and  of 
wrongs  still  to  be  righted.  But  these 
shadows  do  not  darken  the  whole  pro- 
spect, for  the  sense  of  justice  is  con- 
stantly growing.  Democracy  in  Amer- 
ica is  bestowing  much  careful  thought 
upon  every  phase  of  this  perplexing 
situation.  It  is  constantly  making 
fresh  and  critical  examination  of  its 
own  standing  and  practices,  and  if  it 
must,  it  is  willing  to  attempt  a  radical 
reconstruction.  It  would  gladly  settle 
the  problems  of  poverty,  of  intemper- 
ance, of  wages,  and  of  industrial  con- 
ditions, by  any  feasible  and  reasonable 
plan,  if  such  could  only  be  devised 
without  stunting  the  individual  growth 
and  genius  of  the  people.  In  the  set- 


SOCIALISM  AND  HUMAN  ACHIEVEMENT 


tlement  of  justice  between  classes,  and 
of  nearly  all  other  social  problems  —  as 
it  seems  to  the  writer,  at  all  events  — 
American  democracy  is  frankly  oppor- 
tunist. It  has  no  plan  apart  from  the 
gigantic  movement  working  out  in  va- 
rious ways,  from  the  inspiration  of  the 
individual  toward  the  gradual  uplift 
of  society  and  the  fairer  adjustment  of 
conditions. 

From  this  point  of  view  Socialism  and 
its  wholesale  collective  theories  must 
be  looked  upon  as  a  menace  to  Ameri- 
can society.  Socialism  has  taken  for  its 
text  the  'determining  economic  base,' 
and  its  conclusions  and  anticipations 
are  all  derived  from  this  axiom.  In  the 
words  of  one  of  the  interpreters  of  this 
doctrine,  'One  strong  trade  union  is 
worth  more  as  a  force  in  moral  educa- 
tion in  a  given  city,  than  all  the  settle- 
ments and  people's  institutes  com- 
bined.' l  And  it  is  seriously  questioned 
by  the  same  writer,  'whether  the  scene 
has  been  brightened  perceptibly  by  the 
efforts  of  all  our  social  artists.' 

The  truth  of  this  statement  depends 
on  how  far  you  allow  your  perception 
to  penetrate.  Certainly  as  an  estimate 
of  social  forces  it  is  sadly  deficient  in  vi- 
tal truths.  The  prophets,  philosophers, 
and  teachers  who  have  blazed  the  way 
to  the  social  and  economic  triumphs  of 
the  twentieth  century  cannot  be  dis- 
missed with  the  queries,  What  have 
they  said?  or,  What  have  they  done? 
These  'social  artists'  may  not  have 
worked  in  cotton  mills  or  been  promin- 
ent in  the  circles  of  organized  labor, 
but  there  are  thousands  upon  thou- 
sands in  every  walk  of  life  in  this 
country,  whose  lives  have  been  'per- 
ceptibly brightened '  by  their  influence 
and  efforts.  In  reading  the  life  of  Alice 
Freeman  Palmer,  for  example,  one  gets 
a  vivid  idea  of  this  helping  and  bright- 
ening process. 

1  'Socialism  and  Sacrifice,'  by  VIDA  D.  SCUD- 
DER,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  June,  1910. 


Turning  to  the  other  side  of  the  situ- 
ation, however,  one  finds  democracy 
giving  the  greater  part  of  its  allegi- 
ance to  the  determining  ethical  and 
educational  base.  Socialism  is  prepared 
to  name  the  time  and  conditions  when 
individuals  and  classes  shall  be  har- 
monized and  fairly  contented.  Given 
the  material  conditions,  Socialism  can 
figure,  or  thinks  it  can,  on  human  con- 
duct. The  individualist,  on  the  other 
hand,  has  no  formula  for  social  or  in- 
dustrial contentment. 

Take  the  matter  of  work  and  wages. 
Neither  the  successful  pedler  nor  the 
successful  millionaire,  nor  the  represent- 
ative of  any  grades  between  them  can 
throw  one  ray  of  light  on  the  pro- 
blem of  permanent  or  satisfactory  con- 
ditions other  than  in  terms  of  dollars 
and  cents.  While  we  are  watching 
them,  the  pedler  may  move  up  and 
the  millionaire  may  move  down,  and 
mixed  in  the  very  fibre  of  their  lives, 
together  with  every  conceivable  de- 
gree of  happiness  and  achievement, 
there  is  now,  and  always  must  be,  dis- 
content. 

The  'determining  economic  base' 
in  human  affairs  appears  to  be  still 
more  fairylike  as  a  harmonizer  when 
we  consider  a  well-appointed  and  well- 
conditioned  labor  organization  at  the 
present  day.  Take  the  cigar-makers, 
for  example.  At  the  present  writing, 
in  one  or  two  cities,  they  are  on  strike 
for  higher  wages  and  better  conditions. 
The  conditions  that  obtain  in  the  city 
of  Boston  in  this  industry,  as  adver- 
tised by  the  union,  will  give  an  idea 
of  its  general  prosperity. 

Number  of  factories  165 

Number  of  persons  employed  3,000 

Amount  of  wages  paid  annually  $2,900,000 
Amount  paid  in  revenue  annually  $400,000 
Number  of  cigars  made  annually  134,000,000 

The  standard  based  upon  these  con- 
ditions will  last  as  long  as  the  contract 
that  binds  it,  not  a  minute  longer. 


SOCIALISM  AND   HUMAN  ACHIEVEMENT 


29 


Five  dollars  a  day  for  five  hours'  work 
is  said  to  be  the  next  step,  which  before 
long  will  be  up  for  consideration. 

Or  take  the  situation  on  the  rail- 
roads. The  country  is  kept  in  a  con- 
tinual state  of  anxiety  in  regard  to  the 
settlement  of  wages  and  conditions. 
And  yet,  neither  Utopia  nor  Socialism 
in  any  form  has  any  such  picture  of 
opportunity  and  prosperity  as  the  rail- 
roads to-day  are  offering  to  employees, 
from  the  trainman  at  three  dollars  a 
day  all  the  way  up  to  the  locomotive 
engineer  at  seven  or  eight  dollars  a  day, 
with  a  positive  guarantee  in  some  cases 
of  a  comfortable  salary  whether  they 
work  or  not. 

Nor  is  the  government  ownership 
and  direction  of  labor  one  whit  more 
satisfactory  than  other  methods.  Eco- 
nomically speaking,  it  leaves  little  to 
be  desired;  but  a  tour  of  the  govern- 
ment offices  in  Washington,  where 
thousands  of  employees  go  to  work 
at  nine  or  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning 
and  go  home  at  two  or  three  in  the 
afternoon,  has  a  discouraging  if  not 
a  soporific  effect  on  a  visitor  of  ordinary 
energy. 

However,  democracy  has  all  these 
different  problems  in  hand,  and  they 
are  being  slowly,  yet  surely,  worked  out 
by  the  process  of  education  and  en- 
lightenment. Meanwhile,  to  illustrate 
the  vanity  as  well  as  the  variety  of 
the  social  paradox  with  the  '  determin- 
ing economic  base,'  let  us  take  up  a 
newspaper  and  read  the  following  de- 
scription of  a  town  in  Brittany  where 
the  'economic  base'  is  far  from  satis- 
factory. 

'Concarneau  is  not  a  prohibition 
town.  There  are  drinking-booths  at 
every  step.  I  think  there  are  about 
two  "buvettes"  to  each  three  fisher- 
men, but  I  have  not  yet  seen  a  drunken 
man. 

'I  admire  all  the  inhabitants?  The 
men  are  sturdy  and  honest,  as  good 


sailors  always  are,  and  it  is  a  pleas- 
ure to  see  the  women  of  all  ages  (all 
dressed  alike)  go  "click-clacking"  along 
the  street,  and  gather  in  little  crowds 
around  the  fountain  or  the  fish  market 
and  gossip  cheerfully.  All  are  poor,  but 
I  believe  that  nearly  all  are  happy  and 
contented.  They  are  deeply  religious. 
I  have  the  good  fortune  to  strike  one 
of  their  annual  religious  festivals  (called 
"Pardons"),  and  wind  and  weather 
permitting,  will  go  to-morrow  to  the 
Pardon  of  Fouesnant  in  honor  of  St. 
Anne.' 

in 

But  the  propositions  and  contentions 
of  Socialism  cannot  be  brushed  aside 
with  any  mere  collection  of  statistics. 
After  all  has  been  said,  the  fact  re- 
mains that  Socialism  in  various  forms 
and  degrees  is  now  being  discussed  by 
thoughtful  people  in  every  civilized 
country.  It  is  preeminently  the  great 
social,  industrial,  and  religious  pro- 
blem of  the  century.  What  is  termed 
justice,  between  the  classes,  is  now  the 
popular  slogan  on  every  platform  and 
in  nearly  every  pulpit.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain fluidity  and  pliability  in  the  men- 
tal temperament  of  the  times,  particu- 
larly in  the  United  States,  that  pro- 
mises well  for  the  general  outcome  of 
this  discussion.  The  distinguishing  fea- 
ture of  this  mental  fluidity,  however, 
is  in  many  ways  puzzling  and  unsatis- 
factory. It  has  been  described  as  a 
state  of  moral  earnestness,  combined 
with  unprecedented  perplexity  and  un- 
certainty. In  our  social  and  industrial 
programmes,  it  is  said,  we  have  every- 
thing but  decided  views,  everything 
but  steadfast  purpose,  everything  but 
character.  In  a  certain  way  Socialism 
may  be  said  to  be  an  attempt  to  check 
this  mental  uncertainty  and  to  solidify 
the  vacillating  yet  earnest  public  opin- 
ion into  some  kind  of  scientific  social 
rigidity. 


30 


SOCIALISM  AND   HUMAN  ACHIEVEMENT 


Manifestly,  in  any  consideration  of 
Socialism,  some  idea  of  its  brand  and 
doctrine  from  the  writer's  point  of 
view  must  first  be  outlined.  But  un- 
fortunately, the  open-minded  inquirer 
into  the  principles  and  aims  of  Social- 
ism meets  as  many  opinions  as  he  has 
Socialist  acquaintances.  Among  the 
more  popular  exponents  of  Socialism, 
there  are,  however,  a  few  writers  who 
speak  with  considerable  authority  on 
the  subject,  and  whose  presentations 
of  principles  and  aims  may  be  looked 
upon  as  fairly  reliable  and  representa- 
tive at  the  present  day. 

Some  time  ago  the  writer  of  this 
article  was  advised  to  read  a  volume 
entitled,  New  Worlds  for  Old,  by  Mr. 
H.  G.  Wells.  'In  this  book,'  my  friend 
said  to  me,  'you  wu*l  ^n(^  a  reasonable 
and  fairly  exhaustive  presentation  of 
Socialism,  interpreted  by  a  very  cap- 
able and  conscientious  writer.' 

Socialism,  as  viewed  by  Mr.  Wells 
and  stated  substantially  in  his  own 
words,  I  find  to  be  the  most  hopeful 
thing  in  human  affairs.  It  is  a  pro- 
ject for  the  reshaping  of  human  so- 
ciety. In  its  nature  this  project  is 
distinctly  scientific.  It  aims  to  bring 
order  out  of  casualty,  beauty  out  of 
confusion,  justice,  kindness,  and  mercy 
out  of  cruelty  and  wrong.  The  present 
order  of  things  is  found  fault  with  by 
this  Socialist,  from  every  conceivable 
point  of  attack.  Our  methods  of  manu- 
facturing necessary  things,  of  getting 
and  distributing  food,  of  begetting  and 
raising  children,  and  of  permitting 
diseases  to  engender  and  spread,  are 
chaotic  and  undisciplined. 

The  remedy  for  this  state  of  affairs, 
in  the  opinion  of  the  Socialist,  is  or- 
ganized effort,  and  a  plan  in  place  of 
disorderly  individual  effort.  This  or- 
ganized effort  is  to  convert  one  public 
service  after  another  'from  a  chaotic 
profit  scramble  of  proprietors  amidst 
a  mass  of  sweated  employees,  into  a 


secure  and  disciplined  service,  in  which 
every  man  will  work  for  honor,  promo- 
tion, achievement,  and  the  common 
weal.'  With  these  noble  ends  in  view 
the  State,  that  is  to  say,  the  organized 
power  and  intelligence  of  the  commun- 
ity, is  to  be  called  upon  to  take  action 
in  the  most  practical  manner.  There 
are  to  be  no  more  private  land-owners, 
no  private  bankers  and  lenders  of 
money,  no  private  insurance  adven- 
turers, no  private  railway  owners,  no 
private  mine  owners,  no  oil  kings,  no 
silver  kings  and  wheat  forestallers, 
and  so  forth,  and  the  'vast  revenues 
that  are  now  devoted  to  private  ends 
will  go  steadily  to  feed,  maintain, 
and  educate  a  new  and  better  gen- 
eration, to  promote  research,  to  ad- 
vance science,  to  build  houses,  develop 
fresh  resources,  and  to  plan,  beautify, 
and  reconstruct  the  world.' 

In  this  way,  after  a  thorough  ana- 
lysis of  his  subject-matter,  the  Social- 
ist has  formulated  his  plans  for  the 
reshaping  of  human  society.  At  the 
very  outset,  however,  he  is  compelled 
to  confess,  'Unless  you  can  change 
men's  minds,  you  cannot  effect  Social- 
ism.' In  order  to  bring  about  this 
psychological  reformation,  the  collect- 
ive mind  of  the  world  has  first  to  be 
educated  and  inspired,  and  when  you 
shall  have  made  clear  and  instilled  into 
the  collective  mind  certain  broad  un- 
derstandings, Socialism,  in  the  words 
of  Mr.  Wells,  becomes  'a  mere  matter 
of  science  devices  and  applied  intel- 
ligence.' 

It  is  not  now  the  intention  of  the 
writer  to  construct  a  formal  argument 
against  Socialism,  or  to  analyze  any 
of  the  economic  features  of  this  pro- 
gramme. It  is  presented  with  consider- 
able detail,  that  we  may  be  able  so  to 
grasp  a  certain  'broad  understanding' 
which  covers  it  all  from  beginning  to 
end,  as  with  a  blanket.  Briefly,  the  thing 
to  be  grasped  is  the  assumption  of  fail- 


SOCIALISM  AND  HUMAN  ACHIEVEMENT 


31 


ure  and  defeat  so  emphatically  ascribed 
by  Socialism  to  every  feature  of  social 
and  industrial  progress  in  America. 
Beginning  with  the  personal  attitude 
of  the  individual  and  the  conduct  and 
standard  of  his  domestic  life,  all  the 
way  up  to  the  application  of  democratic 
principles  in  government,  the  whole 
system  is  characterized  as  hopelessly 
and  miserably  unfair  and  chaotic.  In 
every  conceivable  way,  Socialism  is 
held  up  as  the  last  and  beatific  resort 
of  a  defeated  civilization. 

But  luckily,  as  we  have  seen,  the 
history  of  achievement  in  the  United 
States  admits  of  no  such  interpreta- 
tion of  social  and  industrial  progress. 
Socialism,  even  as  viewed  by  Mr.  Wells, 
a  very  conservative  interpreter,  is 
building  itself  up  on  theories  of  crum- 
bling ruins  which  do  not  exist,  and  its 
literature  is  padded  with  stories  from 
the  catacombs  of  human  society. 

But  democracy,  and  its  fruits,  like 
any  ordinary  business  undertaking, 
must  be  judged  from  the  comparative 
point  of  view.  Although  betterment 
work  in  every  conceivable  direction 
is  progressing  by  leaps  and  bounds, 
the  average  Socialist  remains  oblivious 
to  the  speed  at  which  the  world  moves 
on. 

A  writer  in  a  recent  issue  of  the 
Quarterly  Review  describes  this  import- 
ant phase  of  the  situation  as  follows: 
*  The  theory  of  increasing  misery,  which 
is  an  essential  part  of  the  doctrine  of 
Socialism,  is  faring  very  badly.  It  is 
still  repeated  in  the  programmes,  but 
it  is  so  glaringly  contradicted  by  pa- 
tent and  uncontrovertible  facts,  that 
the  great  parliamentary  champion, 
Herr  Bebel  himself,  has  abandoned  it. 
The  contention  now  is  that  the  condi- 
tion of  the  working  classes  gets  worse 
relatively  to  the  prevailing  standard. 
But  this  also  is  contradicted  by  sta- 
tistical data  and  general  experience. 
Nothing  in  our  time  is  more  remark- 


able than  the  steady  approximation  of 
classes  among  the  great  mass  of  the 
population.  The  theory  of  increasing 
misery,  and  the  dismal,  unmanly  whin- 
ing of  Socialism,  are  exceedingly  re- 
pugnant to  self-respecting  workingmen. 
Mr.  Gompers,  president  of  the  Ameri- 
can Federation  of  Labor,  has  fiercely 
attacked  the  whole  theory  and  has  cov- 
ered it  with  ridicule,  on  behalf  of  the 
American  Trades  Unions.' 

But  while  faith  and  freedom  in  Amer- 
ica will  never  succumb  to  Socialism, 
of  late  years  there  has,  nevertheless, 
appeared  around  us  an  atmosphere  of 
dissatisfaction  and  lack  of  faith  in 
existing  standards,  which  is  having  a 
marked,  and  in  many  ways  a  perni- 
cious, influence  on  religion,  education, 
industry,  and  politics.  These  topics 
cannot  now  be  treated  separately  with 
the  care  which  their  importance  merits, 
but  the  general  principle  which  war- 
rants the  criticism  can  be  clearly  enun- 
ciated. 

rv 

Briefly  stated,  the  growing  impres- 
sion that  in  our  social  and  industrial 
programmes  we  have  everything  but 
decided  views,  everything  but  stead- 
fast purpose,  everything  but  character, 
is  the  very  natural  outcome  of  the  gos- 
pel of  social  failure,  which  is  the  head 
and  front  of  the  socialistic  propaganda. 
But  apart  from  all  methods  or  princi- 
ples of  Socialism,  this  doctrine  of  fail- 
ure has  been  the  text  of  the  great  ma- 
jority of  political,  social,  and  religious 
writers  during  the  past  ten  years.  The 
Socialist  movement  in  America  is  kept 
on  its  feet  by  this  outside  public  opinion 
and  criticism  of  existing  conditions. 

This  public  opinion  had  a  very 
healthy  origin.  Its  aim  was  reform  and 
the  abolition  of  abuses  in  directions 
too  numerous  to  mention.  It  has  done 
good  work,  but  it  is  now  degenerating 
into  a  kind  of  morbid  introspection 


SOCIALISM  AND  HUMAN  ACHIEVEMENT 


which  has  little  affinity  with  healthy 
progress.  In  a  word,  the  mental  trou- 
ble which  this  doctrine  of  failure  is 
now  engendering  in  society  threatens  to 
dwarf  in  importance  every  economic 
injustice  which  in  the  beginning  it  was 
its  purpose  to  remedy.  And  it  must  be 
confessed  that  it  is  to  the  well-inten- 
tioned writers  and  educators  in  this 
country  that  we  owe  the  development 
and  persistence  of  this  doctrine  of 
social  failure.  Without  this  encourage- 
ment from  the  outside,  Socialism,  at 
any  rate  in  its  most  radical  features, 
would  soon,  be  absorbed  in  the  every- 
day atmosphere  of  American  demo- 
cracy. As  the  case  stands,  however,  the 
minds  of  the  people  are  becoming  more 
and  more  entangled  in  the  meshes  of 
this  fault-finding  propaganda,  and  in  all 
the  perplexities  of  the  socialistic  logic 
with  which  it  is  surrounded. 

Meanwhile  the  social  and  religious 
everyday  life  of  the  people  goes  on 
apace,  and  everywhere  achievement  is 
giving  the  lie  to  its  mischievous  theo- 
retical environment.  The  consequent 
mental  bewilderment  that  has  resulted 
from  this  conflicting  situation  must 
now  be  evident  to  the  least  thoughtful 
of  men.  The  spiritual  uncertainty  of 
the  boy  and  the  girl  is  simply  taking 
its  cue  from  the  spiritual  uncertainty 
and  indefiniteness  of  the  parent,  the 
minister,  and  the  educator,  in  matters 
of  teaching.  In  this  way,  the  thought- 
life  of  the  nation  is  moving  in  a  direct 
line  toward  the  annulment  of  ideas  and 
principles  which  have  always  been 
looked  upon  as  the  bulwarks  of  demo- 
cratic institutions.  Happily,  this  move- 
ment is  still  in  the  mental  stage,  but 
the  day  is  not  far  distant  when  this 
mental  uncertainty  and  this  gospel  of 
fault-finding,  with  all  its  socialistic 
background,  will  bear  fruit,  and  then  we 
are  likely  to  awake  to  the  fact  that  the 
great  problems  of  the  future  may  not, 
after  all,  concern  so  much  the  clothing 


and  feeding  of  the  people  as  the  wreck- 
ing of  their  minds. 

It  is,  therefore,  now  time  for  the  ed- 
ucators and  prompters  of  the  public 
conscience  to  study  the  ethics  of  appre- 
ciation, and  the  economic  value  to  the 
community  of  a  propaganda  of  thank- 
fulness. But  to  study  and  recognize 
the  history  of  achievement  in  this  coun- 
try, according  to  the  merits  of  the  case, 
would  take  from  Socialism  the  prin- 
cipal means  whereby  it  lives.  Unfor- 
tunately, now-a-days,  there  is  a  notice- 
able lack  of  this  hopeful,  appreciative 
kind  of  literature.  There  are  certainly 
figures  enough  and  considerable  glori- 
fication, but  in  all  the  libraries  of  books 
that  have  been  published  during  the 
past  ten  years,  one  searches  in  vain  for 
a  single  psalm  of  thanksgiving,  such  as 
those  in  which  the  Jewish  nation  has 
enshrined  its  traditions. 

A  word  remains  to  be  said  with  par- 
ticular reference  to  the  influence  of 
this  doctrine  of  Socialism,  or  the  failure 
of  democratic  principles  and  methods, 
upon  the  rising  generation.  Being  a 
false,  or  at  any  rate  a  grossly  exag- 
gerated, aspect  of  American  life,  it  is 
peculiarly  harmful  to  the  young.  To 
illustrate  the  nature  and  significance  of 
this  doctrine  at  the  present  day,  I  will 
quote  the  headlines  from  a  single  news- 
paper of  recent  date,  as  follows:  — 

THE  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  WOMAN'S 
CHRISTIAN  TEMPERANCE  UNION  RE- 
TURNS FROM  ABROAD  AND  SAYS  THAT 
AMERICA  LACKS  MORALS. 

Again,  at  a  conference  on  the  moral 
and  religious  training  of  the  young, 
held  at  Sagamore  Beach,  the  founder 
of  the  Christian  Endeavor  Society  is 
reported  to  have  said:  'My  attention 
has  been  particularly  called  to  this 
subject  by  some  alarming  but  well- 
authenticated  reports  of  flagrant  im- 
morality in  our  public  schools,  and  by 
the  well-known  fact  that  in  some  of  our 
colleges  even,  gross  immorality,  drunk- 


SOCIALISM  AND  HUMAN  ACHIEVEMENT 


33 


enness,  and  lechery,  are  no  bar  to  a  de- 
gree if  only  examinations  can  be  passed 
and  percentages  of  scholarship  are  bare- 
ly tolerable.' 

Apart  from  its  manifest  exaggera- 
tion, this  kind  of  educational  adver- 
tising is  something  worse  than  a  mis- 
taken policy.  With  conditions  in  our 
colleges  as  they  really  are,  the  moral- 
ity of  the  method  itself  is  very  ques- 
tionable. In  some  circles  the  persist- 
ent flaunting  of  occasional  failures 
follows  hard  upon  the  waning  of  the 
devil  as  a  religious  asset,  and  upon  the 
whole,  this  doctrine  of  social  failure  is 
the  more  mischievous  delusion  of  the 
two.  It  penetrates  every  nook  and  cor- 
ner of  social  life.  Even  the  American 
home  must  be  subjected  to  this  wither- 
ing process.  On  the  same  date  and  in 
the  same  newspaper  to  which  I  have 
referred,  a  well-known  minister  and 
educator  has  the  following  to  say  about 
it:  — 

'  As  a  rule,  teachers,  public  officials, 
and  the  public  generally,  discount  the 
parental  care  of  their  own  children. 
It  is  because  of  this  fact  that  the  ex- 
tra-domiciliary agencies  for  child-train- 
ing have  arisen.  Hence  the  Sunday 
School.  Then,  again,  the  public  schools 
are  assuming  functions  which  belong 
to  the  home,  and  which,  being  dele- 
gated to  an  agency  outside  of  the  home, 
make  for  the  disintegration  of  home- 
life.  Others  have  been  given  over  to 
the  church  which,  likewise,  is  to-day 
doing  scores  of  things  which  it  has  no 
proper  business  to  be  doing.  In  this 
way  the  church  is  also  a  disintegrating 
force  in  modern  society.' 

In  fact,  nothing  escapes  the  hue  and 
cry.  Just  what  stimulation  or  uplift 
there  is  for  the  rising  generation  in  all 
this  fault-finding  literature,  it  is  im- 
possible to  imagine.  In  the  midst  of 
all  this  mental  derangement,  however, 
our  boys  and  girls  and  our  homes  are 

VOL.  107 -NO.  1 


continually  working  out  the  way  to 
higher  and  better  things. 

A  number  of  years  ago,  Mr.  Herbert 
Spencer  called  attention  to  the  para- 
dox that,  as  civilization  advances, 
as  the  health  and  comfort  of  the  com- 
munity increase,  the  louder  become 
the  exclamations  about  the  inherent 
badness  of  things.  Our  attention  was 
directed  to  the  fact  that  in  the  days 
when  the  people  were  without  any 
political  power,  when  women  bore  all 
the  burdens,  when  scarcely  a  man  could 
be  found  who  was  not  occasionally 
intoxicated,  and  when  ability  to  read 
and  write  was  practically  limited  to 
the  upper  classes,  the  subjection  and 
discomfort  of  the  people  were  rarely 
complained  of. 

This  paradox  mentioned  by  Herbert 
Spencer  still  holds  good.  Seemingly 
unaffected  by  reforms  and  improve- 
ments without  number,  or  by  the  best 
material  gains  of  the  masses,  there 
still  continues  to  swell  louder  and  still 
more  loud  the  cry  that  the  evils  con- 
nected with  our  social  and  industrial 
systems  are  so  great  that  'nothing 
short  of  a  revolution  can  cure  them.' 

After  all,  this  is  not  very  much  of  a 
paradox;  it  is  simply  a  tribute  to  the 
expanding  sensibility  of  the  public  con- 
science. At  the  same  time  the  situa- 
tion points  to  misunderstanding  and 
lack  of  harmony  between  the  practical 
and  the  theoretical  elements  in  human 
progress.  For  a  number  of  years  past 
the  combination  of  these  essential  ele- 
ments has  been  doing  good  work.  It 
has  been  asserting  itself  in  reforms  and 
regulative  movements.  It  has  accom- 
plished results  gradually  destructive 
of  graft  and  of  wrong-doing.  But  the 
mental  element  of  the  combination 
is  now  getting  ahead  of  its  job.  It 
should  be  subjected  to  a  steadying 
process  at  the  hands  of  conservative 
and  well-balanced  people.  Democracy 
is  willing  to  experiment  with  various 


34    A  BRITISH  VIEW  OF  AMERICAN  NAVAL  EXPENDITURE 


socialistic  ideas,  but  her  main  purpose 
is ,  and  must  be,  the  perfection  of  indi- 
vidual character  in  social  progress. 

There  are  laws  and  regulations 
enough  on  the  statute-books,  and  as  a 
clear-sighted  thinker  has  described  the 
situation,  'After  a  period  of  correction 


and  chastisement,  we  should  now  apply 
ourselves  to  constructive  work;  and 
having  got  rid  of  so  much  that  is  bad, 
having  thoroughly  frightened  the  un- 
righteous, we  should  now  seek  to  build 
higher  upon  moral  foundations  our  in- 
dustrial and  institutional  structure.' 


A  BRITISH  VIEW    OF   AMERICAN  NAVAL 
EXPENDITURE 

BY   ALEXANDER  G.    McLELLAN 


IN  spite  of  Hague  conferences,  peace 
and  arbitration  societies,  diplomacy, 
trade  relations,  and  last,  but  not  least, 
Christianity  and  our  boasted  civiliza- 
tion, the  navies  of  the  world,  instead 
of  showing  a  substantial  decrease  in 
tonnage  and  expenditure,  show,  on  the 
contrary,  an  alarming  increase.  In  fact, 
it  is  only  necessary  to  compare  the 
naval  estimates  of  to-day  with  those 
of  twenty  years  ago,  to  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  in  their  race  for  sea 
power  or  naval  supremacy,  the  mari- 
time nations  have  gone  navy,  Dread- 
nought, and  big-gun  mad. 

To  those  whose  interests  in  general 
lie  outside  of  naval  matters,  and  whose 
active  part  in  naval  administration  con- 
sists in  finding  the  dollars,  this  annual 
voting  away  of  millions  is  causing  much 
alarm.  Peaceful  citizens  are,  it  is  true, 
mere  outsiders,  yet  they  have  no  per- 
sonal axes  to  grind,  and  it  may  be  that 
the  onlookers  see  most  of  the  game. 
Certain  it  is,  anyway,  that  if  reform 
ever  does  come  to  pass,  it  must  be 
brought  about  by  laymen.  One  cannot 


expect  naval  officers  to  take  the  initia- 
tive in  condemning  their  profession. 
Professional  opinion  in  the  navy  may 
fairly  be  said  to  be  navy-mad.  In 
democratic  America,  at  least,  the  man 
in  the  street,  being  decidedly  saner 
than  his  naval  brother,  has  an  increas- 
ing right  to  ask,  '  Is  America's  naval 
expenditure  justifiable?'  If  he  takes 
the  added  trouble  to  look  a  little  way 
below  the  surface,  he  may  find  matters 
which  concern  him  almost  as  much  as 
they  do  the  naval  officer. 

The  time  has  come  for  America  to 
decide  once  for  all  whether  to  keep  up 
the  frantic  pace  of  this  unprofitable 
race  or  to  drop  astern,  and  allow  Eu- 
ropean Powers  to  shape  their  naval 
programmes  without  her.  To  possess 
a  few  powerful  squadrons  for  the  mere 
sake  of  possession  is  neither  sensible 
nor  profitable.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
about  the  matter :  America  must  either 
require  a  much  more  powerful  navy 
than  she  has  to-day,  or  she  has  no 
vital  need  of  any  navy  at  all. 

In  her  relations  with  European  na- 
tions, her  almost  complete  independ- 
ence of  them,  her  ability  to  support 


A  BRITISH  VIEW  OF  AMERICAN  NAVAL  EXPENDITURE    35 


herself  without  their  aid,  and  her  gen- 
eral geographical  position,  enable  her 
to  view  with  equanimity  political  dis- 
turbances which  the  leading  maritime 
nations  of  Europe  cannot  afford  to  ig- 
nore. Any  move  on  the  political  chess- 
board of  Europe  affects  to  some  extent 
every  European  nation.  Hence  the  in- 
crease in  tonnage  and  expenditure  of 
European  navies.  America  and  her  in- 
terests, on  the  other  hand,  are  affected 
only  in  rare  instances. 

Turn  to  some  of  these  moves,  and 
see  if  America  cannot  afford  to  look  on 
them  as  a  disinterested  spectator.  Take 
first  the  case  of  Great  Britain  and  Ger- 
many. Nowhere  in  the  history  of  the 
expansion  of  the  British  navy  has  fool- 
ishness been  more  conspicuous  than  in 
British  insistence  upon  regarding  the 
development  of  the  German  navy  as  a 
menace  to  England.  The  Germans  be- 
gan to  build  a  fleet  for  the  same  reason 
that  every  other  power  has :  the  protec- 
tion of  their  coast  and  commerce.  In 
answer  to  this  development,  we  Eng- 
lishmen began  to  build  more  than  ever, 
and  adopted  a  two-keel-to-one  stand- 
ard, in  addition  to  striking  up  an  ef- 
fusive friendship  with  France  —  our 
enemy  for  hundreds  of  years.  This 
friendship  was  especially  warm  at  the 
time  of  the  strain  between  France  and 
Germany  over  the  Moroccan  question, 
when  British  sympathies  took  sides 
with  France.  It  was  even  rumored  in 
the  press,  and  never  denied  officially, 
that  should  the  quarrel  end  in  war, 
Britain  would  land  an  army  in  Hoi- 
stem. 

What  could  be  more  natural,  after 
this  display  of  antagonism,  than  that 
the  Germans  should  increase  their  nat- 
ural strength  still  further?  We  in  Eng- 
land proclaim  it  our  duty  to  maintain 
a  navy  equal  to  a  two-power  standard 
plus  a  ten-per-cent  margin,  and  yet 
we  deny  the  right  to  Germany,  who  has 
greater  reason  to  fear  the  attack  of  a 


combination  of  naval  powers  than  we 
have.  Our  fear  of  a  combination  of  two 
or  more  fleets  attacking  us  is  altogether 
visionary.  On  the  other  hand,  with 
Germany  it  is  a  very  possible  situation. 
In  addition  to  naval  alliances,  there 
is  a  military  treaty  between  France 
and  Russia.  Imagine  the  position  of 
Germany  with  a  hostile  army  on  each 
flank,  with  her  coast  at  the  mercy  of 
attacking  fleets  which  could  cover  the 
landing  of  an  army  at  any  point  along 
its  entire  length.  Yet  with  all  the  dan- 
gers confronting  Germany  and  all  the 
obligations  she  owes  to  herself,  she  can- 
not build  a  battleship  without  send- 
ing a  thrill  through  the  British  Jingo 
press. 

We  in  Britain  seem  to  have  a  bad  fit 
of  nerves  at  present.  If  Germany  lays 
down  the  keel  of  a  battleship,  we  feel 
it  our  duty  to  lay  one  down  also,  and 
as  a  make-weight,  perhaps,  throw  in 
an  armored  cruiser  which  costs  almost 
as  much.  This  persistence  in  viewing 
every  increase  of  naval  expenditure  on 
Germany's  part  as  a  menace  to  herself 
is  mainly  responsible  for  Great  Britain's 
voting  a  sum  of  $200,000,000  to  be 
spent  on  her  navy  in  1910-1911,  at  a 
time  when  the  exchequer  shows  a  de- 
ficit of  $142,500,000  for  the  financial 
year  ending  hi  March  of  1910.  Even 
$200,000,000  for  one  year  is  not  enough 
for  some  who  have  the  mania  in  its 
worst  form.  Admiral  Lord  Charles 
Beresford  has,  for  the  past  two  years, 
been  agitating  for  $300,000,000.  Three 
hundred  million  on  the  navy  alone  in 
one  year,  and  that  at  a  time  when  Brit- 
ish pauper-houses  are  full  to  overflow- 
ing, and  the  unemployed  number  hun- 
dreds of  thousands! 

Again,  we  have  the  Minister  of  Ma- 
rine of  the  Republic  of  France,  with 
a  sailor's  characteristic  contempt  for 
politics,  asking  the  French  Cabinet  for 
forty-six  ironclads  of  the  largest  mod- 
ern type  —  Dreadnoughts  —  which,  if 


36    A  BRITISH  VIEW  OF  AMERICAN  NAVAL  EXPENDITURE 


both  countries  carried  out  their  pro- 
grammes, would  give  France  in  1919  a 
superiority  over  Germany  of  eight  ships, 
the  French  admiral's  idea  being  evi- 
dently to  tackle  Germany  single-hand- 
ed. Now  notice  the  subtlety  of  Euro- 
pean politics,  which  America  can  afford 
to  ignore,  as  it  in  no  way  affects  her. 
Instead  of  forty-six  vessels,  the  ad- 
miral's programme  has  been  cut  down 
by  the  Cabinet  to  twenty-eight  vessels, 
on  the  ground  that  Britain  can  be  re- 
lied upon  to  safeguard  French  interests 
in  the  Mediterranean,  while  the  whole 
force  granted  can  be  held  for  service 
in  the  North  Sea,  where  an  alliance 
with  a  local  British  squadron  would 
overwhelmingly  dispose  of  the  mythical 
German  peril. 

Thirteen  of  these  vessels  are  already 
well  under  way,  and  several  will  be  in 
commission  by  1912.  The  remainder, 
along  with  minor  auxiliary  vessels,  will 
cost  France  somewhere  about  $280,- 
000,000,  the  money  to  be  found  within 
the  next  nine  years,  at  a  time  when  the 
normal  sources  of  taxation  are  almost 
exhausted,  and  the  French  exchequer 
shows  a  deficit  of  more  than  200,000,- 
000  francs. 

On  account  of  Britain's  friendship 
with  France,  she  is  expected  to  make 
France's  quarrels  her  own,  to  protect 
French  interests  in  the  Mediterranean, 
to  join  forces  in  the  North  Sea  against 
a  country  which  has  never  yet  fired  a 
shot  at  her  in  anger,  not  to  speak  of 
taking  sides  with  a  nation  which  has 
warred  against  her  for  centuries.  Such, 
in  brief  outline,  is  the  political  situa- 
tion, so  far  as  it  affects  the  naval  mat- 
ters of  the  three  principal  maritime 
nations  of  Europe. 

Through  these  political  entangle- 
ments with  no  actual  war,  Great  Brit- 
ain's annual  naval  expenditure  has 
increased  in  twenty-one  years  from 
a  trifle  under  $65,000,000  to  the  sum 
already  quoted,  $200,000,000.  In  other 


words,  it  has  more  than  trebled.  No 
sane  person  can  view  this  increase  with 
indifference.  Too  many,  however,  will 
quiet  their  minds  with  the  reflection 
that  it  is  inevitable.  Is  it? 

Enough  has  been  said  on  European 
politics  to  show  that  whatever  move- 
ment may  be  on  foot  in  Europe  to  dis- 
turb the  peace,  it  can  hardly  affect 
America  in  the  shaping  of  her  relations 
with  the  Powers,  or  necessitate  the 
strengthening  of  her  navy.  Her  posi- 
tion as  a  neutral  is  a  natural  one,  and 
no  disturbances,  however  great,  need 
affect  her  to  such  an  extent  that  it  is 
necessary  for  her  to  mix  herself  up  with 
European  politics  and  petty  jealousies. 


ii 

Turning  from  the  European  side  of 
the  question,  let  us  bring  the  subject 
home  to  the  United  States,  and  see  if 
America  need  have  a  navy  at  all.  At 
the  outset,  I  admit  the  obvious  fact 
that  the  United  States  has  the  biggest 
navigable  coastline  in  the  world,  about 
fourteen  thousand  miles  exclusive  of 
Great  Lake  shores.  For  this  reason,  it 
will  seem  to  some  men  madness  to  ques- 
tion the  necessity  of  a  navy,  but  in  my 
deliberate  opinion,  she  could  well  af- 
ford to  do  without  one  altogether. 

Let  us  begin  by  bringing  forward 
all  the  arguments  we  can  in  favor  of 
strengthening  her  navy,  or  even  in 
justification  of  its  existence.  Of  prim- 
ary importance  is  the  protection  of 
her  tremendous  coastline,  on  both  the 
Atlantic  and  Pacific;  next  come  her 
over-sea  possessions;  after  that  her 
commerce;  and  after  that,  or  perhaps 
before  it,  her  position  as  a  world-power. 
These  seem  to  be  the  chief  arguments 
which  are  to  be  brought  forward  to 
justify  the  existence  of  the  American 
navy;  after  all,  they  are  the  principal 
reasons  for  the  existence  of  any  navy. 

Let  us  speak  first  of  the  Atlantic 


A  BRITISH  VIEW  OF  AMERICAN  NAVAL  EXPENDITURE     37 


coastline.  From  a  strategical  point  of 
view,  the  Atlantic  seaboard  is  admir- 
ably adapted  to  acting  on  the  defens- 
ive against  any  combination  of  hostile 
fleets.  The  principal  ports  are  for  the 
most  part  situated  at  the  head  of  wind- 
ing channels,  bays,  and  gulfs.  It  would 
be  impossible  for  the  largest  naval  guns 
made  to  do  them  any  harm  until  the 
shore  batteries  with  their  more  power- 
ful and  longer-range  guns  were  silenced. 
No  battleship  yet  built  could  stand 
up  for  half  an  hour  against  the  fire  of 
the  latest  United  States  garrison  artil- 
lery 16-inch  gun,  let  alone  their  14- 
inch.  The  16-inch  gun,  though  slow 
in  firing,  can  hurl  a  projectile  weighing 
twenty-four  hundred  pounds  a  distance 
of  twenty  miles  or  more.  The  latest 
naval  gun  —  13.5-inch,  which  has  not 
yet  been  placed  aboard  any  ship  in 
commission,  can  only  throw  a  projec- 
tile weighing  twelve  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  and  the  12-inch  guns  with 
which  the  Dreadnoughts  are  armed,  a 
projectile  weighing  eight  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds. 

Again,  the  usual  battle-range  of  bat- 
tleships for  accurate  and  destructive 
firing  cannot  be  greater  than  six  or 
seven  miles,  this  again  depending  upon 
wind  and  weather  and  the  state  of  the 
atmosphere.  No  naval  officer,  no  mat- 
ter how  keen  on  victory,  would  be 
mad  enough  to  tempt  Providence  by 
bringing  his  ship  in  range  of  the  guns 
just  spoken  of.  Then  how  are  these 
monster  guns  going  to  be  silenced? 
Only  by  guns  of  equal  power  and  range 
on  the  land  side  of  them,  or  by  assault. 
In  the  case  of  America,  it  is  impossible 
for  guns  of  equal  power  to  be  trans- 
ported behind  the  batteries.  Invading 
armies,  as  a-rule,  do  not  carry  with  them 
garrison  artillery  guns,  but  only  field, 
horse,  and  mountain  batteries.  Take 
the  cases  of  New  York  and  Boston. 
Both  these  ports  are  situated  at  the 
heads  of  inland  waters  strongly  forti- 


fied, and  well  beyond  range  of  hostile 
ships'  guns.  Even  suppose  that  through 
some  assault,  the  land  batteries  had 
been  put  out  of  action,  what  would  be 
the  fate  of  their  ports?  Captured?  I 
think  not!  Anybody  who  has  entered 
them  once  from  seaward  can  see  at  a 
glance,  without  any  technical  skill,  that 
entry  to  them  could  be  barred  in  many 
ways.  What  with  submarine  vessels, 
submarine  mine-fields,  floating  mines, 
and  the  withdrawal  or  displacing  of 
lights,  buoys,  and  beacons,  it  would  be 
impossible  for  a  squadron  to  enter, 
should  its  presence  be  undesirable. 
What  applies  to  New  York  and  Boston 
will  also  apply  in  a  greater  or  less  de- 
gree to  all  the  chief  ports  on  both  the 
Atlantic  and  Pacific  seaboards.  I  have 
visited  most  American  ports,  and  I 
know  of  none  of  importance  situated 
on  the  shores  of  an  unprotected  bay. 

Germany  has  made  her  coast  de- 
fenses so  formidable  that  no  enemy 
is  likely  to  assail  them.  Why  cannot 
America  do  the  same?  Facing  the  At- 
lantic and  about  three  thousand  miles 
distant  is  Europe.  From  here  it  is  pos- 
sible for  three  powerful  enemies  to 
come  —  Britain,  Germany,  and  France. 
To  the  north,  there  is  also  another 
conceivable  enemy,  —  Canada,  —  with 
her  growing  desire  for  a  navy.  Suppose 
for  the  sake  of  argument  that  Ger- 
many alone  were  at  war  with  the  Unit- 
ed States,  what  possible  chance  would 
she  have  of  crippling  or  even  seriously 
hurting  America  either  on  sea  or  on 
land,  even  if  America  did  not  possess 
a  single  third-class  gunboat?  True, 
the  Germans  could  come  over  and  play 
havoc  with  places  weakly  fortified. 
They  dare  not,  however,  attack  the 
main  defenses,  nor  dare  they,  if  they 
observe  the  international  rules  of  civil- 
ized warfare,  open  fire  on  unprotected 
towns  situated  along  the  coast,  unless 
they  are  fired  upon  first.  For  wanton 
destruction  or  for  the  mere  fun  of  the 


38     A  BRITISH  VIEW  OF  AMERICAN  NAVAL  EXPENDITURE 


thing,  they  would  not  dare  to  destroy 
property.  Again,  Germany  has  no 
coaling  stations  of  her  own  on  the 
American  side  of  the  Atlantic,  nor 
would  any  other  country  open  its  coal- 
ing stations  to  her  in  time  of  war. 
German  fleets  for  coaling  purposes 
would  have  to  trust  to  colliers  —  a 
doubtful  quantity  even  in  time  of  peace; 
and,  still  more  important,  they  would 
be  operating  at  a  distance  of  three  thou- 
sand miles  from  their  base.  To  land 
an  invading  army  would  be  impossible, 
or  to  maintain  a  successful  blockade 
either  on  the  Atlantic  or  on  the  Pacific 
ocean,  the  coastline  being  too  'exten- 
sive. German  fleets  dare  not  blockade 
the  Canadian  coastline,  nor  could  they 
steam  over  the  land  and  blockade  the 
Canadian  frontier.  If  it  were  consid- 
ered too  dangerous  to  use  American 
ports,  America's  over-sea  commerce 
could  reach  its  destination  in  ships  of 
other  than  German  nationality  via 
Canadian  ports. 

Turn  now  to  Britain,  whose  navy 
might  meet  with  better  success.  On 
the  American  side  of  the  Atlantic  her 
fleet  could  use  as  naval  bases  her  poss- 
essions in  the  West  Indies,  in  addition 
to  Canada.  Yet  even  with  the  vital 
support  which  these  possessions  could 
give,  her  fleets  in  the  long  run  would 
be  very  little  better  off  than  the  Ger- 
man. Probably  they  would  waste  more 
coal  and  consume  more  stores  in  cruis- 
ing about,  but  the  serious  damage  that 
they  could  do  would  be  practically  nil. 
England  could  no  more  maintain  a 
successful  blockade  than  Germany, 
even  supposing  her  numerous  fleets 
patrolled  both  oceans.  For  her  to  land 
an  invading  army,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
Germans,  is  out  of  the  question.  The 
nation  which  could  fight  a  war  like 
the  Civil  War  without  even  a  standing 
army  worth  speaking  about,  and  di- 
vided against  itself,  has  little  to  fear 
from  any  army  of  invasion,  even  though 


it  should  gain  admittance  into  the 
country. 

My  arguments  are  logical,  and  there- 
fore I  ask:  Is  America  justified  in 
spending  about  $150,000,000  yearly  on 
her  navy,  when  the  most  powerful  an- 
tagonist that  we  can  put  against  her 
cannot  do  damage  enough  to  require 
that  sum  to  set  it  right  again,  in  one 
year?  I  think  not! 

Thus  far,  to  strengthen  my  argu- 
ment, I  have  been  assuming  that  Amer- 
ica has  no  navy;  but  we  cannot  lose 
sight  of  the  fact  that  America  has  a 
navy,  and  one  that  would  give  a  good 
account  of  itself.  At  the  same  time,  we 
must  remember  that  the  American 
navy  is  scattered  over  two  oceans,  and 
thereby  loses  too  much  of  its  striking 
power  to  fight  successfully  an  over- 
whelmingly stronger  British  or  Ger- 
man navy  which  might  be  brought 
against  it.  I  remember  the  fighting 
qualities  of  'the  man  behind  the  gun,' 
and  the  enormous  advantage  which  the 
American  navy  would  have  of  fighting 
close  to  its  own  shores;  but  I  realize 
that  in  the  end  it  would  be  annihilated 
by  sheer  weight  of  metal  if  the  Atlantic 
and  Pacific  fleets  were  on  their  respect- 
ive stations  at  the  commencement  of 
hostilities.  But  the  question  whether 
the  American  fleet  could  be  destroyed 
or  not,  could  not  in  the  least  affect 
the  final  result,  when  one  takes  into 
consideration  the  infinitesimal  amount 
of  damage  which  an  enemy's  fleet 
could  do,  were  there  no  American  fleet 
on  the  spot  to  stop  it.  That  small  dam- 
age in  no  way  justifies  America's  pre- 
sent naval  expenditure,  or  even  the 
existence  of  her  navy  at  all. 

At  the  present  time,  America  holds 
second  place  in  total  displacement  of 
completed  warships,  and  sixth  in  re- 
spect to  number  of  vessels.  Yet  on  the 
Atlantic  alone,  she  cannot  hope  to  pos- 
sess or  even  dream  of  possessing  a  navy 
as  strong  in  all  its  units  as  Britain's 


A  BRITISH  VIEW  OF  AMERICAN  NAVAL  EXPENDITURE    39 


or  even  Germany's.  Rather  than  suf- 
fer defeat,  would  it  not  be  better  if  she 
acted  entirely  on  the  defensive  and 
trusted  to  her  formidable  14-inch  and 
16-inch  batteries  on  shore? 


m 

What  has  been  said  about  coast  de- 
fenses on  the  Atlantic  will  apply  also 
in  a  great  measure  to  the  Pacific;  but, 
in  certain  issues,  the  case  is  there  very 
different,  for,  instead  of  three  possible 
enemies,  we  find  but  one  —  Japan.  A 
war  between  America  and  any  Euro- 
pean power  being  such  a  remote  pos- 
sibility, we  might  with  confidence  ig- 
nore the  chances  altogether.  It  would 
be  possible  for  American  ships  to  act  in 
concert  with  those  of  one  of  the  powers 
against  a  common  enemy, — Japan,  for 
instance,  —  but  hardly  to  act  alone 
against  a  European  power. 

In  the  Pacific  question,  the  danger 
may  be  more  imaginary  than  real,  or 
vice  versa,  according  to  how  one  looks  at 
it.  In  my  opinion,  so  long  as  America 
chooses  to  hold  the  Philippines,  the  dan- 
ger is  more  real  than  imaginary.  One 
need  not  be  an  alarmist  to  see  trouble 
brewing  in  the  future  for  the  United 
States,  or  any  other  nation  with  Asiatic 
possessions.  'Asia  for  the  Asiatic,'  is 
a  doctrine,  or  rather  a  religion,  which 
the  Japanese  are  preaching  through- 
out Asia  and  India.  The  British  in 
India  know  this  to  their  cost.  Since  the 
overthrow  of  the  Russians  by  the  Jap- 
anese, the  whole  of  Asia  is  in  a  state  of 
unrest,  and  dreams  of  throwing  off  the 
white  man's  yoke  at  no  distant  date. 

America's  position  as  a  colonizing 
power  is  a  precarious  one  when  it  comes 
to  owning  colonies  almost  within  the 
doors  of  a  power  which  looks  with 
longing  eyes  upon  outlets  for  its  surplus 
population.  Putting  sentiment  aside, 
would  it  not  be  better  if  America,  in- 
stead of  holding  on  to  the  Philippines, 


neutralized  them?  She  could  do  this 
honorably,  not  only  without  loss  of 
prestige,  but  with  the  dignified  attitude 
of  taking  the  lead  in  the  cause  of  peace. 
Were  she  to  do  this,  the  only  danger 
of  war  likely  to  threaten  her  Pacific 
coast  would  be  wiped  out  of  existence. 
Her  inability  to  hold  the  islands,  should 
Japan  care  to  take  them  from  her,  is 
a  fact  well  recognized  by  both  naval 
and  military  experts.1 

Compare  for  a  moment  the  positions 
of  America  and  Japan  on  the  Pacific 
Ocean. 

Japan  has  a  powerful  fleet  of  up- 
to-date  battleships  equal  in  strength  to 
those  of  any  European  power,  —  ship 
by  ship, — while  America  at  the  time  of 
this  writing  has  not  a  single  battleship 
in  commission  on  the  Pacific  station,  — 
only  armored  and  protected  cruisers. 
While  the  Japanese  transport  service 
is  modern  in  all  its  units,  and  is  of 
sufficient  size  to  transport  an  army 
of  over  two  hundred  thousand  men  — 
with  equipment  —  to  any  required  dis- 
tance, that  of  America  is  practically 
non-existent.  The  United  States  trans- 
port service,  at  the  most,  can  boast 
of  only  a  dozen  fairly  decent  ships, 
which  can  carry  only  about  ten  thou- 
sand troops,  leaving  stores  and  muni- 
tions of  war  out  of  the  question;  while 
the  Japanese  service  could  land  an 
army  of  two  hundred  thousand  men 
in  the  Philippines,  and  a  smaller  one 
of  one  hundred  thousand  in  Hawaii, 
in  less  than  a  month.  To  transport 
fifty  thousand  men  to  the  Philippines 
would,  under  existing  conditions,  take 
the  United  States  transport  service  ex- 
actly one  year,  while  Hawaii,  in  time 
of  war,  would  have  to  take  pot-luck. 

Japan,  again,  has  more  than  half  a 
million  trained  seamen  to  lay  her  hands 
on,  while  America  has  little  more  than 

1  For  a  discussion  of  the  subject,  see  "The 
United  States  and  Neutralization'  in  the  Septem- 
ber number  of  the  Atlantic.  —  THE  EDITOBS. 


40    A  BRITISH  VIEW  OF  AMERICAN  NAVAL  EXPENDITURE 


a  thousand  on  the  Pacific.  In  case  of 
war,  the  battleship  squadrons  of  Japan 
could  reach  the  Pacific  seaboard  two 
months  sooner  than  America's  battle- 
ships could  round  Cape  Horn  and  reach 
California  to  operate  with  the  Pacific 
fleet  —  if  it  still  existed.  Cruisers, 
either  armored  or  protected,  stand  no 
conceivable  chance  of  scoring  a  suc- 
cess against  battleships.  A  squadron 
of  ships  steaming  a  distance  of  about 
twelve  thousand  miles  under  full  pres- 
sure would  arrive  at  its  destination  in 
sad  need  of  repair,  especially  in  the 
engine-rooms. 

Should  America's  Atlantic  fleet,  af- 
ter steaming  twelve  thousand  miles, 
immediately  engage  a  fleet  of  Japanese 
vessels  which  had  been  waiting  two 
months  for  them,  the  Japanese  ships 
would  have  an  enormous  advantage 
over  the  American.  The  speed  of  a 
squadron  is  the  speed  of  the  slowest 
ship  in  that  squadron,  and  in  action 
speed  is  as  necessary  as  good  tactics 
and  good  gunnery.  While  Japanese 
ships  were  waiting  for  the  Atlantic  fleet 
to  appear,  any  repairs  down  below 
could  be  effected  long  before  the  time 
arrived  for  speed  to  be  maintained  at 
any  cost. 

Trouble,  if  it  ever  does  come  about, 
is  likely  to  come  before  the  opening 
of  the  Panama  Canal,  for  it  would 
be  an  object  of  prime  importance  to 
have  the  two  American  fleets  separ- 
ated by  a  distance  of  twelve  thousand 
miles.  Invasion  by  the  Japanese  is  a 
likely  probability  in  the  event  of  war, 
in  case  Japan  secures  possession  of  a 
Pacific  port;  but  a  Japanese,  or  any 
other  army,  once  in  America  could 
never  get  out  again  alive  except  by 
favor  of  the  army  of  defense. 

The  great  Moltke's  remark  concern- 
ing the  invasion  of  England  applies 
also  to  America.  Asked  if  an  invasion 
of  England  were  possible,  he  answered, 
'  I  know  of  three  ways  in,  but  not  one 


out.'  There  may  be  many  ways  into 
America,  but  how  an  invading  army, 
even  without  a  navy  to  stop  it,  would 
ever  leave  the  country  without  the  per- 
mission of  the  army  of  defense,  cannot 
very  well  be  made  out. 

Nothing  in  the  world  can  justify 
America  in  building  a  fleet  strong 
enough  to  tackle  Japan  single-handed 
on  the  Pacific,  or  a  fleet  strong  enough 
to  tackle  single-handed  any  European 
naval  power  on  the  Atlantic.  It  would 
mean  keeping  her  navy  up  to  a  two  or 
three-power  standard  all  the  time.  Will 
American  extravagance  run  to  this? 
If  not,  why  play  at  owning  a  navy  to 
satisfy  vanity?  Why  pay  away  one 
hundred  and  fifty  millions  of  dollars  a 
year  on  the  navy  when  it  is  practically 
helpless,  because  it  lacks  the  vital  sup- 
port of  a  merchant  marine?  The  all- 
round-the-world  trip  which  an  Amer- 
ican fleet  made  a  couple  of  years  ago 
would  have  been  an  impossibility  with- 
out the  help  afforded  by  British  and 
German  colliers.  Not  one  American 
merchant-Jack's  ensign  could  be  seen 
in  attendance  on  the  naval  ships  dur- 
ing the  whole  cruise.  This  was  com- 
mented upon  by  the  chief  in  command 
—  Admiral  Evans.  Not  very  palatable 
reading,  is  it?  Remember,  it  applies  to 
the  country  with  the  finest  navigable 
coasts,  harbors,and  rivers  in  the  world! 


IV 

Let  us  now  consider  the  merchant 
shipping  of  the  leading  maritime  na- 
tions, and  see  its  bearing  on  the  exist- 
ence of  an  American  navy. 

According  to  Lloyd's  register,  1908- 
1909,  and  excluding  vessels  under  one 
hundred  tons  register,  also  wooden 
vessels  trading  on  the  Great  Lakes,  we. 
find  that  the  British  merchant  marine 
(including  colonies)  totals  up  to  18,- 
709,537  tons;  that  of  America  (includ- 
ing the  Philippines),  4,854,787  tons; 


A  BRITISH  VIEW  OF  AMERICAN  NAVAL  EXPENDITURE    41 

the  American,  and  the  protecting  of 
it  is  only  a  little  more  than  one  fifth 
more  expensive.  If  the  British  au- 
thorities were  as  extravagant  as  the 
American,  they  would  have  to  vote  a 
sum  of  some  $600,000,000  a  year  on 
their  navy  in  proportion;  this,  on  their 
merchant  shipping  alone,  and  leaving 
their  colonies  without  naval  protec- 
tion! Germany,  whose  merchant  ton- 
nage equals  America's,  spends  half  the 
amount  in  protecting  hers.  Now,  do  the 
figures  quoted  justify  America's  present 
naval  expenditure? 

There  is  still  another  important  point 
of  view  to  consider,  and  it  is  this :  Brit- 
ain's and  Germany's  merchant  marines 
are  chiefly  composed  of  deep-water  — 
foreign-going  —  ships,  while  American 
merchant  ships  are  chiefly  engaged  in 
the  coastal  and  inter-coastal  trade. 
Again,  Britain  depends  upon  her  mer- 
chant ships  for  the  means  to  live;  Amer- 
ica does  not.  In  case  of  war  and  block- 
ade, her  coasters  could  tie  up  in  harbor, 
coil  down  their  ropes,  and  wait  for 
peace.  The  work  they  do  could  be  car- 
ried on  by  railroads. 

Turn  now  to  American  commerce. 
Here  lies  another  great  advantage  of 
America.  She  can  afford  to  stand  by 
and  snap  her  fingers  at  any  nation,  no 
matter  what  the  size  of  its  navy.  In 
the  first  place,  her  position  as  a  pro- 
ducer makes  her  absolutely  independ- 
ent of  all  nations:  other  nations  must 
come  to  her,  and  not  she  to  them,  for 
necessities.  This  being  the  case,  she  is 
in  a  position  to  retaliate  without  firing 
a  shot,  should  offensive  measures  be 
taken  against  her.  Again,  where  two 
such  countries  as  Britain  and  Germany 
depend  upon  America  for  the  employ- 
ment of  a  great  part  of  their  shipping, 
war  with  either  is  a  remote  possibility. 
America,  not  owning  a  deep-water  mer- 
chant marine,  need  fear  no  captures  or 
destruction  in  this  direction.  Should 
America  carry  on  a  war  with  Germany, 


of  Germany,  4,232, 145  tons;  of  France, 
1,883,894  tons;  of  Russia  (excluding 
small  sailing  vessels  trading  in  the 
Black  Sea),  974,517  tons;  of  Japan, 
1,142,468  tons  (excluding  sailing  vessels 
under  300  tons  net  register  not  record- 
ed in  Lloyd's). 

Turn  now  to  the  naval  expenditures 
of  the  countries  mentioned,  and  see 
how  they  compare.  The  naval  expendi- 
ture on  Great  Britain's  sea-going  force 
in  1907  —  that  .is,  about  the  year  the 
Dreadnought  craze  became  general  — 
was  about  $152,000,000;  of  America, 
$119,000,000;ofGermany,$54,000,000; 
of  France,  $61,000,000;  of  Russia,  $59,- 
000,000;  of  Japan,  $24,500,000.  These 
figures,  though  not  quite  up  to  date, 
are  still  a  sufficient  guide  for  our  pur- 
pose. Those  of  the  merchant  shipping 
will  have  increased  a  little,  but  not  in 
comparison  to  those  of  naval  expendi- 
tures. The  year  1907  is  quoted  to  show 
how  the  expenditure  on  a  single  battle- 
ship has  increased,  for  we  find  that  the 
first  modern  Dreadnought  cost  $8,538,- 
110  to  build,  and  the  1910  Super-Dread- 
nought about  $12,000,000.  The  latest 
British  armored  cruiser  to  be  laid  down 
—  Princess  Royal  —  when  completed 
will  have  cost  $9,400,000.  The  latest 
United  States  battleships  when  com- 
pleted will  cost  $11,500,000  each  at 
a  moderate  computation.  Battleships, 
armored  cruisers,  protected  cruisers, 
and,  in  fact,  every  type  of  naval  vessel, 
have  half  again  exceeded  their  former 
cost  since  the  advent  of  the  all-big- 
gun,  heavily-armored  Dreadnought  of 
1906-07. 

At  first  showing,  the  figures  quoted 
will  seem  to  justify  America's  naval 
expenditure,  but  when  gone  into  more 
closely,  the  opposite  will  prove  to  be 
the  case.  A  little  calculation  will  show 
that  the  smaller  nations  are  more  ex- 
travagant than  the  bigger  ones.  It 
will  also  show  that  the  British  mer- 
chant marine  is  four  times  bigger  than 


42    A  BRITISH  VIEW  OF  AMERICAN  NAVAL  EXPENDITURE 


what  would  happen  to  her  over-sea 
commerce?  Simply  nothing!  During 
these  times  of  too  much  merchant  ton- 
nage, British  ships  would  be  only  too 
glad  to  take  American  products  any- 
where; and  so  would  German  vessels 
in  case  of  an  Anglo-American  war. 
Thus  we  see  that  if  America  went  to 
war  with  either  country,  the  damage 
would  be  confined  to  a  few  unimport- 
ant towns  on  the  coast,  and  her  over- 
sea commerce  would  reach  its  destina- 
tion just  as  merrily  as  ever.  Peace  also 
has  its  victories,  and  the  country  which 
warred  with  America  would  find  that 
after  war  had  ceased,  her  ships  would 
have  little  left  to  pick  up  in  the  way 
of  cargo.  A  revival  of  old  trade  rela- 
tions would  not  come  with  the  declara- 
tion of  peace,  but  it  would  take  years 
of  keen  competition  to  regain  the  lost 
ground. 


We  arrive  now  at  America's  position 
as  a  world-power.  Politically  speaking, 
America  from  the  days  of  its  earliest 
settlement  was  destined  to  become  a 
power  in  the  world,  without  the  assist- 
ance of  any  other  country,  and  with 
none  of  the  false  show  of  power  that 
Dreadnoughts,  standing  armies  and 
12-inch  guns,  give  to  other  nations. 
Power,  I  think,  means  something  great- 
er and  nobler  than  the  slaughtering  of 
thousands  of  innocent  lives  with  the 
aid  of  guns.  The  power  worth  having 
ought  to  tend  to  make  the  world  more 
Christian  instead  of  more  brutal.  Right, 
and  not  might,  is  what  we  need  to-day. 
Power  cannot  be  reckoned  by  the  num- 
ber of  guns  and  battleships  a  nation 
possesses.  The  power  which  lasts  and 
is  worth  having  is  of  the  kind  which 
America  showed  in  bringing  about 
peace  between  Russia  and  Japan. 

That  is  one  kind  of  power  America 
possesses.  She  has  also  another  which 
is  more  efficacious  than  ships  and  guns. 


Britain  may  be  top-hole  man  in  the 
naval  world,  Germany  top-hole  man  in 
the  military  world,  but  America  is  top- 
hole  man  in  the  commercial  world, 
which  after  all  bosses  the  other  two. 
Peace,  as  we  all  know,  lasts  longer  than 
war;  and  a  nation  which  can  dictate 
to  others,  without  bullying,  in  times  of 
peace  and  war,  using  only  trade  as  a 
weapon,  needs  no  other.  Such  a  coun- 
try is  America.  While  our  civilization 
lasts,  her  position  is  assured.  There- 
fore, I  say  again  that  she  has  no  need  of 
a  navy  at  all,  or  at  least,  of  no  stronger 
one  than  she  had  ten  years  ago.  A  suc- 
cessful invasion  of  her  shores  is  impos- 
sible, her  geographical  position  is  three 
thousand  miles  away  from  any  possi- 
ble enemy,  her  internal  resources  are 
unlimited  and  all  sufficient,  her  over-sea 
commerce  is  carried  by  foreign  ships; 
politically  speaking,  she  is  a  free  lance; 
and  yet  she  has  gone  Dreadnought- 
mad.  In  fact,  she  was  the  first  to  fol- 
low Britain's  lead.  A  fine  sample  of 
American  independence! 

Being  able  to  boast  of  a  strong  navy 
does  not  give  one  that  feeling  of  secur- 
ity which  is  commonly  supposed.  I 
belong  to  the  country  with  the  biggest 
navy  in  the  world,  and  my  feelings  are 
not  those  of  security,  but  rather  the 
opposite.  Like  a  good  many  other 
men  in  the  naval  reserve,  I  am  watch- 
ing for  the  bubble  to  burst,  waiting  to 
be  sent,  if  required,  aboard  a  man-o'- 
war  as  food  for  12  or  13.5-inch  guns, 
whichever  happens  along  my  way  first. 
We  Britishers  have  to  pay  for  our  big 
navy  in  more  ways  than  one.  Beer  and 
skittles  are  not  on  the  national  bill  of 
fare  of  a  fighting  power. 

But  where,  I  ask,  does  the  boasted 
American  independence  and  initiative 
one  hears  so  much  about,  come  in? 
Just  because  a  British  Admiral  —  Sir 
John  Fisher  —  introduced  the  modern 
Dreadnought,  costing  anywhere  from 
$9,000,000  to  $12,000,000,  must  Amer- 


A  BRITISH  VIEW  OF  AMERICAN  NAVAL  EXPENDITURE    43 


ica  follow  suit?  By  laying  down  the  first 
modern  Dreadnought,  Admiral  Fisher 
increased  naval  expenditure  on  a  single 
battleship  to  enormously  more  than 
what  it  was  before.  That  was  not  all 
he  did.  By  his  action  he  put  all  the 
battleships  in  the  British  navy  out  of 
date  in  a  day,  and  made  them  fit  only 
for  the  boneyard.  So  superior  was  his 
ship  in  armament  and  gun-fire  to  all 
others,  that  navies  nowadays  are  class- 
ed only  by  the  number  of  Dreadnoughts 
they  possess.  For  this  mistake,  in- 
stead of  being  cashiered  or  hanged,  he 
was  raised  to  the  British  Peerage  as 
a  reward  of  merit.  His  folly  is  being 
repeated  everywhere.  Even  Dread- 
noughts and  armored  cruisers  are  going 
out  of  date  fast.  Nothing  short  of 
Super-Dreadnoughts  and  Dreadnought 
cruisers  —  the  latter  costing  about 
$7,500,000  at  the  lowest  —  will  satisfy 
our  craze  for  that  stupendous  piece 
of  folly  called  '  naval  power.' 

Would  it  not  be  better  if  America 
voted  less  on  naval  ships  and  just  a 
little  on  merchant  ships?  The  latter 
would  bring  millions  into  the  treasury, 
while  the  former  only  takes  millions 
out.  It  would  prove  a  profitable  in- 
vestment, I  am  sure. 


VI 

Not  for  a  moment  do  I  say  that 
America  should  not  own  a  navy  of  a 
sort.  I  only  state  that  if  she  chooses 
to,  she  can,  without  much  danger  to 
herself,  do  without  one.  Her  army 
and  land  defenses  are  quite  capable  of 
tackling  any  armed  force  which  may 
attempt  to  gain  admittance  into  the 
country.  Certainly  this  is  true,  if  all 
her  main  waterways  are  fortified  with 
sufficient  14-inch  and  16-inch  guns.  In 
addition  to  the  guns,  let  all  the  navigable 
approaches  be  mined,  and  an  adequate 
fleet  of  submarine  vessels  built.  In  war- 
time, if  floating  mines  were  scattered 


about  the  entrances  to  the  various  ports, 
or  about  any  strategical  position,  these 
would  guarantee  immunity  from  attack. 
Germany  has  intimated  that,  in  any  fu- 
ture war,  she  will  use  floating  mechan- 
ical mines  on  an  extensive  scale.  The 
stock  of  mechanical  mines  owned  by 
Germany  a  year  ago  was  over  seven 
thousand.  A  single  mine  is  capable  of 
destroying  a  modern  battleship.  Three 
large  battleships,  the  Petropavlosk, 
Hatsuse,  and  Yashima,  besides  a  large 
number  of  smaller  craft,  were  sunk 
through  striking  floating  mines  in  the 
Far  East. 

Supposing  these  precautions  were 
taken,  then  the  American  navy  of  to- 
day need  only  consist  of  a  few  armored 
cruisers  with  a  speed  of  twenty-eight 
knots,  armed  with  12-inch  guns,  and 
having  also  a  large  coal-carrying  ca- 
pacity, a  few  submarine  vessels,  mine- 
laying  vessels,  and  a  group  of  mine- 
trawlers.  The  cruisers  need  never  act 
on  the  offensive  unless  cornered,  but 
should  be  used  simply  for  scout  work 
and,  if  possible,  to  destroy  an  enemy's 
commerce.  Guerilla  warfare,  it  must 
be  remembered,  is  as  possible  on  sea 
as  on  land. 

The  position  of  America  at  the  time 
of  the  War  of  1812  was  such  that  her 
need  of  a  strong  navy  was  far  greater 
than  to-day.  To  a  great  extent  she  was 
dependent  upon  other  countries.  Strug- 
gling to  maintain  her  independence, 
her  position  as  a  nation  was  in  no  wise 
secure.  Her  merchant  ships  required 
protection,  and  this  was  given  by  her 
smart  frigates,  and  not,  as  to-day,  by 
her  enviable  position.  Her  coasts  were 
only  weakly  fortified,  and  naval  guns 
of  that  date  much  more  nearly  equaled 
the  power  of  shore  batteries  than  they 
do  to-day. 

Has  the  Monroe  Doctrine  anything 
to  do  with  America's  navy?  Perhaps 
so!  Well,  in  spite  of  the  Monroe  Doc- 
trine and  the  American  army  and  navy, 


44    A  BRITISH  VIEW  OF  AMERICAN  NAVAL  EXPENDITURE 


if  a  strong  European  power  chooses  to 
make  a  permanent  settlement  in  any 
of  the  South  American  republics,  I 
cannot  very  well  see  how  America  is 
going  to  oust  it.  Such  a  possibility, 
however,  calls  for  no  consideration,  in 
face  of  the  growing  strength  of  the 
South  American  republics. 

Although  I  am  a  believer  in  disarm- 
ament, that  is  not  my  reason  for  wish- 
ing a  reduction  in  America's  naval  ex- 
penditure. No  one  expects  her  to  disarm 
for  the  sake  of  posing  as  an  example 
of  Christian  virtue  and  forbearance, 
though,  were  she  to  do  this,  her  ex- 
ample would  not  be  without  its  good 
effect.  I  think  she  would  show  Europe 
that,  in  spite  of  its  boasted  civilization, 
it  is  on  the  wrong  tack  —  the  'give- 
way'  tack,  and  not  the  'stand  on.' 

Smug  politicians  often  remind  us 
that  a  big  navy  makes  for  peace.  In 
our  private  life  we  abhor  pugilism,  we 
can  get  along  comfortably  without  it, 
and  most  people  do  not  consider  a 
knowledge  of  the  art  of  pugilism  a  val- 
uable personal  asset.  Then  why,  in  our 
national  life,  should  we  delight  in  big 
navies,  which  after  all  only  stand  for 
national  pugilism  on  a  big  scale?  Con- 
sistent, are  we  not? 

If  in  the  march  of  civilization  we 
need  the  help  of  battleships  and  12- 
inch  guns,  then  I  say  that  our  civiliza- 
tion is  rotten,  and  will  not  last.  I  am 
confident  that  the  day  is  not  far  off 
when  the  people  of  America,  at  least, 
will  oppose  the  needless  waste  of  mil- 
lions. The  preparations  for  a  war  which 
need  never  come  about,  only  suggest 
childish  folly  which  must  be  thrown 
aside.  America  is  not  confronted  with 


the  same  fears  as  are  the  countries  of 
Europe.  There,  the  nations  which 
dread  war  most  are  yet  at  the  same 
time  wasting  millions  in  preparations. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  the  common  sense 
of  the  American  people  will  come  to 
the  assistance  of  their  less  fortunate 
brethren  in  Europe. 

The  nation  which  could  bring  about 
an  armistice  during  hostilities,  and  af- 
terward an  honorable  peace,  must  pos- 
sess a  latent  power  capable,  if  exerted,  of 
forcing  other  issues  of  equal  importance 
without  having  to  fire  a  shot  in  defense. 
America  has  that  latent  power,  and  is 
able  to  do  this  much  for  herself.  And 
we  in  Europe,  though  not  of  the  same 
nation,  are  yet  of  the  same  race,  and 
for  the  sake  of  our  race,  we  have  the 
right  to  expect  America  to  help  us 
work  out  our  salvation  before  it  be  too 
late. 

'Mailed  fists'  and  huge  standing 
armies  and  navies  are  out  of  date,  and 
are  diametrically  opposed  to  the  pro- 
gress of  civilization  and  Christianity. 
As  a  plain  sailor  who  has  seen  all  the 
mighty  navies  of  the  world,  I  say  in 
plain  language  that  they  stand  only  to 
mock  us  and  prove  our  civilization  a 
sham.  As  a  man  who  took  an  active 
part  in  the  Boer  War  of  1900,  and  who 
saw1  the  effect  of  shot  and  shell  on  life 
and  limb,  I  say  that  our  skill  and  in- 
genuity of  to-day,  instead  of  tending 
to  elevate  us,  tend  only  to  draw  us 
back  into  our  ancient  state  of  barbar- 
ism. The  man  in  America,  or  even  in 
Europe,  who  thinks  that  this  craze  can 
last,  or  is  bound  to  culminate  in  a  war, 
has  a  poorer  opinion  of  his  fellow  men 
than  I  have. 


THE  LEMNIAN 


BY   JOHN    BUCHAN 


HE  pushed  the  matted  locks  from 
his  brow,  as  he  peered  into  the  mist. 
His  hair  was  thick  with  salt,  and  his 
eyes  smarted  from  the  green-wood 
fire  on  the  poop.  The  four  slaves  who 
crouched  beside  the  thwarts — Carians, 
with  thin,  birdlike  faces  —  were  in  a 
pitiable  case,  their  hands  blue  with 
oar-weals  and  the  lash-marks  on  their 
shoulders  beginning  to  gape  from  sun 
and  sea.  The  Lemnian  himself  bore 
marks  of  ill-usage.  His  cloak  was  still 
sopping,  his  eyes  heavy  with  watching, 
and  his  lips  black  and  cracked  with 
thirst.  Two  days  before,  the  storm  had 
caught  him  and  swept  his  little  craft 
into  mid-^Egean.  He  was  a  sailor,  come 
of  sailor  stock,  and  he  had  fought  the 
gale  manfully  and  well.  But  the  sea 
had  burst  his  water-jars,  and  the  tor- 
ments of  drought  had  been  added  to  his 
toil.  He  had  been  driven  south  almost 
to  Scyros,  but  had  found  no  harbor. 
Then  a  weary  day  with  the  oars  had 
brought  him  close  to  the  Eubcean  shore, 
when  a  freshet  of  storm  drove  him  sea- 
ward again.  Now  at  last,  in  this  north- 
erly creek  of  Sciathos,  he  had  found 
shelter  and  a  spring.  But  it  was  a  peril- 
ous place,  for  there  were  robbers  in  the 
bushy  hills  —  mainland  men  who  loved 
above  all  things  to  rob  an  islander; 
and  out  at  sea,  as  he  looked  toward 
Pelion,  there  seemed  something  ado 
which  boded  little  good.  There  was 
deep  water  beneath  a  ledge  of  cliff, 
half  covered  by  a  tangle  of  wildwood. 
So  Atta  lay  in  the  bows,  looking  through 
the  trails  of  vine  at  the  racing  tides  now 
reddening  in  the  dawn. 


The  storm  had  hit  others  besides  him, 
it  seemed.  The  channel  was  full  of  ships, 
aimless  ships  that  tossed  between  tide 
and  wind.  Looking  closer,  he  saw  that 
they  were  all  wreckage.  There  had  been 
tremendous  doings  in  the  north,  and  a 
navy  of  some  sort  had  come  to  grief. 
Atta  was  a  prudent'man  and  knew  that  a 
broken  fleet  might  be  dangerous.  There 
might  be  men  lurking  in  the  maimed 
galleys  who  would  make  short  work  of 
the  owner  of  a  battered  but  navigable 
craft.  At  first  he  thought  that  the  ships 
were  those  of  the  Hellenes.  The  trouble- 
some fellows  were  everywhere  in  the 
islands,  stirring  up  strife,  and  robbing 
the  old  lords.  But  the  tides  running 
strongly  from  the  east  were  bringing 
some  of  the  wreckage  in  an  eddy  into 
the  bay.  He  lay  closer  and  watched 
the  spars  and  splintered  poops  as  they 
neared  him.  These  were  no  galleys  of 
the  Hellenes.  Then  came  a  drowned 
man,  swollen  and  horrible;  then  another 
—  swarthy,  hook-nosed  fellows,  all  yel- 
low with  the  sea.  Atta  was  puzzled. 
They  must  be  the  men  from  the  east 
about  whom  he  had  been  hearing. 

Long  ere  he  left  Lemnos  there  had 
been  news  about  the  Persians.  They 
were  coming  like  locusts  out  of  the 
dawn,  swarming  over  Ionia  and  Thrace, 
men  and  ships  numerous  beyond  telling. 
They  meant  no  ill  to  honest  islanders; 
a  little  earth  and  water  were  enough  to 
win  their  friendship.  But  they  meant 
death  to  the  v/Spis  of  the  Hellenes. 
Atta  was  on  the  side  of  the  invaders; 
he  wished  them  well  in  their  war  with 
his  ancient  foes.  They  would  eat  them 

46 


46 


THE  LEMNIAN 


up,  Athenians,  Lacedaemonians,  Cor- 
inthians, ^Eginetans,  men  of  Argos  and 
Elis,  and  none  would  be  left  to  trouble 
him.  But  in  the  mean  time  something 
had  gone  wrong.  Clearly  there  had  been 
no  battle.  As  the  bodies  butted  against 
the  side  of  the  galley,  he  hooked  up  one 
or  two  and  found  no  trace  of  a  wound. 
Poseidon  had  grown  cranky,  and  had 
claimed  victims.  The  god  would  be  ap- 
peased by  this  time,  and  all  would  go 
well.  Danger  being  past,  he  bade  the 
men  get  ashore  and  fill  the  water-skins. 
'  God's  curse  on  all  Hellenes ! '  he  said, 
as  he  soaked  up  the  cold  water  from  the 
spring  in  the  thicket. 

About  noon  he  set  sail  again.  The 
wind  sat  in  the  northeast,  but  the  wall 
of  Pelion  turned  it  into  a  light  stern 
breeze  which  carried  him  swiftly  west- 
ward. The  four  slaves,  still  leg-weary 
and  arm-weary,  lay  like  logs  beside 
the  thwarts.  Two  slept;  one  munched 
some  salty  figs;  the  fourth,  the  head- 
man, stared  wearily  forward  with  ever 
and  again  a  glance  back  at  his  master. 
But  the  Lemnian  never  looked  his 
way.  His  head  was  on  his  breast  as  he 
steered,  and  he  brooded  on  the  sins  of 
the  Hellenes. 

He  was  of  the  old  Pelasgian  stock, 
—  the  first  lords  of  the  land,  who  had 
come  out  of  the  soil  at  the  call  of 
God.  The  pillaging  northmen  had 
crushed  his  folk  out  of  the  mainlands 
and  most  of  the  islands,  but  in  Lemnos 
they  had  met  their  match.  It  was  a 
family  story  how  every  grown  male  had 
been  slain,  and  how  the  women  long 
after  had  slaughtered  their  conquerors 
in  the  night.  '  Lemnian  deeds,'  said  the 
Hellenes,  when  they  wished  to  speak  of 
some  shameful  thing;  but  to  Atta  the 
shame  was  a  glory  to  be  cherished  for- 
ever. He  and  his  kind  were  the  ancient 
people,  and  the  gods  loved  old  things, 
as  these  new  folk  would  find.  Very 
especially  he  hated  the  men  of  Athens. 
Had  not  one  of  their  captains,  Milti- 


ades,  beaten  the  Lemnians  and  brought 
the  island  under  Athenian  sway?  True, 
it  was  a  rule  only  in  name,  for  any 
Athenian  who  came  alone  to  Lemnos 
would  soon  be  cleaving  the  air  from 
the  highest  cliff-top.  But  the  thought 
irked  his  pride,  and  he  gloated  over 
the  Persians'  coming.  The  Great  King 
from  beyond  the  deserts  would  smite 
these  outrageous  upstarts.  Atta  would 
willingly  give  earth  and  water.  It  was 
the  whim  of  a  fantastic  barbarian,  and 
would  be  well  repaid  if  the  bastard 
Hellenes  were  destroyed.  They  spoke 
his  own  tongue,  and  worshiped  his  own 
gods,  and  yet  did  evil.  Let  the  nemesis 
of  Zeus  devour  them! 

The  wreckage  pursued  him  every- 
where. Dead  men  shouldered  the  side 
of  the  galley,  and  the  straits  were  stuck 
full  of  things  like  monstrous  buoys, 
where  tall  ships  had  foundered.  At 
Artemisium  he  thought  he  saw  signs  of 
an  anchored  fleet  with  the  low  poops 
of  the  Hellenes,  and  steered  off  to  the 
northern  shores.  There,  looking  to- 
wards (Eta  and  the  Malian  Gulf,  he 
found  an  anchorage  at  sunset.  The 
waters  were  ugly  and  the  times  ill,  and 
he  had  come  on  an  enterprise  bigger 
than  he  had  dreamed.  The  Lemnian 
was  a  stout  fellow,  but  he  had  no  love 
for  needless  danger.  He  laughed  mirth- 
lessly as  he  thought  of  his  errand,  for 
he  was  going  to  Hellas,  to  the  shrine 
of  the  Hellenes. 

It  was  a  woman's  doing,  like  most 
crazy  enterprises.  Three  years  ago  his 
wife  had  labored  hard  in  childbirth, 
and  had  had  the  whims  of  laboring 
women.  Up  in  the  keep  of  Larissa, 
on  the  windy  hillside,  there  had  been 
heart-searching  and  talk  about  the 
gods.  The  little  olive-wood  Hermes, 
the  very  private  and  particular  god  of 
Atta's  folk,  was  good  enough  in  simple 
things  like  a  lambing  or  a  harvest,  but 
he  was  scarcely  fit  for  heavy  tasks. 
Atta's  wife  declared  that  her  lord  lacked 


THE  LEMNIAN 


47 


piety.  There  were  mainland  gods  who 
repaid  worship,  but  his  scorn  of  all 
Hellenes  made  him  blind  to  the  merits 
of  these  potent  divinities.  At  first  Atta 
resisted.  There  was  Attic  blood  in  his 
wife,  and  he  strove  to  argue  with  her 
unorthodox  craving.  But  the  woman 
persisted,  and  a  Lemnian  wife,  as  she 
is  beyond  other  wives  in  virtue  and 
comeliness,  is  beyond  them  in  stub- 
bornness of  temper.  A  second  time 
she  was  with  child,  and  nothing  would 
content  her  but  that  Atta  should  make 
his  prayers  to  the  stronger  gods.  Do- 
dona  was  far  away,  and  long  ere  he 
reached  it  his  throat  would  be  cut  in 
the  hills.  But  Delphi  was  but  two  days' 
journey  from  the  Malian  coast,  and 
the  god  of  Delphi,  the  Far-Darter,  had 
surprising  gifts,  if  one  were  to  credit 
travelers'  tales. 

Atta  yielded  with  an  ill  grace,  and 
out  of  his  wealth  devised  an  offering 
to  Apollo.  So  on  this  July  day  he 
found  himself  looking  across  the  gulf 
to  Kallidromos  bound  for  a  Hellenic 
shrine,  but  hating  all  Hellenes  in  his 
soul.  A  verse  of  Homer  consoled  him, 
—  the  words  which  Phocion  spoke  to 
Achilles.  'Verily  even  the  gods  may 
be  turned,  they  whose  excellence  and 
honor  and  strength  are  greater  than 
thine;  yet  even  these  do  men,  when 
they  pray,  turn  from  their  purpose 
with  offerings  of  incense  and  pleasant 
vows.'  The  Far-Darter  must  hate  the 
vfipis  of  these  Hellenes,  and  be  the  more 
ready  to  avenge  it  since  they  dared  to 
claim  his  countenance.  'No  race  has 
ownership  in  the  gods,'  a  Lemnian  song- 
maker  had  said,  when  Atta  had  been 
questioning  the  ways  of  Poseidon. 

The  following  dawn  found  him  coast- 
ing past  the  north  end  of  Eubcea,  in  the 
thin  fog  of  a  windless  summer  morn. 
He  steered  by  the  peak  of  Othrys  and 
a  spur  of  (Eta,  as  he  had  learned  from  a 
slave  who  had  traveled  the  road.  Pre- 
sently he  was  in  the  muddy  Malian 


waters,  and  the  sun  was  scattering  the 
mist  on  the  landward  side.  And  then 
he  became  aware  of  a  greater  commo- 
tion than  Poseidon's  play  with  the  ships 
off  Pelion.  A  murmur  like  a  winter's 
storm  came  seaward.  He  lowered  the 
sail  which  he  had  set  to  catch  a  chance 
breeze,  and  bade  the  men  rest  on  their 
oars.  An  earthquake  seemed  to  be 
tearing  at  the  roots  of  the  hills. 

The  mist  rolled  up  and  his  hawk  eyes 
saw  a  strange  sight.  The  water  was 
green  and  still  around  him,  but  shore- 
ward it  changed  its  color.  It  was  a 
dirty  red,  and  things  bobbed  about  in 
it  like  the  Persians  in  the  creek  of  Scia- 
thos.  On  the  strip  of  shore,  below  the 
sheer  wall  of  Kallidromos,  men  were 
fighting  —  myriads  of  men,  for  away 
toward  Locris  they  stretched  in  ranks 
and  banners  and  tents  till  the  eye  lost 
them  in  the  haze.  There  was  no  sail  on 
the  queer,  muddy,  red-edged  sea;  there 
was  no  man  in  the  hills;  but  on  that 
one  flat  ribbon  of  sand  all  the  nations 
of  the  earth  were  warring.  He  remem- 
bered about  the  place:  Thermopylae, 
they  called  it,  the  Hot  Gates.  The  Hel- 
lenes were  fighting  the  Persians  in  the 
pass  for  their  fatherland. 

Atta  was  prudent,  and  loved  not 
other  men's  quarrels.  He  gave  the 
word  to  the  rowers  to  row  seaward. 
In  twenty  strokes  they  were  in  the 
mist  again. 

Atta  was  prudent,  but  he  was  also 
stubborn.  He  spent  the  day  in  a  creek 
on  the  northern  shore  of  the  gulf,  list- 
ening to  the  weird  hum  which  came 
over  the  waters  out  of  the  haze.  He 
cursed  the  delay.  Up  on  Kallidromos 
would  be  clear,  dry  air  and  the  path 
to  Delphi  among  the  oak  woods.  The 
Hellenes  could  not  be  fighting  every- 
where at  once.  He  might  find  some 
spot  on  the  shore  far  in  their  rear,  where 
he  could  land  and  gain  the  hills.  There 
was  danger  indeed,  but  once  on  the 
ridge  he  would  be  safe;  and  by  the  time 


48 


THE  LEMNIAN 


he  came  back  the  Great  King  would 
have  swept  the  defenders  into  the  sea 
and  be  well  on  the  road  for  Athens. 
He  asked  himself  if  it  were  fitting  that 
a  Lemnian  should  be  stayed  in  his  holy 
task  by  the  struggles  of  Hellene  and 
barbarian.  His  thoughts  flew  to  his 
homestead  at  Larissa,  and  the  dark- 
eyed  wife  who  was  awaiting  his  home- 
coming. He  could  not  return  without 
Apollo's  favor;  his  manhood  and  the 
memory  of  his  lady's  eyes  forbade  it. 
So,  late  in  the  afternoon  he  pushed  off 
again  and  steered  his  galley  for  the 
south. 

About  sunset  the  mist  cleared  from 
the  sea;  but  the  dark  falls  swiftly  in  the 
shadow  of  the  high  hills,  and  Atta  had 
no  fear.  With  the  night  the  hum  sank 
to  a  whisper;  it  seemed  that  the  invad- 
ers were  drawing  off  to  camp,  for  the 
sound  receded  to  the  west.  At  the  last 
light  the  Lemnian  touched  a  rock- 
point  well  to  the  rear  of  the  defense. 
He  noticed  that  the  spume  at  the  tide's 
edge  was  reddish  and  stuck  to  his  hands 
like  gum.  Of  a  surety,  much  blood  was 
flowing  on  that  coast. 

He  bade  his  slaves  return  to  the  north 
shore  and  lie  hidden  there  to  await  him. 
When  he  came  back  he  would  light  a 
signal  fire  on  the  topmost  bluff  of  Kalli- 
dromos.  Let  them  watch  for  it  and 
come  to  take  him  off.  Then  he  seized 
his  bow  and  quiver,  and  his  short  hunt- 
ing spear,  buckled  his  cloak  about  him, 
saw  that  the  gift  to  Apollo  was  safe  in 
the  folds  of  it,  and  marched  sturdily  up 
the  hillside. 

The  moon  was  in  her  first  quarter, 
a  slim  horn  which  at  her  rise  showed 
only  the  fault  outline  of  the  hill.  Atta 
plodded  steadfastly  on,  but  he  found 
the  way  hard.  This  was  not  like  the 
crisp  sea-turf  of  Lemnos,  where  among 
the  barrows  of  the  ancient  dead,  sheep 
and  kine  could  find  sweet  fodder.  Kalli- 
dromos  ran  up  as  steep  as  the  roof  of  a 
barn.  Cytisus  and  thyme  and  juniper 


grew  rank,  but,  above  all,  the  place  was 
strewn  with  rocks,  leg-twisting  bould- 
ers, and  great  cliffs  where  eagles  dwelt. 
Being  a  seaman,  Atta  had  his  bearings. 
The  path  to  Delphi  left  the  shore  road 
near  the  Hot  Gates,  and  went  south  by 
a  rift  of  the  mountain.  If  he  went  up 
the  slope  in  a  bee-line  he  must  strike 
it  in  time  and  find  better  going.  Still 
it  was  an  eerie  place  to  be  tramping 
after  dark.  The  Hellenes  had  strange 
gods  of  the  thicket  and  hillside,  and  he 
had  no  wish  to  intrude  upon  their  sanc- 
tuaries. He  told  himself  that  next  to  the 
Hellenes  he  hated  this  country  of  theirs, 
where  a  man  sweltered  in  hot  jungles 
or  tripped  among  hidden  crags.  He 
sighed  for  the  cool  beaches  below  La- 
rissa, where  the  surf  was  white  as  the 
snows  of  Samothrace,  and  the  fisher- 
boys  sang  round  their  smoking  broth- 
pots. 

Presently  he  found  a  path.  It  was 
not  the  mule  road,  worn  by  many  feet, 
that  he  had  looked  for,  but  a  little 
track  which  twined  among  the  boulders. 
Still  it  eased  his  feet,  so  he  cleared  the 
thorns  from  his  sandals,  strapped  his 
belt  tighter,  and  stepped  out  more  con- 
fidently. Up  and  up  he  went,  making 
odd  detours  among  the  crags.  Once 
he  came  to  a  promontory,  and,  looking 
down,  saw  lights  twinkling  from  the 
Hot  Gates.  He  had  thought  the  course 
lay  more  southerly,  but  consoled  him- 
self by  remembering  that  a  mountain 
path  must  have  many  windings.  The 
great  matter  was  that  he  was  ascend- 
ing, for  he  knew  that  he  must  cross 
the  ridge  of  (Eta  before  he  struck  the 
Locrian  glens  that  led  to  the  Far- 
Darter's  shrine. 

At  what  seemed  the  summit  of  the 
first  ridge  he  halted  for  breath,  and, 
prone  on  the  thyme,  looked  back  to 
sea.  The  Hot  Gates  were  hidden,  but 
across  the  gulf  a  single  light  shone  from 
the  far  shore.  He  guessed  that  by  this 
time  his  galley  had  been  beached  and 


THE  LEMNIAN 


49 


his  slaves  were  cooking  supper.  The 
thought  made  him  homesick.  He  had 
beaten  and  cursed  these  slaves  of  his, 
times  without  number,  but  now  in  this 
strange  land  he  felt  them  kinsfolk,  men 
of  his  own  household.  Then  he  told 
himself  he  was  no  better  than  a  woman. 
Had  he  not  gone  sailing  to  Chalcedon 
and  distant  Pontus,  many  months' 
journey  from  home,  while  this  was  but 
a  trip  of  days.  In  a  week  he  would  be 
welcomed  home  by  a  smiling  wife,  with 
a  friendly  god  behind  him. 

The  track  still  bore  west,  though 
Delphi  lay  in  the  south.  Moreover,  he 
had  come  to  a  broader  road  running 
through  a  little  tableland.  The  highest 
peaks  of  (Eta  were  dark  against  the 
sky,  and  around  him  was  a  flat  glade 
where  oaks  whispered  in  the  night 
breezes.  By  this  time  he  judged  from 
the  stars  that  midnight  had  passed,  and 
he  began  to  consider  whether,  now  that 
he  was  beyond  the  fighting,  he  should 
not  sleep  and  wait  for  dawn.  He  made 
up  his  mind  to  find  a  shelter,  and  in 
the  aimless  way  of  the  night  traveler, 
pushed  on  and  on  in  the  quest  of  it. 
The  truth  is,  his  mind  was  on  Lemnos 
and  a  dark-eyed,  white-armed  dame 
spinning  in  the  evening  by  the  thresh- 
old. His  eyes  roamed  among  the  oak 
trees,  but  vacantly  and  idly,  and  many 
a  mossy  corner  was  passed  unheeded. 
He  forgot  his  ill-temper,  and  hummed 
cheerfully  the  song  his  reapers  sang 
in  the  barley-fields  below  his  orchard. 
It  was  a  song  of  sea-men  turned  hus- 
bandmen, for  the  gods  it  called  on  were 
the  gods  of  the  sea. 

Suddenly  he  found  himself  crouching 
among  the  young  oaks,  peering  and 
listening.  There  was  something  com- 
.ing  from  the  west.  It  was  like  the  first 
mutterings  of  a  storm  in  a  narrow  har- 
bor, a  steady  rustling  and  whispering. 
It  was  not  wind ;  he  knew  winds  too  well 
to  be  deceived.  It  was  the  tramp  of 

VOL.  107  -NO.  1 


light-shod  feet  among  the  twigs  — 
many  feet,  for  the  sound  remained 
steady,  while  the  noise  of  a  few  men 
will  rise  and  fall.  They  were  coming 
fast  and  coming  silently.  The  war  had 
reached  far  up  Kallidromos. 

Atta  had  played  this  game  often  in 
the  little  island  wars.  Very  swiftly  he 
ran  back  and  away  from  the  path,  up 
the  slope  which  he  knew  to  be  the  first 
ridge  of  Kallidromos.  The  army,  what- 
ever it  might  be,  was  on  the  Delphian 
road.  Were  the  Hellenes  about  to  turn 
the  flank  of  the  Great  King? 

A  moment  later  he  laughed  at  his 
folly.  For  the  men  began  to  appear, 
and  they  were  coming  to  meet  him, 
coming  from  the  west.  Lying  close  in 
the  brush-wood,  he  could  see  them 
clearly.  It  was  well  he  had  left  the  road, 
for  they  stuck  to  it,  following  every 
winding,  —  crouching,  too,  like  hunters 
after  deer.  The  first  man  he  saw  was  a 
Hellene,  but  the  ranks  behind  were  no 
Hellenes.  There  was  no  glint  of  bronze 
or  gleam  of  fair  skin.  They  were  dark, 
long-haired  fellows,  with  spears  like 
his  own  and  round  eastern  caps  and 
egg-shaped  bucklers.  Then  Atta  re- 
joiced. It  was  the  Great  King  who  was 
turning  the  flank  of  the  Hellenes.  They 
guarded  the  gate,  the  fools,  while  the 
enemy  slipped  through  the  roof.  . 

He  did  not  rejoice  long.  The  van  of 
the  army  was  narrow  and  kept  to  the 
path,  but  the  men  behind  were  strag- 
gling all  over  the  hillside.  Another 
minute  and  he  would  be  discovered. 
The  thought  was  cheerless.  It  was  true 
that  he  was  an  islander  and  friendly  to 
the  Persian,  but  up  on  the  heights  who 
would  listen  to  his  tale?  He  would  be 
taken  for  a  spy,  and  one  of  those  thirsty 
spears  would  drink  his  blood.  It  must 
be  farewell  to  Delphi  for  the  moment, 
he  thought,  or  farewell  to  Lemnos  for- 
ever. Crouching  low,  he  ran  back  and 
away  from  the  path  to  the  crest  of  the 
sea-ridge  of  Kallidromos. 


50 


THE  LEMNIAN 


The  men  came  no  nearer  him.  They 
were  keeping  roughly  to  the  line  of  the 
path,  and  drifted  through  the  oak  wood 
before  him,  an  army  without  end. 
He  had  scarcely  thought  there  were 
so  many  fighting  men  in  the  world. 
He  resolved  to  lie  there  on  the  crest, 
in  the  hope  that  ere  the  first  light  they 
would  be  gone.  Then  he  would  push 
on  to  Delphi,  leaving  them  to  settle 
their  quarrels  behind  him.  These  were 
hard  times  for  a  pious  pilgrim. 

But  another  noise  caught  his  ear 
from  the  right.  The  army  had  flanking 
squadrons,  and  men  were  coming  along 
the  ridge.  Very  bitter  anger  rose  in 
Atta's  heart.  He  had  cursed  the  Hel- 
lenes, and  now  he  cursed  the  barbarians 
no  less.  Nay,  he  cursed  all  war,  that 
spoiled  the  errands  of  peaceful  folk. 
And  then,  seeking  safety,  he  dropped 
over  the  crest  on  to  the  steep  shore- 
ward face  of  the  mountain. 

In  an  instant  his  breath  had  gone 
from  him.  He  slid  down  a  long  slope  of 
screes,  and  then  with  a  gasp  found  him- 
self falling  sheer  into  space.  Another 
second,  and  he  was  caught  in  a  tangle 
of  bush,  and  then  dropped  once  more 
upon  screes,  where  he  clutched  de- 
sperately for  handhold.  Breathless  and 
bleeding,  he  came  to  anchor  on  a  shelf 
of  greensward,  and  found  himself 
blinking  up  at  the  crest  which  seemed 
to  tower  a  thousand  feet  above.  There 
were  men  on  the  crest  now.  He  heard 
them  speak,  and  felt  that  they  were 
looking  down. 

The  shock  kept  him  still  till  the  men 
had  passed.  Then  the  terror  of  the 
place  gripped  him  and  he  tried  fever- 
ishly to  retrace  his  steps.  A  dweller  all 
his  days  among  gentle  downs,  he  grew 
dizzy  with  the  sense  of  being  hung 
in  space.  But  the  only  fruit  of  his 
efforts  was  to  set  him  slipping  again. 
This  time  he  pulled  up  at  a  root  of 
gnarled  oak,  which  overhung  the  sheer- 
est cliff  on  Kallidromos.  The  danger 


brought  his  wits  back.  He  sullenly  re- 
viewed his  case  and  found  it  desperate. 

He  could  not  go  back,  and,  even  if  he 
did,  he  would  meet  the  Persians.  If  he 
went  on  he  would  break  his  neck,  or  at 
the  best  fall  into  the  Hellenes'  hands. 
Oddly  enough  he  feared  his  old  enemies 
less  than  his  friends.  He  did  not  think 
that  the  Hellenes  would  butcher  him. 
Again,  he  might  sit  perched  in  his  ey- 
rie, till  they  settled  their  quarrel  or  he 
fell  off.  He  rejected  this  last  way.  Fall 
off  he  should  for  certain,  unless  he  kept 
moving.  Already  he  was  giddy  with 
the  vertigo  of  the  heights. 

It  was  growing  lighter.  Suddenly  he 
was  looking  not  into  a  black  world  but 
to  a  pearl-gray  floor,  far  beneath  him. 
It  was  the  sea,  the  thing  he  knew  and 
loved.  The  sight  screwed  up  his  cour- 
age. He  remembered  that  he  was  a 
Lemnian  and  a  seafarer.  He  would  be 
conquered  neither  by  rock  nor  by  Hel- 
lene nor  by  the  Great  King.  Least  of 
all  by  the  last,  who  was  a  barbarian. 
Slowly,  with  clenched  teeth  and  nar- 
rowed eyes,  he  began  to  clamber  down 
a  ridge  which  flanked  the  great  cliff  of 
Kallidromos.  His  plan  was  to  reach 
the  shore,  and  take  the  road  to  the  east 
before  the  Persians  completed  their 
circuit.  Some  instinct  told  him  that  a 
great  army  would  not  take  the  track 
he  had  mounted  by.  There  must  be 
some  longer  and  easier  way  debouch- 
ing farther  down  the  coast.  He  might 
yet  have  the  good  luck  to  slip  between 
them  and  the  sea. 

The  two  hours  which  followed  tried 
his  courage  hard.  Thrice  he  fell,  and 
only  a  juniper  root  stood  between  him 
and  death.  His  hands  grew  ragged,  and 
his  nails  were  worn  to  the  quick.  He 
had  long  ago  lost  his  weapons;  his  cloak 
was  in  shreds,  all  save  the  breast-fold 
which  held  the  gift  to  Apollo.  The 
heavens  brightened,  but  he  dared  not 
look  around.  He  knew  that  he  was 
traversing  awesome  places  where  a  goat 


THE  LEMNIAN 


61 


would  scarcely  tread.  Many  times  he 
gave  up  hope  of  life.  His  head  was 
swimming,  and  he  was  so  deadly  sick 
that  often  he  had  to  lie  gasping  on  some 
shoulder  of  rock  less  steep  than  the 
rest.  But  his  anger  kept  him  to  his 
purpose.  He  was  filled  with  fury  at  the 
Hellenes.  It  was  they  and  their  folly 
that  had  brought  him  these  mischances. 
Some  day  — 

He  found  himself  sitting  blinking 
on  the  shore  of  the  sea.  A  furlong  off, 
the  water  was  lapping  on  the  reefs.  A 
man,  larger  than  human  in  the  morn- 
ing mist,  was  standing  above  him. 

'Greeting,  stranger,'  said  the  voice. 
'By  Hermes,  you  choose  the  difficult 
roads  to  travel.' 

Atta  felt  for  broken  bones,  and,  re- 
assured, struggled  to  his  feet. 

'God's  curse  upon  all  mountains,' 
he  said.  He  staggered  to  the  edge  of 
the  tide  and  laved  his  brow.  The 
savor  of  salt  revived  him.  He  turned, 
to  find  the  tall  man  at  his  elbow,  and 
noted  how  worn  and  ragged  he  was, 
and  yet  how  upright. 

'When  a  pigeon  is  flushed  from  the 
rocks,  there  is  a  hawk  near,'  said  the 
voice. 

Atta  was  angry.  '  A  hawk! '  he  cried. 
'Ay,  an  army  of  eagles.  There  will  be 
some  rare  flushing  of  Hellenes  before 
evening.' 

'What  frightened  you,  islander? 'the 
stranger  asked.  'Did  a  wolf  bark  up 
on  the  hillside?' 

'Ay,  a  wolf.  The  wolf  from  the  East 
with  a  multitude  of  wolflings.  There 
will  be  fine  eating  soon  in  the  pass.' 

The  man's  face  grew  dark.  He  put 
his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  called.  Half 
a  dozen  sentries  ran  to  join  him.  He 
spoke  to  them  in  the  harsh  Lacedaemo- 
nian speech  which  made  Atta  sick  to 
hear.  They  talked  with  the  back  of  the 
throat,  and  there  was  not  an  's'  in 
their  words. 


'There  is  mischief  in  the  hills,'  the 
first  man  said.  'This  islander  has  been 
frightened  down  over  the  rocks.  The 
Persian  is  stealing  a  march  on  us.' 

The  sentries  laughed.  One  quoted 
a  proverb  about  island  courage.  Atta's 
wrath  flared  and  he  forgot  himself.  He 
had  no  wish  to  warn  the  Hellenes,  but 
it  irked  his  pride  to  be  thought  a  liar. 
He  began  to  tell  his  story,  hastily,  an- 
grily, confusedly;  and  the  men  still 
laughed. 

Then  he  turned  eastward  and  saw 
the  proof  before  him.  The  light  had 
grown  and  the  sun  was  coming  up  over 
Pelion.  The  first  beam  fell  on  the  east- 
ern ridge  of  Kallidromos,  and  there, 
clear  on  the  sky-line,  was  the  proof. 
The  Persian  was  making  a  wide  circuit, 
but  moving  shoreward.  In  a  little  he 
would  be  at  the  coast,  and  by  noon  at 
the  Hellenes'  rear. 

His  hearers  doubted  no  more.  Atta 
was  hurried  forward  through  the  lines 
of  the  Greeks  to  the  narrow  throat  of 
the  pass,  where  behind  a  rough  rampart 
of  stones  lay  the  Lacedaemonian  head- 
quarters. He  was  still  giddy  from  the 
heights,  and  it  was  in  a  giddy  dream 
that  he  traversed  the  misty  shingles  of 
the  beach  amid  ranks  of  sleeping  war- 
riors. It  was  a  grim  place,  for  there 
were  dead  and  dying  in  it,  and  blood  on 
every  stone.  But  in  the  lee  of  the  wall 
little  fires  were  burning,  and  slaves  were 
cooking  breakfast.  The  smell  of  roast- 
ing flesh  came  pleasantly  to  his  nostrils, 
and  he  remembered  that  he  had  had 
no  meal  since  he  crossed  the  gulf. 

Then  he  found  himself  the  centre  of 
a  group  who  had  the  air  of  kings.  They 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  years  in  war. 
Never  had  he  seen  faces  so  worn  and  so 
terribly  scarred.  The  hollows  in  their 
cheeks  gave  them  the  air  of  smiling, 
and  yet  they  were  grave.  Their  scarlet 
vests  were  torn  and  muddied,  and  the 
armor  which  lay  near  was  dinted  like 
the  scrap-iron  before  a  smithy  door. 


52 


THE  LEMNIAN 


But  what  caught  his  attention  was  the 
eyes  of  the  men.  They  glittered  as 
no  eyes  he  had  ever  seen  before  glit- 
tered. The  sight  cleared  his  bewilder- 
ment and  took  the  pride  out  of  his 
heart.  He  could  not  pretend  to  despise 
a  folk  who  looked  like  Ares  fresh  from 
the  wars  of  the  Immortals. 

They  spoke  among  themselves  in 
quiet  voices.  Scouts  came  and  went, 
and  once  or  twice  one  of  the  men,  tall- 
er than  the  rest,  asked  Atta  a  question. 
The  Lemnian  sat  in  the  heart  of  the 
group,  sniffing  the  smell  of  cooking, 
and  looking  at  the  rents  in  his  cloak 
and  the  long  scratches  on  his  legs. 
Something  was  pressing  on  his  breast, 
and  he  found  that  it  was  Apollo's  gift. 
He  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  Delphi 
seemed  beyond  the  moon,  and  his  er- 
rand a  child's  dream. 

Then  the  King,  for  so  he  thought  of 
the  tall  man,  spoke:  — 

'  You  have  done  us  a  service,  islander. 
The  Persian  is  at  our  back  and  front, 
and  there  will  be  no  escape  for  those 
who  stay.  Our  allies  are  going  home, 
for  they  do  not  share  our  vows.  We  of 
Lacedaemon  wait  in  the  pass.  If  you 
go  with  the  men  of  Corinth  you  will 
find  a  place  of  safety  before  noon.  No 
doubt  in  the  Euripus  there  is  some  boat 
to  take  you  to  your  own  land.' 

He  spoke  courteously,  not  in  the  rude 
Athenian  way;  and  somehow  the  quiet- 
ness of  his  voice  and  his  glittering  eyes 
roused  wild  longings  in  Atta's  heart. 
His  island  pride  was  face  to  face  with 
a  greater  —  greater  than  he  had  ever 
dreamed  of. 

'Bid  yon  cooks  give  me  some  broth,' 
he  said  gruffly.  'I  am  faint.  After  I 
have  eaten,  I  will  speak  with  you.' 

He  was  given  food,  and  as  he  ate  he 
thought.  He  was  on  trial  before  these 
men  of  Lacedsemon.  More,  the  old 
faith  of  the  Islands,  the  pride  of  the 
first  masters,  was  at  stake  in  his  hands. 
He  had  boasted  that  he  and  his  kind 


were  the  last  of  the  men;  now  these 
Hellenes  of  Lacedsemon  were  preparing 
a  great  deed,  and  they  deemed  him 
unworthy  to  share  in  it.  They  offered 
him  safety.  Could  he  brook  the  in- 
sult? 

He  had  forgotten  that  the  cause  of 
the  Persian  was  his;  that  the  Hellenes 
were  the  foes  of  his  race.  He  saw 
only  that  the  last  test  of  manhood  was 
preparing,  and  the  manhood  in  him 
rose  to  greet  the  trial.  An  odd,  wild 
ecstasy  surged  in  his  veins.  It  was  not 
the  lust  of  battle,  for  he  had  no  love  of 
slaying,  or  hate  for  the  Persian,  for  he 
was  his  friend.  It  was  the  sheer  joy 
of  proving  that  the  Lemnian  stock 
had  a  starker  pride  than  these  men  of 
Lacedsemon.  They  would  die  for  their 
fatherland  and  their  vows,  but  he,  for 
a  whim,  a  scruple,  a  delicacy  of  honor. 
His  mind  was  so  clear  that  no  other 
course  occurred  to  him.  There  was 
only  one  way  for  a  man.  He  too  would 
be  dying  for  his  fatherland,  for  through 
him  the  island  race  would  be  ennobled 
in  the  eyes  of  gods  and  men. 

Troops  were  filing  fast  to  the  east  — 
Thebans,  Corinthians. 

'Time  flies,  islander,'  said  the  King's 
voice.  'The  hours  of  safety  are  slip- 
ping past.' 

Atta  looked  up  carelessly.  'I  will 
stay,'  he  said.  'God's  curse  on  all  Hel- 
lenes! Little  I  care  for  your  quarrels. 
It  is  nothing  to  me  if  your  Hellas  is 
under  the  heel  of  the  East.  But  I  care 
much  for  brave  men.  It  shall  never  be 
said  that  a  man  of  Lemnos,  a  son  of  the 
old  race,  fell  back  when  Death  threat- 
ened. I  stay  with  you,  men  of  Lace- 
dsemon.' 

The  King's  eyes  glittered;  they 
seemed  to  peer  into  his  heart. 

'It  appears  they  breed  men  in  the 
islands,'  he  said.  'But  you  err.  Death 
does  not  threaten.  Death  awaits  us.' 

*  It  is  all  the  same,'  said  Atta.  '  But  I 
crave  a  boon.  Let  me  fight  my  last  fight 


THE  LEMNIAN 


53 


by  your  side.  I  am  of  older  stock  than 
you,  and  a  king  in  my  own  country. 
I  would  strike  my  last  blow  among 
kings.' 

There  was  an  hour  of  respite  before 
battle .  was  joined,  and  Atta  spent  it 
by  the  edge  of  the  sea.  He  had 
been  given  arms,  and  in  girding  him- 
self for  the  fight  he  had  found  Apol- 
lo's offering  in  his  breast-fold.  He  was 
done  with  the  gods  of  the  Hellenes. 
His  offering  should  go  to  the  gods 
of  his  own  people.  So,  calling  upon 
Poseidon,  he  flung  the  little  gold  cup 
far  out  to  sea.  It  flashed  hi  the  sun- 
light, and  then  sank  in  the  soft  green 
tides  so  noiselessly  that  it  seemed  as 
if  the  hand  of  the  sea-god  had  been 
stretched  to  take  it.  'Hail,  Poseidon!' 
the  Lemnian  cried.  '  I  am  bound  this 
day  for  the  Ferryman.  To  you  only  I 
make  prayer,  and  to  the  little  Hermes 
of  Larissa.  Be  kind  to  my  kin  when  they 
travel  the  sea,  and  keep  them  islanders 
and  seafarers  forever.  Hail,  and  fare- 
well, God  of  my  own  folk!' 

Then,  while  the  little  waves  lapped 
on  the  white  sand,  Atta  made  a  song. 
He  was  thinking  of  the  homestead  far 
up  in  the  green  downs,  looking  over  to 
the  snows  of  Samothrace.  At  this  hour 
in  the  morning  there  would  be  a  tinkle 
of  sheep-bells  as  the  flocks  went  down 
to  the  low  pastures.  Cool  winds  would 
be  blowing,  and  the  noise  of  the  surf 
below  the  cliffs  would  come  faint  to  the 
ear.  In  the  hall  the  maids  would  be 
spinning,  while  their  dark-haired  mis- 
tress would  be  casting  swift  glances  to 
the  doorway,  lest  it  might  be  filled  any 
moment  by  the  form  of  her  returning 
lord.  Outside  in  the  checkered  sun- 
light of  the  orchard  the  child  would  be 
playing  with  his  nurse,  crooning  in 
childish  syllables  the  chanty  his  father 
had  taught  him.  And  at  the  thought 
of  his  home  a  great  passion  welled  up 
in  Atta's  heart.  It  was  not  regret,  but 


joy  and  pride  and  aching  love.  In  his 
antique  island-creed  the  death  he  was 
awaiting  was  no  other  than  a  bridal. 
He  was  dying  for  the  things  he  loved, 
and  by  his  death  they  would  be  blessed 
eternally.  He  would  not  have  long  to 
wait  before  bright  eyes  came  to  greet 
him  in  the  House  of  Shadows. 

So  Atta  made  the  Song  of  Atta,  and 
sang  it  then  and  later  in  the  press  of 
battle.  It  was  a  simple  song,  like  the 
lays  of  seafarers.  It  put  into  rough 
verse  the  thought  which  cheers  the 
heart  of  all  adventurers,  nay,  which 
makes  adventure  possible  for  those  who 
have  much  to  leave.  It  spoke  of  the 
shining  pathway  of  the  sea  which  is 
the  Great  Uniter.  A  man  may  lie  dead 
in  Pontus  or  beyond  the  Pillars  of 
Hercules,  but  if  he  dies  on  the  shore 
there  is  nothing  between  him  and  his 
fatherland.  It  spoke  of  a  battle  all  the 
long  dark  night  in  a  strange  place  —  a 
place  of  marshes  and  black  cliffs  and 
shadowy  terrors. 

In  the  dawn  the  sweet  light  comes,' 
said  the  song,  'and  the  soli  winds  and 
the  tides  will  bear  me  home.'  .  .  . 

When  in  the  evening  the  Persians 
took  toll  of  the  dead,  they  found  one 
man  who  puzzled  them.  He  lay  among 
the  tall  Lacedaemonians,  on  the  very 
lip  of  the  sea,  and  around  him  were 
swaths  of  their  countrymen.  It  look- 
ed as  if  he  had  been  fighting  his  way 
to  the  water,  and  had  been  overtaken 
by  death  as  his  feet  reached  the  edge. 
Nowhere  in  the  pass  did  the  dead  lie 
so  thick,  and  yet  he  was  no  Hellene. 
He  was  torn  like  a  deer  that  the  dogs 
had  worried,  but  the  little  left  of  his 
garments  and  his  features  spoke  of 
Eastern  race.  The  survivors  could  tell 
nothing  except  that  he  had  fought  like 
a  god,  and  had  been  singing  all  the 
while. 

The  matter  came  to  the  ear  of  the 
Great  King,  who  was  sore  enough  at  the 


54 


THE  LEMNIAN 


issue  of  the  day.  That  one  of  his  men 
had  performed  feats  of  valor  beyond 
the  Hellenes  was  a  pleasant  tale  to  tell. 
And  so  his  captains  reported  it.  Ac- 
cordingly, when  the  fleet  from  Arte- 
misium  arrived  next  morning,  and  all 
but  a  few  score  Persians  were  shoveled 
into  holes  that  the  Hellenes  might  seem 
to  have  been  conquered  by  a  lesser 
force,  Atta's  body  was  laid  out  with 
pomp  in  the  midst  of  the  Lacedaemo- 
nians. And  the  seamen  rubbed  their 
eyes  and  thanked  their  strange  gods 
that  one  man  of  the  East  had  been 
found  to  match  those  terrible  warriors 
whose  name  was  a  nightmare.  Fur- 
ther, the  Great  King  gave  orders  that 
the  body  of  Atta  should  be  embalmed 
and  carried  with  the  army,  and  that 
his  name  and  kin  should  be  sought  out 
and  duly  honored.  This  latter  was  a 
task  too  hard  for  the  staff,  and  no  more 
was  heard  of  it  till  months  after,  when 
the  King,  in  full  flight  after  Salamis, 
bethought  him  of  the  one  man  who  had 
not  played  him  false.  Finding  that  his 
lieutenants  had  nothing  to  tell  him,  he 
eased  five  of  them  of  their  heads. 

As  it  happened,  the  deed  was  not 
quite  forgotten.  An  islander,  a  Les- 
bian and  a  cautious  man,  had  fought 
at  Thermopylae  in  the  Persian  ranks, 
and  had  heard  Atta's  singing  and  seen 
how  he  fell.  Long  afterwards  some 
errand  took  this  man  to  Lemnos,  and 
in  the  evening,  speaking  with  the  Eld- 
ers, he  told  his  tale  and  repeated  some- 
thing of  the  song.  There  was  that  in 
the  words  which  gave  the  Lemnians  a 


clue,  the  mention,  I  think,  of  the  olive- 
wood  Hermes  and  the  snows  of  Samo- 
thrace.  So  Atta  came  to  great  honor 
among  his  own  people,  and  his  memory 
and  his  words  were  handed  down  to 
the  generations.  The  song  became  a 
favorite  island  lay,  and  for  centuries 
throughout  the  ^Egean  seafaring  men 
sang  it  when  they  turned  their  prows 
to  wild  seas.  Nay,  it  traveled  farther, 
for  you  will  find  part  of  it  stolen  by 
Euripides  and  put  in  a  chorus  of  the 
Andromache.  There  are  echoes  of  it  in 
some  of  the  epigrams  of  the  Anthology; 
and  though  the  old  days  have  gone,  the 
simple  fisher-folk  still  sing  snatches 
in  their  barbarous  dialect.  The  Klephts 
used  to  make  a  catch  of  it  at  night 
round  their  fires  in  the  hills,  and  only 
the  other  day  I  met  a  man  in  Scyros 
who  had  collected  a  dozen  variants 
and  was  publishing  them  in  a  dull 
book  on  island  folklore. 

In  the  centuries  which  followed  the 
great  fight,  the  sea  fell  away  from  the 
roots  of  the  cliffs,  and  left  a  mile  of 
marshland.  About  fifty  years  ago  a 
peasant,  digging  in  a  rice-field,  found 
the  cup  which  Atta  had  given  to  Posei- 
don. There  was  much  talk  about  the 
discovery,  and  scholars  debated  hotly 
about  its  origin.  To-day  it  is  in  the 
Munich  Museum,  and  according  to  the 
new  fashion  in  archaeology  it  is  labeled 
'Minoan,'and  kept  in  the  Cretan  Sec- 
tion. But  anyone  who  looks  carefully 
will  see  behind  the  rim  a  neat  little 
carving  of  a  dolphin;  and  I  happen  to 
know  that  this.was  the  private  badge  of 
Atta's  house. 


MOUfiRE'S  BIRTHDAY 


BY   EDWINA   STANTON   BABCOCK 


WHEN  the  Seine  is  dark  and  secret, 
and  tries  to  run  away  from  itself;  when 
rows  of  soft  lights  stretch  away  into 
luring  infinities,  and  green  and  scarlet 
lanterns  dart  on  and  off  the  bridges 
—  then  the  taxi-motors  scramble  like 
black  beetles  along  the  boulevards  of 
Paris.  The  taxi-motors  are  rapid  and 
gay,  and  bear  sweet  forms  amd  lovely 
countenances,  and  there  is  one  motor- 
cab  with  three  little  white  faces  pressed 
against  its  windows.  This  cab  is  shoot- 
ing along  toward  the  Theatre  Francais, 
and  it  holds 

Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green 
And  Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen 
And  Kate  with  the  scarlet  feather. 

It  is  they,  the  Privileged;  wide-awake 
and  excited.  For,  behold,  this  is  Paris, 
city  ignored  of  the  Bible  and  the  De- 
claration of  Independence,  but  in  all 
fashion-sheets  and  popular  novels  giv- 
en honorable  mention.  Paris  is  under- 
stood by  the  Privileged  as  the  place 
where  they  shall  at  last  become  grown 
up.  For  the  rest,  their  fathers  have 
given  them  letters  of  unlimited  credit, 
and  they  have  as  chaperon  a  Gracious 
Lady  who  not  only  smooths  paths,  but 
trims  them  with  flowers.  Three  faces, 
downy  with  inexperience,  severe  with 
youth,  look  critically  out  upon  hazy 
avenue  and  dim,  suggestive  tower. 
Ahem,  this  is  Paris!  The  Privileged 
pull  at  their  long  gloves  and  try  to 
keep  from  immature  enthusiasm. 

It  is  the  first  week,  and  the  Privi- 
leged have  never  before  been  to  a  Eu- 
ropean theatre.  The  Gracious  Lady 
wonders  how  they  will  regard  what  to 


her  is  a  great  satisfaction.  As  the  taxi 
careers  along,  she  gives  her  charges 
a  little  sketch  of  the  Comedie  Fran- 
caise  and  what  it  stands  for;  she  also 
speaks  of  Moliere.  She  does  these 
things  with  some  exactness,  after  the 
tiresome  fashion  of  maturity.  The 
Privileged  allow  her  to  talk;  they  even 
ask  courteous  little  questions — a  chap- 
eron is  a  chaperon,  and  one  must  al- 
ways be  'nice'  to  her. 

The  taxi  whirls  into  the  fountained 
square  of  the  Place  du  Theatre  Fran- 
cais. A  beggar  opens  the  door  and 
gets  his  few  sous.  The  wet  spots  on 
the  rainy  pavement  are  spatted  with 
colored  gleams  as  the  Privileged  de- 
scend and  flutter  into  the  foyer.  They 
are  impressed  by  the  grave,  impersonal 
gaze  of  the  brilliant  young  dragoons 
who  guard  the  entrance,  and  comment 
upon  the  superior  appearance  of  these 
young  cuirassiers.  They  take  care  to 
couch  what  they  have  to  say  in  lan- 
guage laboriously  adult. 

'Do  you  suppose  they  realize  the 
solemnity  of  the  occasion  ? '  says  Maud 
with  the  mantle  of  silver-green. 

'  If  Louis  the  Fourteenth  was  inter- 
ested in  this  theatre,  and  Napoleon 
kept  it  up  in  memory  of  Moliere,  why 
then  he  must  have  been  a  very  popular 
writer,'  remarks  Bell  with  her  bonnet 
of  satin  sheen. 

'I  have  a  thrill  going  up  and  down 
my  back,'  announces  Kate  with  the 
scarlet  feather. 

It  is  the  night  of  the  two  hundred 
and  eighty-eighth  anniversary  of  the 
birthday  of  Moliere.  It  may  be  that 

65 


56 


MOLIERE'S  BIRTHDAY 


the  black-gowned  maids  who  take  the 
wraps  and  give  the  seat-checks  with 
their  mannerly,  *  Voici,  madame,' 
'Quel  numero,  monsieur?'  *  Pardon, 
mademoiselle,'  are  dressier  than  usual. 
At  any  rate,  the  Privileged  see  with 
delight  the  fresh  pink-and-white  ros- 
ettes in  their  tightly  twisted  top-knots. 
It  may  be  added  that  there  is  very 
little  about  the  Theatre  Francais  that 
the  Privileged  do  not  see.  They  notice 
the  gaudy  red-and-gold  of  the  beloved 
old  theatre,  the  small  cave-like  loges, 
the  famous  ugly  curtain,  the  bad  ar- 
rangement of  the  vomitoires,  the  as- 
bestos sheet  that  is  solemnly  raised 
and  lowered  three  lawful  times.  Then 
they  take  their  programmes,  and  some- 
what doubtfully  scraping  together  their 
boarding-school  French,  proceed  to 
study  the  'analization'  of  Le  Manage 
d'Ang6lique,  and  the  two  Moliere  plays, 
L'Avare  and  Les  Precieuses  Ridicules. 

'  L'Avare, '  reads  Kate,  —  and  the 
Gracious  Lady  notices  that  her  young 
voice  already  has  the  little  American 
croak, —  'L'Avare —  that  means  miser, 
you  know —  that's  the  horridest  thing 
in  the  world  to  be.' 

'I  don't  think  so,'  objects  Maud; 
'my  grandfather  was  a  miser,  and  so 
my  father  has  plenty  of  money.' 

'How  awful  to  say  right  out  that 
your  own  grandfather  was  a  miser;  it 
shows  you  can't  be  well-born.' 

'It's  snobbish  not  to  be  willing  to 
tell  what  your  parents  were,  even  if 
they  were  rag-pickers,'  retorts  the  val- 
iant Maud. 

'  I  thought  it  was  only  being  a  snob 
when  you  did  n't  want  your  poor  re- 
lations to  come  to  your  parties,'  pon- 
ders little  Bell. 

The  Gracious  Lady,  overhearing,  con- 
ceals a  smile.  Being  'well-born*  in 
America,  being  a  'snob'  in  America  — 
how  has  it  been  possible  for  these  terms 
to  find  root  in  the  stern  soil  whose  only 
hope  of  fair  harvest  is  in  its  dream  of 


equal  brotherhood?  Who,  oh,  who  is 
to  teach  the  little  Privileged  that  there 
is  a  vast  gulf  fixed  between  opportun- 
ity and  birth.  But,  as  she  muses,  the 
theatre  is  filling,  and  the  chatter  of  the 
Privileged  is  forgotten  for  the  spectacle 
of  the  house. 

The  audience  of  the  evening  of 
'Moliere's  Birthday'  is  an  interesting 
audience,  though  not,  to  the  eye  grown 
accustomed  to  famous  faces  and  dis- 
tinguished features,  more  brilliant  than 
might  be  every  night  at  every  theatre 
in  Paris.  As  usual,  people  in  the  par- 
quet stand  and  stare.  As  always,  the 
good  leaven  of  bourgeosie  leavens  the 
mass.  The  bearded  men  have  fresh 
skins  and  quiet  eyes;  there  is  charm  in 
the  plain  women  in  their  dainty  even- 
ing simplicity. 

In  a  nearby  loge,  sitting  next  to  a 
beautiful  Russian,  is  a  famous  Italian 
writer.  A  well-beloved  editor  of  Le 
Figaro  rears  his  lion's  head  and  massive 
shoulders  in  the  corridors.  In  the  bal- 
cony is  a  popular  poet;  his  Bacchus  face, 
with  its  voluptuous  lips,  has  strong 
world-charm,  and  his  restless  head,  bil- 
lowy with  gray  hair,  an  indescribable 
look  of  the  vine-wreath.  There  is  the 
usual  sprinkling  of  English,  Teuton, 
and  Syrian  faces,  here  and  there  an 
American  or  a  Spaniard,  also  the  signi- 
ficantly lackadaisical  face  and  figure 
of  the  younger  Frenchman,  whose 
gestures  are  pure  pose,  whose  oiled 
tongue  runs  with  an  empty  clack  in 
worn  grooves  of  flattery,  whose  waist- 
coat is  his  sole  excuse  for  being. 

All  around,  the  conversation  is  kept 
tossed  in  the  air  like  a  cloud  of  silver 
and  gold  balls  spun  on  the  perfumed 
jet  d 'esprit. 

'There  is  your  wife,'  says  a  graceful 
Frenchwoman  to  the  man  sitting  be- 
side her.  Her  smooth  head,  coified  to 
seductive  shining,  takes  a  subtle  tilt, 
her  perfumed  hand  fingers  his  coat- 
sleeve. 


MOLIERE'S  BIRTHDAY 


57 


'Oh,  mon  Dieu!  c.a  c'est  trop  fort,' 
comes  the  careless  answer.  The  French- 
man goes  on  to  say  that  it  is  the  third 
time  he  has  run  across  his  wife  this 
week,  and  that  the  sameness  of  it  grows 
tiresome. 

The  Gracious  Lady,  tolerantly  over- 
hearing, glances  anxiously  in  the  direc- 
tion of  her  charges.  This  sort  of  thing, 
indicative  as  it  may  be  of  the  curi- 
ous current  of  infidelity  which  passes 
through  the  shoals  and  deeps  of  French 
society,  is  nevertheless  not  so  shocking 
as  it  might  seem  to  little  ears  placed 
always  to  the  ground,  keen  eyes  jump- 
ing at  trails.  To  her  dismay,  however, 
she  finds  the  heads  of  the  Privileged 
turned  in  a  much  more  doubtful  direc- 
tion, namely,  toward  a  certain  promin- 
ent loge  near  the  stage. 

Out  of  the  dimness  of  this  loge  grows 
a  mysterious  face,  its  oval  curved  to 
a  thin  voluptuousness,  whitened  to  a 
moon  radiance,  in  which  the  scarlet 
of  sensual  lips  quivers  like  a  flame.  The 
great  eyes,  set  always  against  the  chal- 
lenging blackness  of  an  enormous  hat, 
turn  here  and  there;  soft  plumes  and 
a  soft  white  boa  caress  a  face  appar- 
ently all  indifference,  yet  all  intensity, 
the  expression  of  a  personality  half 
panther,  half  poisonous  exotic,  which 
expands  in  the  gloom  of  the  loge  like 
some  night-blooming  swamp  flower.  It 
is  a  human  entity,  however,  and  near  it 
is  a  weak-jawed  man,  who,  as  he  bends 
to  speak,  pulls  up  the  screens. 

The  Privileged  rustle  with  excite- 
ment. 'A  girl  at  school  told  me  that 
when  they  pulled  the  screens  up  like 
that,  that  —  that  —  Gracious,  she 's 
pulling  up  another!' 

A  quick  little  hand  flies  out,  indi- 
cating the  loge;  as  quickly  turn  three 
young  heads,  and  the  Privileged,  all 
interest  and  naive  eagerness,  stare. 

'I  wouldn't,  dear';  the  Gracious 
Lady  feels  helpless  regret.  Frankness, 
she  reflects,  is  commendable,  curiosity 


excusable,  but  such  frank  curiosity  is 
deplorable. 

The  candid  eyes  of  the  Privileged 
search  hers. 

'Why  should  n't  we?'  they  retaliate. 
And  Kate  pouts,  'It's  part  of  the 
show.' 

The  Gracious  Lady  hesitates.  That 
strange,  sad  burden  called  '  breadth  of 
view'  has  become  her  heaviness. 
Twenty  years  ago  the  creature  in  the 
box  would  have  had  only  one  name, 
and  happier  women  would  never  have 
glanced  at  her.  Now,  to  eyes  grown 
weary  with  gazing  on  the  false  heart 
of  modern  society,  she  seems  almost 
to  have  a  dignity,  so  much  more  ter- 
ribly honest  is  she  than  the  pitiful  fab- 
ric of  which  she  is  an  outgrowth.  She 
seems  to  teach  a  lesson;  and  yet,  'I 
would  not  look  at  her  if  I  were  you,' 
repeats  the  Gracious  Lady  very  gently. 

A  young  French  girl  enters  with  her 
father.  She  takes  her  seat  directly  in 
front  of  the  Privileged.  Her  untouched 
flower-like  face  is  alight  with  antici- 
pated pleasure,  with  a  soft  vividness  of 
intelligence  that  could  never  be  cursed 
with  the  word  'brainy.'  Her  hair  is 
bound  with  a  little  old-fashioned  snood 
and  tiny  buckle,  a  strangely  simple 
evening  dress  covers  the  exquisite  ar- 
dor of  her  slender  body.  Quickly  four 
faces,  those  of  the  over-indulged,  the 
over-precocious,  the  over-athletic,  and 
the  over-dressed,  turn  to  study  her. 

The  Gracious  Lady  draws  a  quick 
breath.  There  is  something  to  learn 
in  this  little  French  maid,  whose  eyes 
never  meet  a  man's,  who  is  never  al- 
lowed to  walk  alone  on  the  street,  whose 
unconscious  grace  envelops  her  like 
a  veil,  who  is  sheltered  like  a  delicate 
bird,  yet  trained  to  the  utmost  energy, 
reserve,  accomplishment,  and  useful- 
ness. Have  the  Privileged  eyes  to  see? 
Will  they  compare  her  with  them- 
selves? Will  they  learn? 

There  are  a  few  moments  of  silence, 


58 


MOLIERE'S  BIRTHDAY 


of  critical  survey;  then,  as  the  late- 
comers rapidly  enter  and  the  last  seats 
are  flapping  down,  Kate  turns  to  Maud. 

'Do  you  like  Charlie  for  a  man's 
name?'  she  inquires  seriously. 

The  Gracious  Lady  gasps. 

Maud  gives  the. matter  deliberate 
consideration,  her  blue  eyes  wide  with 
the  effort. 

'  Hugh  is  nicer,  I  think,'  she  at  last 
confesses;  then,  with  aged  conviction, 
'I  could  love  a  man  named *Hugh.' 

The  weightier  matter  disposed  of, 
Kate  resumes  in  an  undertone,  '  Don't 
you  think  this  French  girl  in  front  of  us 
is  an  old-fashioned  mess?' 

'  Is  n't  she?  My  cousin  says  they  take 
baths  in  milk  every  day  —  and  yet  you 
hear  so  much  about  the  French  being 
economical.  I  do  believe  it 's  that 
makes  them  look  so  queer;  she's  hor- 
ribly quaint;  I  must  say  some  things 
in  Paris  seem  awfully  country  to  me.' 

'I  think  she's  lovely,  like  the  carved 
ivories  in  the  Musee  Cluny,'  says  the 
little  dreamy  Bell.  She  glances  up  at 
the  Gracious  Lady.  '  Is  n't  nearly  every- 
thing that  is  beautiful  sort  of  old-fash- 
ioned ? '  she  inquires. 

The  Gracious  Lady  for  answer 
squeezes  the  small  gloved  hand. 

'  Rump  —  rump  —  rump,'  comes  the 
pounding  for  the  raising  of  the  curtain, 
—  a  sound  familiar  to  European  ears; 
but  the  three  little  Americans,  hearing 
it,  giggle  and  raise  naughty  eyebrows. 

'  Why,  it 's  for  all  the  world  like  the- 
atricals in  the  nursery,'  whispers  Kate 
with  the  scarlet  feather.  Maud  feels 
it  incumbent  upon  her  to  make  com- 
parisons between  the  Theatre  Fran- 
cais  and  Belasco's.  But  hisses  for  si- 
lence end  all  comment,  and  three  eager 
pairs  of  eyes  fasten  on  the  stage  as  the 
curtain  goes  up  on  the  enchanting  out- 
door setting  of  Ponsard's  Manage 
d'Angelique,  and  the  scene  reveals  '  Mo- 
liere  et  quelques-uns  des  comediens  de 
sa  troupe.' 


He  who  lingers  in  Paris  with  a  heart 
earnest  to  understand,  chastened  of 
prejudice,  no  matter  how  tainted  for 
him  must  seem  some  of  the  planes  of 
French  thought  and  morals,  must  needs 
have  gratitude  in  his  heart  for  the  city 
that  conserves  for  a  hungry  world  such 
treasure  of  talent  as  is  to  be  found  in 
the  French  drama.  All  the  world  knows 
how  the  Parisians,  because  of  their 
fickle  ecstasies,  their  morbid  seeking 
of  an  impossible  perfection,  their  re- 
morseless rejection  of  what  does  not 
attain  to  an  almost  superhuman  stand- 
ard, may  any  night  sit  down  in  any 
theatre  to  contemplate  dramatic  art 
almost  too  perfect,  technique  incom- 
parable. Whether  the  intellect  be  be- 
guiled by  a  simple  situation  or  stimu- 
lated by  a  complex  one,  the  treatment 
of  it  is  the  same;  the  senses  lie  panting 
under  voluptuous  yet  delicate  ravish- 
ment; subtlety  —  the  old  Parisian 
conjure- word  —  plays  like  a  hidden 
fountain  of  perfume  over  the  whole. 

Inexperienced  as  they  are,  the  Privi- 
leged are  quick  to  feel  this.  Fascinated, 
they  follow  the  delicate,  simply-dressed, 
tricksy  figures  that  go  on  and  off  the 
stage  like  butterflies  alighting  upon  and 
leaving  a  flower.  After  the  curtain  goes 
down,  eyes  flash,  tongues  wag. 

'They  hardly  make  up  at  all;  what 
pale,  plain  faces!  What  wonderful 
smiles,  all  moon-lighty  and  pearly.' 

'How  prettily  Angelique  wore  her 
fichu,  and  what  a  dear  little  apron  she 
had.  Did  you  see  her  fingers  when  she 
took  the  rose?  It  was  like  a  flower 
taking  another  flower.' 

'How  lovely  to  have  a  play  with 
Moliere  himself  in  it.  I  never  supposed 
he  was  gentle  and  dear  like  that.  I 
thought  he  was  rough  and  swear-y,  and 
beer-y.  What  makes  it  so  different?' 

The  Privileged  turn  on  the  Gracious 
Lady;  some  undefined,  poignant  scent 
of  charm  and  mystery  and  grace  has 
been  wafted  to  their  immature,  keen 


MOLIERE'S  BIRTHDAY 


59 


senses;  they  almost  sniff  the  air  as  they 
eagerly  repeat,  'What  makes  it?' 

Ah  —  what  does  make  it?  The  Gra- 
cious Lady,  after  years  and  years  of  life 
in  the  enigmatic  city  called  Paris,  is  not 
prepared  to  say.  She  has  heard  people 
who  like  what  they  call  facts,  repeating 
what  they  have  been  told  of  the  rigor- 
ous discipline  of  the  French  actor,  the 
rehearsals  that  go  on  for  months  prior 
to  a  single  production,  the  almost  fetich 
worship  of  detail,  the  severe  drudgery 
in  the  development  of  nuance  and 
genre.  What  does  make  it,  what  makes 
anything,  but  desire  and  dream  and 
tradition  ?  Tradition — in  this  last  word 
the  Gracious  Lady  finds  her  cue. 

'You  see,'  she  slowly  explains,  'you 
see,  when  people  live  in  a  city  that 
sings  with  sculpture,  that  is  cradled  in 
beautiful  parks  and  gardens  and  for- 
ests, nurtured  by  proud  old  chateaux, 
and  educated  by  Gothic  cathedrals;  a 
city  whose  fingers  and  toes  are  palaces 
and  tombs,  whose  heart  is  the  Louvre, 
and  whose  head  the  Luxembourg  — 
when  a  city  like  that  has  a  play  to  amuse 
its  people,  that  play  has  to  be  very 
well-behaved  indeed.  The  actors  have 
to  stand  up  like  trees  with  mistletoe  in 
them,  and  sit  down  like  swans  disap- 
pearing behind  gray  towers;  they  have 
to  cry  with  a  grief  that  springs  from 
the  woes  of  the  oppressed,  and  be  afraid 
with  a  terror  that  was  born  in  reigns  of 
terror,  and  be  wicked  with  the  wicked- 
ness of  — '  The  Gracious  Lady  breaks 
suddenly  off. 

'And  be  wicked  —  how?' 

She  smiles  wistfully  back  into  the 
three  faces  sweet  in  their  unreserve, 
turning  toward  her  like  little  white  bees 
hurrying  to  sip  at  the  very  centre  of 
the  fatal  flower  of  knowledge.  Again 
it  comes  over  her  like  a  shock,  this 
adventurous  curiosity,  this  over-stimu- 
lation, the  deadly  eagerness  for  the  un- 
adorned fact.  And  yet  —  the  Gracious 
Lady  sighingly  acknowledges  it  to  her- 


self— it  is  this  kind  of  thing  that  makes 
the  American  what  he  is,  the  most  mar- 
velously  acute,  sympathetic,  intuitive, 
and  tolerant  being  of  his  age. 

The  next  play  is  Moliere's  L'Avare. 
Old  Harpagon  fumes  at  son  and  daugh- 
ter, the  cook  and  lackey  are  beaten, 
the  question  of  the  lost  treasure-box 
comes  up:  it  was  red — no,  it  was  blue. 
The  Privileged  revel  in  the  droll  hu- 
manity of  it,  the  simple  absurdities 
of  the  'Molierisms.  But  as  Harpagon 
discovers  the  robbery  and  wallows  in 
the  hideous  despair  of  the  defraud- 
ed miser,  their  mood  changes.  They 
glance  angrily  up  at  the  balcony  where 
two  French  children,  amused  with  the 
agonies  of  the  old  wretch,  loudly  laugh. 
The  young  French,  with  their  own  pe- 
culiar heritage  of  humor,  see  only  one 
side  to  the  wretched  grovelings;  but 
the  young  Americans,  born  of  a  pure 
dream  of  compassion,  as  yet  unhard- 
ened  to  human  sorrow  and  suffering, 
turn  pale. 

'It's  —  it's  a  little  too  awful';  so 
Kate  with  the  scarlet  feather  pays  un- 
conscious tribute  to  the  French  trage- 
dian. 

Maud's  eyes  are  riveted;  horrible 
though  it  be,  she  will  lose  no  slightest 
point  of  it. 

Little  Bell  turns  her  head  away;  she 
is  glad  when  the  curtain  falls  and  one 
need  look  no  longer  on  the  agonies  of 
poor  old  Harpagon. 

There  is  an  intermission  before  Les 
Precieuses  Ridicules,  and  the  ovation 
to  Moliere.  The  Privileged  leave  their 
seats  and  walk  out  into  the  corridors 
to  look  at  the  famous  statue  of  Vol- 
taire. They  make  solemn  eyes  at  the 
keen  old  face;  like  small  gold-fish 
mouthing  against  the  transparent  sides 
of  their  globe,  so  they  mouth  against 
their  own  transparent  conception  of 
genius. 

'He  was  terribly  clever,'  explains 
Maud  condescendingly . '  He  had  a  sense 


60 


MOLlfiRE'S  BIRTHDAY 


of  humor,  you  know;  that  was  what 
kept  him  cheerful  while  he  was  in 
prison.  Every  one  in  the  whole  world 
always  comes  here  to  look  at  him  when 
they're  in  Paris,  just  because  he  had 
that  wonderful  sense  of  humor  —  it's 
an  inspiration  to  them.' 

The  Privileged  turn  to  the  Gracious 
Lady.  'Have  you  a  sense  of  humor?' 
they  solemnly  ask. 

In  the  great  entresol,  surrounded  for 
the  first  time  by  a  cosmopolitan  throng, 
the  Privileged,  though  game  to  a  grati- 
fying degree,  feel  suddenly  conspicu- 
ous. It  is  strange  that  it  should  be 
so,  but  it  is  one  of  those  curious  sug- 
gestions of  quaintness  and  old-fashion- 
edness  and  stay-at-homeness  —  the 
staring  that  the  Parisians  permit  them- 
selves. The  bright,  strong  beauty  of 
the  American  Privileged  is  still  a  shock 
to  French  urbanity  —  the  long  step, 
the  head  held  back,  the  alert  expres- 
sion 'trop  dure';  these  things  the  cul- 
tured but  provincial  French  still  gape 
at. 

Many  critical,  though  not  unkind 
glances  follow  the  direct,  free  move- 
ments of  the  Daughters  of  the  Crude 
World.  'Elles  sont  toujours  un  peu 
sau  vages,'  murmurs  a  motherly-looking 
Frenchwoman.  This  lady,  however,  is 
happily  ignorant  of  the  patronizing 
glances  bestowed  upon  her  by  the 
jeunesse  she  criticises;  the  Privileged, 
by  their  comments,  find  her  and  her 
associates  distinctly  humdrum. 

'All  the  men  wear  beards  and  those 
hateful,  turned-up  moustaches;  there 
is  n't  a  single  nice,  sharp  chin  here. 
And  their  eyes  are  silly.  How  funny 
those  black  satin  stocks  are,  and  the 
opera  hats  are  always  either  too  big 
or  too  little.' 

'  I  have  n't  seen  a  really  pretty  lady ! ' 

'And  what  plain  dresses!' 

Helas!  Mon  Dieu!  is  all  this  de- 
corum and  humdrum  respectability 
Paris?  The  Privileged,  who  have  hith- 


erto received  their  ideas  of  the  won- 
derful city  from  that  peculiar  and 
poisonous  reservoir  'popular  impres- 
sion,' are  aghast.  They  had  antici- 
pated something  glaring  and  glittering 
and  gay.  Instead,  raw  as  they  are,  un- 
trained as  are  their  perceptions,  they 
feel  gravity  .and  rebuke  in  the  atmo- 
sphere in  which  they  find  themselves. 
The  low  voices,  the  omnipresent  com- 
pliment, the  significant  'Pardon,  je 
vous  en  prie,'  and  'a  votre  disposition,' 
impress  them;  even  to  their  wandering 
eyes  comes  the  curious  effect  as  of  a 
'finished'  crowd,  as  of  an  assemblage 
perfected  in  the  outer  points  of  good- 
breeding;  blase,  perhaps,  among  them- 
selves, but  alive  to  every  surface  de- 
mand of  deference  and  courtesy.  The 
little  Privileged  seek  in  vain  for  some 
word  to  define  this  crowd-ego.  When 
they  are  older  they  will  call  it  'a  subtle 
something';  when  they  are  still  older 
they  will  call  it  a  'je  ne  sais  quoi';  but 
when  they  are  very  old  indeed  they  will 
smile  and  not  call  it  anything  at  all. 

It  is  almost  midnight.  The  curtain 
has  fallen  upon  Les  Precieuses;  upon 
the  dainty  absurdities  of  the  little 
countesses,  the  ruffled,  wriggling,  scent- 
ed rascality  of  Mascarille,  the  painful 
spectacle  of  the  two  masquerading  lack- 
eys deprived  of  their  wigs  and  embroid- 
ered waistcoats;  and  now,  because  it  is 
Moliere's  birthday,  and  because  it  is 
Paris,  and  because  it  is  the  Theatre 
Francais,  something  happens  that  could 
not  happen  anywhere  else. 

As  the  curtain  rises  for  the  last  time, 
there  is  a  hush  all  over  the  house.  The 
Privileged,  alert  for  sensation,  feel  that 
this  hush  is  different  from  any  hush  at 
home,  realize  vaguely  that  it  is  a  hush 
that  travels  back  over  the  centuries, 
though  it  may  not  beckon  their  mem- 
ory back  to  Bertrand  de  Born  and 
Gregory  of  Tours,  back  to  the  jong- 
leurs and  trouveres.  It  is  a  hush  peo- 
pled with  scented  kings  and  curled 


MOLIERE'S  BIRTHDAY 


61 


courtiers,  amorous  nobles  and  laughing 
dames;  it  is  a  hush  through  which  an 
intense  ear  hears  the  clatter  of  spirited 
steeds  in  cobbled  courtyards,  the  ring- 
ing of  postern  bells,  the  clanking  of 
chained  bridges,  the  fall  of  dead  bodies 
into  oubliette  and  moat. 

There  is  a  pedestal  placed  in  the 
centre  of  the  stage,  and  on  this  pedes- 
tal is  set  a  bust  of  Moliere.  The  little 
Privileged  stare  at  the  sweet  whimsi- 
cality of  the  marble  face.  Their  hearts 
beat  rapidly  at  the  sound  of  a  pure 
French  voice  beginning  in  grandiose 
measure  the  ode  to  the  gypsy  play- 
wright. For  a  swift  flash  the  children 
of  the  new  world  have  the  Gallic  im- 
pulse; they  feel  themselves  to  be  part 
of  that  French  bourgeoisie  so  critically 
and  intently  listening;  they  guess  what 
it  is  like  to  be  faultlessly  faulty,  ex- 
quisitely contradictory;  to  be  brave 
cowards.  They  guess  what  it  is  like 
to  light  a  hundred  torches  of  art  and 
science  and  research  and  then  to  hurry 
flippantly  on  to  the  great  French  dark- 
ness of  negation  and  oblivion.  They  feel 
that  ardor  which  keeps  the  world  full 
of  theories  and  philosophies  like  a  sky 
full  of  aeroplanes  and  balloons,  that 
wistfulness  that  immortalizes  love,  sor- 
row, and  sin. 

On  the  stage  is  grouped  the  entire 
company  of  the  Comedie  Franchise.  In 
every  actor's  hand  is  a  stiff,  artificial 
palm.  There  is  also  a  curious  stiffness, 
an  overdone  solemnity  in  the  young 
man  in  evening  dress  who  has  begun 
to  deliver  the  ode.  He  strikes  a  strange 
black  note  against  the  background  of 
spangles  and  fringes,  doublet  and  hose, 
charming  white  headdress  and  little 
flowered  hat,  the  long  mitts  and  puffs 
and  curls  of  the  women,  the  long  wigs 
and  swords  and  cloaks  of  the  men. 
Even  his  voice,  pure  to  insipid  tonal- 
ity, with  its  long  upward  inflections,  its 
empressement,  the  sophistication  and 
precision  of  its  diction,  has  a  seeming 


artificiality,  a  stiffness  which  to  the 
children  of  the  land  of  free  speech  and 
swinging  gesture  seems  almost  ridicul- 
ous. After  a  moment,  the  Privileged 
move  restlessly  in  their  seats. 

'The  goose,  he  looks  like  an  under- 
taker,' pouts  Kate. 

Maud's  face  has  an  expression  va- 
cant and  sleepy. 

Little  Bell  is  rueful;  is  this  all  the 
thrill  there  is  to  be?  For  a  second  the 
Privileged  have  a  distinct  feeling  that 
this  young  man  cheats  them  of  their 
money's  worth,  that  he  is  not  the  one 
properly  to  bring  climax  to  the  'anni- 
versaire  de  la  naissance  de  Moliere.' 

But  he  is  not  yet  quite  through,  this 
young  man.  He  has  only  been  biding 
his  time,  observing  preliminaries  tra- 
ditional of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  the 
Sorbonne,  and  the  Academic.  He  has, 
moreover,  encased  in  those  stiff  black 
clothes,  a  body  that  is  young,  that  is 
full  of  Latin  blood.  As  he  goes  on  with 
his  carefully  prepared  verses  this  young 
man  seems  to  raise  some  imaginary 
dike  and  let  that  blood  sluice  into  his 
being,  leap  into  his  heart,  his  gestures, 
his  voice.  It  is  the  kind  of  blood  that 
has  held  French  inventors  to  their 
tasks,  scientists  to  their  adventures, 
artists  and  musicians  to  their  dreams. 
It  is  the  blood  that  gave  the  world 
Rodin's  Le  Baiser,  Detailles's  Vers  la 
Gloire,  Mounet  Sully's  Edipe  Roi,  Sara 
Bernhardt's  La  Dame  aux  CamSlias  ;  it 
is  in  the  step  of  French  soldiers  march- 
ing over  the  roads,  French  chevaliers 
flashing  by  on  the  emerald  courses.  It 
is  only  blood,  French  blood;  but  for 
the  purposes  of  destiny  and  art  and 
achievement  it  is  blood  that  is  crimson 
fire. 

When  the  young  man  finishes  what 
he  has  to  say  to  that  strangely  cold  bust 
of  the  wandering  playwright,  when  each 
member  of  the  Comedie  Francaise  has 
raised  his  palm  in  salute  to  the  beloved 
memory,  there  is  a  pause,  a  few  mo- 


LEE  AND  DAVIS 


ments'  perfect  stillness.  It  seems  as  if 
in  this  pulsing  pause  the  gypsy  play- 
wright must  turn  that  graceful,  dream- 
ing, periwigged  head  of  his,  and  smile 
acknowledgment  down  the  long  years; 
instead,  however,  the  French  audience 
breaks  through  its  habitual  reserve, 
there  is  a  steady  clatter  of  applause, 
and  the  curtain  falls  on  the  'two  hun- 
dred and  eighty-eighth  anniversary  of 
the  birthday  of  Moliere.' 

The  Privileged  rise.  Speechlessly 
they  fold  their  wraps  around  them  and 
follow  the  Gracious  Lady.  Once  more 
they  pass  the  statue  of  Voltaire  and 
blink  at  it  with  childish,  sleepy  eyes; 
once  more,  on  the  staircase  and  in  the 
foyer,  they  see  the  tall  young  dragoons. 
Then  comes  the  soft  damp  night  air, 
the  drifting  gayety  of  the  streets. 
Moving  cabs,  lights  and  music  from 
the  cafes,  streak  the  midnight,  and  the 


Privileged  brush  wings  with  that  cloud 
of  human  moths  that  flutter  all  night 
along  the  boulevards.  As  they  sleepily 
climb  into  a  taxi  and  are  spun  down  the 
avenues  of  fairy  light,  it  is  with  a  pen- 
siveness  new  and  important. 

For — figurez  vous ! — one  may  go  to 
the  theatre  at  home  and  come  away 
chattering  blithely,  secure  in  one's 
ability  to  criticise.  But,  somehow,  it 
has  come  to  Maud  with  her  mantle  of 
silver-green,  and  Bell  with  her  bonnet 
of  satin  sheen,  and  Kate  with  the  scar- 
let feather,  that  after  their  first  play  at 
the  Comedie  Francaise  on  the  evening 
of  Moliere's  Birthday  there  can  be  no 
more  fitting  tribute  than  the  old,  old 
tribute  of  silence.  And  because  the 
Privileged  know  enough  to  offer  it,  they 
look  solemnly  upon  the  mystery  of  mid- 
night Paris  and  feel  that  this  is  Life, 
and  that  they  are  at  last  'grown  up.' 


LEE  AND  DAVIS 


BY   GAMALIEL    BRADFORD,  JR. 


IT  will  hardly  be  disputed  that  Davis 
and  Lee  are  by  far  the  most  prominent 
figures  in  the  history  of  the  Confeder- 
acy. Stephens  and  Benjamin,  John- 
ston and  Beauregard,  are  not  to  be 
named  with  them.  Jackson  might  have 
been  a  conspicuous  third,  but  his  pre- 
mature death  left  him  only  a  peculiar 
and  separate  glory. 

Material,  of  a  sort,  for  the  study  of 
Davis's  character  is  more  than  abund- 
ant. His  own  work,  The  Rise  and  Fall 
of  the  Confederate  Government,  is  one 
of  the  numerous  books  that  carefully 
avoid  telling  us  what  we  wish  to  know. 
Half  of  it  is  ingenious  argument  on  the 


abstract  dead  questions  at  issue;  the 
other  half  is  a  history  of  military  mat- 
ters which  others  have  told  often,  and 
told  better.  Of  administrative  compli- 
cations and  difficulties,  of  the  internal 
working  of  the  Confederate  govern- 
ment, of  personalities  at  Richmond 
and  the  Richmond  atmosphere,  of  the 
inner  life  and  struggles  of  the  man  him- 
self, hardly  a  word.  Happily  we  have 
Mrs.  Davis's  life  of  her  husband,  which 
shows  him  complete,  if  not  exactly  as 
Mrs.  Davis  saw  him.  We  have  other 
„  biographies  of  less  value,  innumerable 
references  in  letters  and  memoirs  of 
friends  and  enemies,  and  the  constant 


LEE  AND  DAVIS 


comments  of  the  public  press.  And  we 
have  the  immense  mass  of  correspond- 
ence in  that  national  portrait  gallery, 
the  Official  Records,  where  the  great  — 
and  little  —  men  of  a  generation  have 
drawn  their  own  likenesses  with  an  art 
as  perfect  as  it  is  unconscious. 

Davis,  then,  was  a  scholar  and  a 
thinker,  and  to  some  extent  he  took 
the  bookish  view  of  life,  that  it  can  be 
made  what  we  wish  it  to  be.  Compro- 
mise with  men  and  things  was  to  be 
avoided  if  possible.  He  was  an  orator, 
a  considerable  orator,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  mid-nineteenth  century,  which 
bores  us  now,  at  any  rate  in  the  reading. 
The  orator  in  politics,  though  a  natur- 
ally recurring  figure  in  a  democratic 
society,  is  too  apt  to  be  a  dangerous 
or  unsatisfactory  one:  witness  Cicero. 
Davis  never  laid  aside  his  robes  of 
rhetoric  in  public.  I  doubt  if  he  did  in 
private.  I  think  he  wore  them  in  his 
soul.  His  passion  was  rhetoric,  his 
patriotism  was  rhetoric,  his  wit  was 
rhetoric;  perfectly  genuine,  there  is  no 
doubt  of  that,  but  always  falling  into 
a  form  that  would  impress  others  — 
and  himself.  He  told  Dr.  Craven  that 
he  could  not '  conceive  how  a  man  so  op- 
pressed with  care  as  Mr.  Lincoln  could 
have  any  relish  for  such  pleasantries.' 
There  you  have  the  difference  between 
the  two. 

Doubtless  Davis  had  many  excellent 
practical  qualities.  For  one  thing,  he 
had  pluck,  splendid  pluck,  moral  and 
physical.  To  be  sure,  it  was  of  the  high- 
strung,  nervous  order,  liable  to  break, 
as  when  he  put  on  his  wife's  garments 
to  escape.  '  Any  man  might  have  done 
it,'  says  Mr.  Dodd.  You  might  have 
done  it,  I  might,  Dodd  might;  Grant 
or  Lee  never.  There  again  is  the  dif- 
ference in  types.  Nevertheless,  Da  vis's 
pluck  is  beyond  question. 

He  had  consistency,  too,  knew  his 
ideas  and  stuck  to  them,  had  per- 
sistency. '  He  was  an  absolutely  frank, 


direct,  and  positive  man,'  said  General 
Breckenridge.  And  he  was  sincere  in 
his  purposes,  as  well  as  consistent.  'As 
God  is  my  judge,  I  never  spoke  from 
any  other  motive  [than  conviction],' 
he  told  Seward.  Beyond  question  he 
told  the  truth.  He  was  unselfish,  too, 
thoughtful  of  others  and  ready  to  make 
sacrifices  for  them.  '  He  displayed  more 
self-abnegation  than  any  other  human 
being  I  have  ever  known,'  says  one  of 
his  aides.  He  shrank  from  the  sight 
of  every  form  of  suffering,  even  in  imag- 
ination. When  The  Babes  in  the  Wood 
was  first  read  to  him,  a  grown  man,  in 
time  of  illness,  he  would  not  endure  the 
horror  of  it.  His  sympathy  with  the 
oppressed  was  also  almost  abnormal, 
'so  that,'  says  Mrs.  Davis,  'it  was  a 
difficult  matter  to  keep  order  with 
children  and  servants.' 

All  this  shows  that  he  was  a  nervous 
sensitive,  which  is  a  terrible  handicap 
to  a  leader  of  men.  He  suffered  always 
from  nervous  dyspepsia  and  neuralgias; 
and  'came  home  from  his  office  fast- 
ing, a  mere  mass  of  throbbing  nerves 
and  perfectly  exhausted.'  He  was 
keenly  susceptible  to  the  atmosphere 
about  him,  especially  to  the  moods  of 
people,  'abnormally  sensitive  to  dis- 
approval. Even  a  child's  disapproval 
discomposed  him.'  And  Mrs.  Davis 
admits  that  this  sensitiveness  and  acute 
feeling  of  being  misjudged  made  him 
reserved  and  unapproachable.  It  made 
him  touchy  as  to  his  dignity,  also,  and 
there  are  stories  of  his  cherishing  a 
grudge  for  some  insignificant  or  imag- 
ined slight,  and  punishing  its  author. 

The  same  sensitive  temperament  ap- 
pears in  Davis's  spiritual  life.  That 
he  should  seek  and  find  the  hand  of 
Providence  in  temporal  affairs  is  surely 
not  to  his  discredit.  But  I  feel  that  his 
religion  occasionally  intruded  at  the 
wrong  time  and  in  the  wrong  way. 
When  his  enemies  represented  him  as 
'standing  in  a  corner  telling  his  beads 


64 


LEE  AND  DAVIS 


and  relying  on  a  miracle  to  save  the 
country,'  I  know  they  exaggerated, 
but  I  understand  what  they  meant. 

Altogether,  one  of  those  subtle,  fine, 
high-wrought,  nervous  organizations, 
which  America  breeds,  —  a  trifle  too 
fine,  consuming  in  superb  self-control 
too  much  of  what  ought  to  be  active, 
practical,  beneficent  energy. 

It  will  easily  be  imagined  that  such 
a  temper  would  not  always  get  along 
comfortably  with  rough,  practical,  im- 
perious military  men,  accustomed  to 
regard  civil  authority  with  contempt. 
That  Davis  had  had  military  experi- 
ence himself,  both  in  the  field  and  as 
Secretary  of  War,  did  not  help  matters 
much,  since  it  greatly  increased  his 
own  self-confidence.  Subordinate  of- 
ficers, such  as  Stuart,  Longstreet,  and 
Jackson,  during  the  latter  part  of  his 
career,  did  not  have  many  direct  deal- 
ings with  the  President;  but  the  inde- 
pendent commanders  fall  generally  into 
two  classes :  those  like  Bragg,  Pember- 
ton,  and  Hood,  who  were  more  or  less 
unfit  for  their  positions  and  retained 
them  through  Davis's  personal  favor; 
and  those  who  were  able  and  popular, 
but  whom  Davis  could  not  endure, 
like  Joseph  E.  Johnston  and  Beaure- 
gard.  Albert  Sidney  Johnston  seems 
to  have  been  both  a  favorite  and  a  great 
soldier,  but  untimely  death  blighted 
Davis's  choice  in  that  instance. 

The  quarrel  with  Joseph  E.  John- 
ston shook  the  whole  fabric  of  the  Con- 
federacy, since  the  omnipotent  editors 
took  part  in  it.  Johnston  was  a  good 
general  and  an  honest  man;  but  he  was 
surly  with  a  superior,  and  snaps  and 
snarls  all  through  his  correspondence 
and  his  book.  Davis  never  snarls,  and 
his  references  to  Johnston  are  always 
dignified.  Mrs.  Davis  assures  us  that 
'in  the  whole  period  of  his  official  re- 
lation to  General  Johnston  I  never 
heard  him  utter  a  word  in  derogation.' 
She  tells  us  also,  however,  that  '  every 


shade  of  feeling  that  crossed  the  minds 
of  those  about  him  was  noticed,  and  he 
could  not  bear  any  one  to  be  inimical 
to  him.'  Persons  of  this  temper  always 
exaggerate  enmity  where  it  exists,  and 
imagine  it  where  it  does  not.  Another 
of  Mrs.  Davis's  priceless  observations 
is  as  to  'the  talent  for  governing  men 
without  humiliating  them,  which  Mr. 
Davis  had  in  an  eminent  degree.* 
Samples  of  this  were  doubtless  the  in- 
dorsement 'insubordinate'  on  one  of 
Johnston's  grumbling  letters  and  the 
reply  to  another : '  The  language  of  your 
letter  is,  as  you  say,  unusual;  its  argu- 
ments and  statements  utterly  one- 
sided, and  its  insinuations  as  unfound- 
ed as  they  are  unbecoming.'  Compare 
also  the  indorsement  on  a  letter 
in  which  Beauregard,  a  gentleman,  an 
excellent  soldier,  and  a  true  patriot, 
who  had  long  held  independent  com- 
mand, wrote  that  he  was  perfectly 
ready  to  serve  under  Lee:  'I  did  not 
doubt  the  willingness  of  General  Beau- 
regard  to  serve  under  any  general  who 
ranked  him.  The  right  of  General  Lee 
to  command  would  be  derived  from 
his  superior  rank.' 

And  so  we  come  to  the  case  of  Lee, 
who,  during  the  last  years  of  the  war, 
was  universally  recognized  as  the  great- 
est general  and  most  popular  man  in 
the  Confederacy,  and  who  held  Davis's 
confidence  and  intimate  affection  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end.  'General  R. 
E.  Lee  was  the  only  man  who  was  per- 
mitted to  enter  the  Cabinet  [meetings] 
unannounced,'  says  the  official  who 
secured  the  privacy  of  those  august 
assemblies. 

How  did  Lee  manage  to  retain  his 
hold  on  the  President?  Pollard,  who 
admired  Lee,  but  detested  Davis  more, 
says  plainly  that  the  general  employed 
'compliment  and  flattery.'  This  is  an 
abuse  of  words.  One  can  no  more  asso- 
ciate flattery  with  Lee  than  with  Wash- 
ington. Lee  respected  and  admired 


LEE  AND   DAVIS 


65 


Davis  in  many  ways.  With  that  fine 
insight  into  character  which  was  one 
of  his  strongest  points,  the  general  ap- 
preciated the  President's  peculiarities, 
and  adapted  himself  to  them  for  the 
sake  of  the  cause  to  which  he  had  de- 
voted his  life.  Davis  required  defer- 
ence, respect,  subordination.  Lee  felt 
that  these  were  military  duties,  and  he 
was  ready  to  accord  them.  He  defends 
Davis  to  others:  'The  President,  from 
his  position  being  able  to  survey  all  the 
scenes  of  action,  can  better  decide  than 
any  one  else.'  He  defers  again  and 
again  to  Davis's  opinion :  '  Should  you 
think  proper  to  concentrate  the  troops 
near  Richmond,  I  should  be  glad  if 
you  would  advise  me.'  On  many  occa- 
sions he  expresses  a  desire  for  Davis's 
presence  in  the  field:  'I  need  not  say 
how  glad  I  should  be  if  your  conven- 
ience would  permit  you  to  visit  the 
army  that  I  might  have  the  benefit  of 
your  advicexand  direction.'  Those  know 
but  little  of  Lee  who  see  in  such  passages 
anything  but  the  frank,  simple  mod- 
esty of  the  man's  nature,  or  who  read 
a  double  meaning  into  expressions  like 
the  following : '  While  I  should  feel  the 
greatest  satisfaction  in  having  an  inter- 
view with  you  and  consultation  upon 
all  subjects  of  interest,  I  cannot  but 
feel  great  uneasiness  for  your  safety, 
should  you  undertake  to  reach  me.' 
The  solicitude  was  perfectly  genuine, 
as  we  see  from  many  charming  mani- 
festations of  it  elsewhere.  '  I  cannot  ex- 
press the  concern  I  felt  at  leaving  you 
in  such  feeble  health,  with  so  many 
anxious  thoughts  for  the  welfare  of  the 
whole  Confederacy  weighing  upon 
your  mind.'  And  there  is  no  doubt  that 
such  sympathetic  affection  held  the 
President  more  even  than  the  most  ex- 
aggerated military  deference. 

At  the  same  time,  it  is  certain  that 
Davis  liked  to  be  consulted.  He  had  a 
considerable  opinion  of  his  own  military 
gifts,  and  would  probably  have  prefer- 

VOL.  107-NO.l 


red  the  command  of  the  armies  in  the 
field  to  the  presidency,  although  Ropes, 
the  best  of  j  udges,  tells  us  that  he  did  not 
'show  himself  the  possessor  of  military 
ability  to  any  notable  extent.'  His  jeal- 
ousy of  independent  command  some- 
times appears  even  with  regard  to  Lee. 
'  I  have  never  comprehended  your  views 
and  purposes  until  the  receipt  of  your 
letter  yesterday,  and  now  have  to  regret 
that  I  did  not  earlier  know  all  that 
you  have  now  communicated  to  others.' 
Perhaps  the  most  delightful  instance  of 
Davis's  confidence  in  his  own  talents 
as  a  general  is  the  little  indiscretion 
of  Mrs.  Davis.  'Again  and  again  he 
said  [before  Gettysburg],  "  If  I  could 
take  one  wing  and  Lee  the  other,  I 
think  we  could  between  us  wrest  a  vic- 
tory from  those  people."  One  says 
these  things  to  one's  wife;  but  I  doubt 
if  Davis  would  have  wished  that  re- 
peated —  yet  perhaps  he  would. 

With  all  this  in  mind,  it  is  easy  to 
understand  Lee's  procedure,  and  to  see 
the  necessity  as  well  as  the  wisdom  of 
it.  He  was  never  free.  In  the  early  days 
he  writes  almost  as  Davis's  clerk.  To 
the  end  his  most  important  commun- 
ications are  occasionally  inspired  by 
his  superior,  to  the  very  wording.  This 
subordination  is  trying  at  times  to 
Lee's  greatest  admirers.  Captain  Bat- 
tine  says,  'It  was  the  commander-in- 
chief  who  had  constantly  to  stir  up  the 
energy  of  the  President.'  Colonel  Hen- 
derson, whose  admirable  judgment  is 
always  to  be  respected,  thinks  Davis's 
policy  was  the  cause  of  the  failure  to 
fight  on  the  North  Anna  instead  of 
at  Fredericksburg;  and  he  adds  more 
generally,  'A  true  estimate  of  Lee's 
genius  is  impossible,  for  it  can  never 
be  known  to  what  extent  his  designs 
were  thwarted  by  the  Confederate  gov- 
ernment. Lee  served  Davis;  Jackson 
served  Lee,  wisest  and  most  helpful  of 
masters.'  It  seems  to  me,  however, 
that  Lee's  genius  showed  itself  in  over- 


66 


LEE  AND  DAVIS 


coming  Davis  as  well  as  in  overcoming 
the  enemy. 

One  of  the  most  curious  instances  of 
Lee's  sensitive  deference  to  the  Pre- 
sident as  his  military  superior  has,  so 
far  as  I  have  discovered,  remained  un- 
noticed by  all  the  historians  and  bio- 
graphers. On  August  8,  1863,  a  month 
after  Gettysburg,  Lee  wrote  the  beau- 
tiful letter  in  which  he  urged  that  some 
one  more  capable  should  be  put  in  his 
place  (the  italics  are  mine) :  — 

'  I  know  how  prone  we  are  to  censure 
and  how  ready  to  blame  others  for  the 
non-fulfillment  of  our  expectations. 
This  is  unbecoming  in  a  generous  people, 
and  I  grieve  to  see  its  expression.  The 
general  remedy  for  the  want  of  success  in 
a  military  commander  is  his  removal. 
...  I  have  been  prompted  by  these 
reflections  more  than  once  since  my 
return  from  Pennsylvania  to  propose 
to  Your  Excellency  the  propriety  of 
selecting  another  commander  for  this 
army.  I  have  seen  and  heard  of  ex- 
pression of  discontent  in  the  public 
journals  at  the  result  of  the  expedition. 
I  do  not  know  how  far  this  feeling  ex- 
tends in  the  army.  My  brother  officers 
have  been  too  kind  to  report  it,  and  so 
far  the  troops  have  been  too  generous 
to  exhibit  it.  It  is  fair,  however,  to 
suppose  that  it  does  exist,  and  success 
is  so  necessary  to  us  that  nothing  should 
be  risked  to  secure  it.  I,  therefore,  in 
all  sincerity,  request  Your  Excellency 
to  take  measures  to  supply  my  place. 
I  do  this  with  the  more  earnestness  be- 
cause no  one  is  more  aware  than  my- 
self of  my  inability  for  the  duties  of 
my  position.  I  cannot  even  accomplish 
what  I  myself  desire.  How  can  I  ful- 
fill the  expectations  of  others?' 

It  has  been,  I  believe,  universally 
assumed  by  Lee's  biographers  that  this 
proposal  of  resignation  was  the  result 
of  his  devoted  patriotism,  and  of  tem- 
porary discouragement  caused  by  press 
and  other  criticism  of  the  Gettysburg 


failure.  Such  criticism  there  doubtless 
was;  but  it  was  so  tempered  by  the 
deep-rooted  confidence  in  Lee's  char- 
acter and  ability  that  it  appears  mild 
in  comparison  with  the  attacks  on 
Davis  himself  and  on  other  generals. 
Without  any  reflection  on  Lee's  pa- 
triotism, which  needs  no  defense,  I 
think  a  more  important  key  to  his  ac- 
tion is  to  be  found  in  the  first  sentence 
of  his  letter:  'Your  letters  of  July  28 
and  August  2  have  been  received  and  I 
have  waited  for  a  leisure  hour  to  reply.' 
The  letter  of  July  28  apparently  was 
not  printed  till  1897,  in  the  supplement- 
ary volumes  of  the  Official  Records.  In 
it  Davis  writes  (italics  still  mine) : — 

*  Misfortune  often  develops  secret  foes 
and  still  oftener  makes  men  complain. 
It  is  comfortable  to  hold  some  one  re- 
sponsible for  one's  discomfort.  In  vari- 
ous quarters  there  are  mutterings  of 
discontent,  and  threats  of  alienation 
are  said  to  exist,  with  preparation  for 
organised  opposition.  There  are  others 
who,  faithful  but  dissatisfied,  find  an 
appropriate  remedy  in  the  removal  of 
officers  who  have  not  succeeded.  They 
have  not  counted  the  cost  of  following 
their  advice.  Their  remedy,  to  be  good, 
should  furnish  substitutes  who  would 
be  better  than  the  officers  displaced. 
If  a  victim  would  secure  the  success  of 
our  cause,  I  would  freely  offer  myself.' 
It  seems  of  course  absurd  to  suppose 
that  Davis  intended  any  hint  here, 
especially  in  view  of  the  instant,  cor- 
dial, and  affectionate  negative  which  he 
returned  to  Lee's  suggestion.  Yet  I 
think  it  quite  in  the  character  of  the 
man  to  feel  that  it  would  be  a  graceful 
and  respectful  thing  for  a  beaten  com- 
mander to  take  such  a  step  and  receive 
presidential  clemency.  At  any  rate,  if 
Davis's  remarks  were  not  intended  as 
a  hint,  they  show  a  gross  lack  of  tact 
as  addressed  to  a  man  in  Lee's  situa- 
tion; and  certainly  no  one  can  doubt 
that  Lee's  letter  was  in  the  main  the 


LEE  AND  DAVIS 


67 


response  of  his  sore  and  fretted  humil- 
ity to  what  seemed  the  implied  sugges- 
tion of  his  superior. 

It  must  not,  however,  for  a  moment 
be  supposed  that  Lee's  attitude  toward 
Davis  or  any  one  else  was  unduly  sub- 
servient. Dignity,  not  pompous  or  self- 
conscious,  but  natural,  was  his  unfail- 
ing characteristic.  'He  was  one  with 
whom  nobody  ever  wished  or  ventured 
to  take  a  liberty.'  Even  little  slights 
he  could  resent  in  his  quiet  way.  Davis 
himself  records  with  much  amusement 
that  he  once  made  some  slur  at  a  mis- 
take of  the  engineers,  and  Lee,  who  had 
been  trained  in  that  service,  replied 
that  he  'did  not  know  that  engineer 
officers  were  more  likely  than  others  to 
make  such  mistakes.' 

Furthermore,  Lee  never  hesitated 
to  urge  upon  the  President  the  wants 
of  the  army.  Over  and  over  again  he 
writes,  pointing  out  the  terrible  need 
of  reinforcements.  '  I  beg  that  you  will 
take  every  practicable  means  to  rein- 
force our  ranks,  which  are  much  re- 
duced, and  which  will  require  to  be 
strengthened  to  their  full  extent  to  be 
able  to  compete  with  the  invigorated 
force  of  the  enemy.'  His  tone  is  roundly 
decided  and  energetic  when  he  repre- 
sents the  importance  of  government  ac- 
tion to  repress  straggling  and  disorder. 
'I  have  the  honor  to  enclose  to  you  a 
copy  of  a  letter  written  on  the  7th  in- 
stant, which  may  not  have  reached  you, 
containing  suggestions  as  to  the  means 
of  preventing  these  and  punishing 
the  perpetrators.  I  again  respectfully 
invite  your  attention  to  what  I  have 
said  in  that  letter.  Some  effective  means 
of  repressing  these  outrages  should  be 
adopted,  as  they  are  disgraceful  to  the 
army  and  injurious  to  our  cause.'  As 
the  difficulty  of  obtaining  supplies  be- 
came greater  toward  the  end,  although 
it  was  notorious  that  they  were  to  be 
had  in  various  parts  of  the  country, 
Lee  did  not  hesitate  to  side  with  the 


public  at  large,  and  urge  the  removal 
of  Davis's  favorite,  the  commissary- 
general,  Northrop;  and  I  think  it  prob- 
able that  this  is  referred  to  in  Davis's 
remark  to  Dr.  Craven.  'Even  Gen. 
,  otherwise  so  moderate  and  con- 
servative, was  finally  induced  to  join 
this  injurious  clamor.' 

In  general  political  questions,  Lee 
was  very  reluctant  to  interfere.  He 
did  so  at  times,  however.  His  ideas  as 
to  finance  and  as  to  the  military  em- 
ployment of  Negroes  are  not  closely 
connected  with  Davis,  and  belong  more 
properly  to  the  discussion  of  his  rela- 
tions with  the  Confederate  govern- 
ment. But  there  were  points  on  which 
he  appealed  to  the  President  urgently 
and  directly.  At  the  time  of  the  first  in- 
vasion of  Maryland,  he  wrote  an  ear- 
nest letter  pointing  out  the  desirabil- 
ity of  proposals  for  peace.  'The  present 
position  of  affairs,  in  my  opinion,  places 
it  in  the  power  of  the  Government  of 
the  Confederate  States  to  propose  with 
propriety  to  that  of  the  United  States 
the  recognition  of  our  independence.' 
Again,  just  before  the  second  invasion, 
he  writes  to  the  same  effect  with  even 
more  energy.  'Davis  had  said  repeat- 
edly that  reunion  with  the  North  was 
unthinkable,'  remarks  his  latest  bio- 
grapher. '  Lee  wrote  in  effect  that  such 
assertions,  which  out  of  respect  to  the 
Executive  he  charged  against  the  press, 
were  short-sighted  in  the  extreme.' 
Lee's  language  is  in  no  way  disrespect- 
ful, but  it  is  very  decided.  'Nor  do  I 
think  we  should  in  this  connection 
make  nice  distinction  between  those 
who  declare  for  peace  unconditionally 
and  those  who  advocate  it  as  a  means 
of  restoring  the  Union,  however  much 
we  may  prefer  the  former.  .  .  .  When 
peace  is  proposed,  it  will  be  time  enough 
to  discuss  its  terms,  and  it  is  not  the 
part  of  prudence  to  spurn  the  proposi- 
tion in  advance.' 

In    political    matters,    as   affecting 


68 


LEE  AND   DAVIS 


military  movements,  there  was  also 
more  or  less  conflict  of  opinion  between 
the  President  and  his  leading  general. 
Lee  wished  to  fight  Burnside  on  the 
North  Anna  instead  of  at  Fredericks- 
burg.  Lee  regretted  deeply  the  absence 
of  Longstreet  before  Chancellorsville. 
And  if  the  testimony  of  Long,  Gordon, 
and  others  is  to  be  accepted  as  against 
that  of  Davis  himself,  Lee  would  have 
abandoned  Richmond  toward  the  close 
of  the  struggle,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
decided  opposition  of  the  President. 

In  all  these  differences,  however,  we 
must  note  Lee's  infinite  courtesy  and 
tact  in  the  expression  of  his  opinion. 
If  he  had  lectured  his  superior  after  the 
fashion  in  which  he  himself  was  fre- 
quently addressed  by  Longstreet,  the 
Army  of  Northern  Virginia  would  have 
been  looking  for  another  commander 
at  a  very  early  stage.  Instead  of  this, 
however  decided  his  opinion,  however 
urgent  his  recommendations,  the  lan- 
guage, without  being  undignified,  is 
such  as  to  soothe  Davis's  sensitive 
pride  and  save  his  love  of  authority. 
'  I  earnestly  commend  these  considera- 
tions to  the  attention  of  Your  Excel- 
lency and  trust  that  you  will  be  at 
liberty,  in  your  better  judgment,  and 
with  the  superior  means  of  information 
you  possess  ...  to  give  effect  to  them, 
either  in  the  way  I  have  suggested,  or 
in  such  other  manner  as  may  seem  to 
you  more  judicious.' 

Yet,  with  all  his  tact  and  all  his 
delicacy,  Lee  must  have  felt  as  if 
he  were  handling  a  shy  and  sensitive 
horse,  who  might  kick  over  the  traces 
at  any  moment,  with  little  provoca- 
tion or  none,  so  touchy  was  the  Pre- 
sident apt  to  be  at  even  the  slight- 
est suggestion.  For  instance,  Lee  ad- 
vises that  General  Whiting  should  be 
sent  South.  Davis  endorses,  'Let  Gen. 
Lee  order  Gen.  Whiting  to  report  here, 
and  it  may  then  be  decided  whether 
he  will  be  sent  South  or  not.'  Lee  ob- 


jects earnestly  to  the  organization  of 
the  military  courts,  offering  to  draft 
a  new  bill  in  regard  to  them.  Davis 
simply  comments,  '  I  do  not  find  in  the 
law  referred  to  anything  which  requires 
the  commanding  general  to  refer  all 
charges  to  the  military  courts.'  Davis 
hears  gossip  about  Lee's  expressed 
opinions  and  calls  him  to  order  in  the 
sharpest  manner.  '  Rumors  assumed  to 
be  based  on  your  views  have  affected 
the  public  mind,  and  it  is  reported  ob- 
structs [sic]  needful  legislation.  A  little 
further  progress  will  produce  panic.  If 
you  can  spare  the  time,  I  wish  you  to 
come  here.' 

But  the  most  decided  snub  of  all  ap- 
pears in  connection  with  the  punish- 
ment of  deserters.  Lee  felt  strongly 
about  this,  and  had  urged  upon  Davis 
and  upon  the  War  Office  the  ruinous 
effects  of  executive  clemency.  Finally 
Longstreet  calls  attention  to  the  de- 
pletion of  his  command  by  desertion, 
which  he  asserts  is  encouraged  by  con- 
stant reprieval.  Lee  passes  on  the  com- 
plaint with  the  comment,  'Desertion 
is  increasing  in  the  army,  notwith- 
standing all  my  efforts  to  stop  it.  I 
think  a  rigid  execution  of  the  law  is 
[best?]  in  the  end.  The  great  want  in 
our  army  is  firm  discipline.'  Seddon  re- 
fers the  matter  to  Davis,  and  he  calmly 
notes,  'When  deserters  are  arrested, 
they  should  be  tried,  and  if  the  sen- 
tence is  remitted,  that  is  not  a  proper 
subject  for  the  criticism  of  a  military 
commander.'  Reading  these  things, 
one  is  reminded  of  Mrs.  Davis's  delight- 
ful remark  about  'the  talent  for  gov- 
erning men  without  humiliating  them,' 
and  one  is  almost  tempted  to  reverse  it. 

That,  in  spite  of  these  small  matters 
of  necessary  discipline,  Davis  had  the 
most  unbounded  and  sincere  affection 
for  Lee  is  not  open  to  a  moment's  doubt. 
In  the  early  days,  when  Lee  was  un- 
popular, the  President  supported  him 
loyally.  When  the  South  Carolinians 


LEE  AND  DAVIS 


69 


objected  to  his  being  sent  to  them, 
Davis  said,  'If  Lee  is  not  a  general, 
then  I  have  none  that  I  can  send  you.' 
And  no  jealousy  of  later  glory  or  suc- 
cess prevented  the  repeated  expres- 
sion of  a  similar  opinion.  '  General  Lee 
was  one  of  the  greatest  soldiers  of  the 
age,  if  not  the  very  greatest  of  this  or 
any  other  country.'  And  the  praise  was 
as  discriminating  as  it  was  enthusi- 
astic. 'General  Lee  was  not  a  man  of 
hesitation,  and  they  mistake  his  char- 
acter who  suppose  that  caution  was 
his  vice.'  Admiration  of  the  general 
was  moreover  backed  up  by  a  solid 
confidence,  which  is  expressed  repeat- 
edly by  Davis  himself  and  by  others. 
'The  President  has  unbounded  confid- 
ence in  Lee's  capacity,  modest  as  he 
is,'  says  Jones,  at  the  very  beginning 
of  the  war.  'Gen.  Lee  was  now  fast 
gaining  the  confidence  of  all  classes;  he 
had  possessed  that  of  the  President  al- 
ways,' writes  Mrs.  Davis.  'I  am  alike 
happy  in  the  confidence  felt  in  your 
ability,  and  your  superiority  to  outside 
clamor,  when  the  uninformed  assume 
to  direct  the  movements  of  armies  in 
the  field,'  is  one  among  many  passages 
which  show  unreserved  reliance  on  the 
commander-in-chief. 

Nor  was  Davis  less  keenly  aware  of 
Lee's  great  qualities  as  a  man  than 
of  his  military  superiority.  This  is 
made  abundantly  apparent  in  both 
speeches  and  writings  after  Lee's  death. 
The  President  extols  his  subordinate's 
uprightness,  his  generosity,  his  utter 
forgetfulness  of  self,  and  loyal  devo- 
tion. In  the  noble  eulogy  pronounced 
at  the  Lee  Memorial  gathering  in  1870 
there  are  many  instances  of  such 
praise,  as  in  the  account  of  Lee's  atti- 
tude toward  the  attacks  made  upon 
him  before  his  popularity  was  estab- 
lished. 'Through  all  this,  with  a  mag- 
nanimity rarely  equaled,  he  stood  in 
silence  without  defending  himself  or 
allowing  others  to  defend  him.'  And 


besides  the  general  commendation 
there  is  a  note  of  deep  personal  feeling 
which  is  extremely  touching.  '  He  was 
my  friend,  and  in  that  word  is  included 
all  that  I  can  say  of  any  man.'  I  have 
not  anywhere  met  with  any  expression 
on  Da  vis's  part  of  deliberate  criticism 
or  fault-finding,  and  if  he  did  not  say 
such  things  he  did  not  think  them;  for 
he  was  a  man  whose  thoughts  found 
their  way  to  the  surface  in  some  shape 
sooner  or  later. 

With  Lee  it  is  different.  About  many 
things  we  shall  never  know  what  he 
really  thought.  Undoubtedly  he  es- 
teemed and  admired  Davis;  but  the  ex- 
pression of  these  feelings  does  not  go 
beyond  kindly  cordiality.  Soon  after 
the  war  he  writes  to  Early, '  I  have  been 
much  pained  to  see  the  attempts  made 
to  cast  odium  upon  Mr.  Davis,  but  do 
not  think  they  will  be  successful  with 
the  reflecting  or  informed  part  of  the 
country.'  After  Davis's  release  from 
captivity,  Lee  wrote  him  a  letter  which 
is  very  charming  in  its  old-fashioned 
courtesy.  'Your  release  has  lifted  a 
load  from  my  heart  which  I  have  no 
words  to  tell.  .  .  .  That  the  rest  of  your 
days  may  be  triumphantly  happy  is 
the  sincere  and  earnest  wish  of  your 
most  obedient  and  faithful  friend  and 
servant.'  Lee  is,  of  course,  even  less 
outspoken  in  criticism  than  in  praise  of 
his  superior.  It  is  only  very  rarely  that 
we  catch  a  trace  of  dissatisfaction,  as 
in  his  reported  comment  on  the  anxi- 
ety of  the  authorities  in  regard  to  Rich- 
mond: 'The  general  had  been  heard  to 
say  that  Richmond  was  the  millstone 
that  was  dragging  down  the  army.' 

In  the  delightful  memoirs  of  Gen- 
eral Gordon  we  get  perhaps  the  most 
explicit  statement  of  what  Lee's  feel- 
ing about  the  President  really  was. 
At  the  time  when  Davis  was  said  to 
have  refused  to  abandon  the  capital, 
Lee  spoke  to  Gordon  in  the  highest 
terms  of  the  great  qualities  of  Davis's 


70 


LEE  AND  DAVIS 


character,  praised  '  the  strength  of  his 
convictions,  his  devotion,  his  remark- 
able faith  in  the  possibility  of  still  win- 
ning our  independence,  his  unconquer- 
able will-power.  "  But, "  he  added, ' '  you 
know  that  the  President  is  very  tena- 
cious in  opinion  and  purpose."1 

The  study  of  the  relations  of  Lee  and 
Davis  grows  more  interesting  as  the 
history  of  the  Confederacy  approaches 
its  tragic  close.  In  1861  Davis  was 
popular  all  through  the  country.  A 
small  faction  would  have  preferred  an- 
other President,  but  once  the  election 
was  settled,  the  support  was  enthusi- 
astic and  general.  With  difficulties 
and  reverses,  however,  there  came  — 
naturally  —  a  change  of  feeling.  In 
the  first  place,  the  Confederacy  had 
seceded  for  state  rights.  Now,  war 
powers  and  state  rights  did  not  go  to- 
gether. Davis  was  constantly  anxious 
to  have  law  behind  him,  so  anxious  that 
the  Richmond  Whig  sneered  at  his  de- 
sire to  get  a  law  to  back  up  every  act 
of  usurpation.  But  military  necessity 
knows  no  law  and  the  states  in  time 
grew  restless  and  almost  openly  re- 
bellious. 

More  than  this,  there  came  —  also 
naturally  —  a  bitter  hostility  to  Davis 
himself.  'The  people  are  weary  of  the 
flagrant  mismanagement  of  the  govern- 
ment,' is  a  mild  specimen  of  the  sort  of 
thing  that  abounds  in  the  Richmond 
Examiner.  'Jefferson  Davis  now  treats 
all  men  as  if  they  were  idiotic  insects,' 
says  the  Charleston  Mercury.  And  Ed- 
mund Rhett,  who  had  been  disposed  to 
hostility  from  the  beginning,  told  Mrs. 
Chesnut  that  the  President  was  'con- 
ceited, wrong-headed,  wranglesome 
obstinate,  —  a  traitor.'  These  little 
amenities  were  of  course  to  be  expected. 
Lincoln  had  to  meet  them.  But  the 
Southern  opposition  seems  to  have 
been  more  widespread  than  the  North- 
ern, and  I  imagine  an  election  in  the 
autumn  of  1864  would  have  defeated 


Davis  decisively.  A  moderate  view  of 
the  state  of  things  appears  in  a  letter 
from  Forsythe  of  Mobile  to  Bragg, 
January,  1865 :  '  Men  have  been  taught 
to  look  upon  the  President  as  a  sort  of 
inexorably  self-willed  man  who  will  see 
the  country  to  the  devil  before  giving 
up  an  opinion  or  a  purpose.  .  .  .  We 
cannot  win  unless  we  keep  up  the  popu- 
lar heart.  Mr.  Davis  should  come  down 
and  grapple  with  that  heart.  He  has 
great  qualities  for  gaining  the  confid- 
ence of  the  people.  There  are  many 
who  would  leap  to  his  side  to  fight  with 
and  for  him  and  for  the  country,  if  he 
would  step  into  the  arena  and  make  the 
place  for  them.' 

The  question  now  arises,  how  far 
was  Davis  really  responsible  for  this 
state  of  things?  Could  another,  larger, 
abler  man  have  done  more  than  he  did, 
if  not  have  succeeded  where  he  failed? 
For  there  is  good  evidence  that  the 
South  had  men  and  material  resources 
to  have  kept  up  the  struggle  far  longer. 
'Our  resources,  fitly  and  vigorously 
employed,  are  ample,'  said  Lee  himself 
in  February,  1865.  It  was  the  people 
who  had  lost  their  courage,  lost  their 
interest,  lost  their  hope  —  and  no  won- 
der. But  could  any  people  have  be- 
haved differently?  Would  that  people 
with  another  leader?  'It  is  not  the 
great  causes,  but  the  great  men  who 
have  made  history,'  says  one  of  the 
acutest  observers  of  the  human  heart. 

Such  discussion  would  be  futile  ex- 
cept for  its  connection  with  the  char- 
acter of  Davis.  In  the  opinion  of  his 
detractors,  the  lost  cause  would  have 
been  won  in  better  hands;  and  Pollard's 
clever  book  has  spread  that  opinion 
very  widely.  Pollard,  however,  though 
doubtless  sincere  enough,  was  Da  vis's 
bitter  personal  enemy,  or  at  any  rate 
wrote  as  such.  The  dispassionate  ob- 
server will  hardly  agree  at  once  with 
his  positive  conclusions.  More  inter- 
esting is  the  comment  of  the  diary- 


LEE  AND  DAVIS 


71 


keeping  war-clerk,  Jones,  an  infinitely 
small  personage,  but  with  an  eye  many- 
faceted  as  an  insect's.  Jones  was  a 
hearty  admirer  of  the  President  at  first, 
but  fault-finding  grows  and,  what  is 
more  important,  the  fault-finding  is 
based  on  facts.  'Davis,'  says  Jones,  'is 
probably  not  equal  to  the  role  he  is 
called  upon  to  play.  He  has  not  the 
broad  intelligence  required  for  the  gi- 
gantic measures  needed  in  such  a  crisis, 
nor  the  health  and  physique  for  the 
labors  devolving  upon  him.* 

It  is  difficult,  I  think,  not  to  agree 
with  this  moderate  statement,  unless 
the  emphasis  should  be  placed  rather 
on  character  than  on  intelligence.  It  is 
probable  that  the  Confederacy  could 
never  have  been  saved;  but  there  might 
have  been  a  leader  who  could  have  done 
more  to  save  it  than  Davis.  In  the  first 
place,  the  greatest  men  gather  able  men 
about  them.  Professor  Hart  writes, 
with  justice,  'President  Davis's  cabi- 
net was  made  up  in  great  part  of  feeble 
and  incapable  men.'  Mrs.  Chesnut  tells 
us  that  'there  is  a  perfect  magazine 
of  discord  and  disunion  in  the  Cab- 
inet.' Jones,  who  had  the  best  oppor- 
tunities for  observation,  says,  'Never 
did  such  little  men  rule  a  great  people.' 
And  again,  'Of  one  thing  I  am  certain, 
that  the  people  are  capable  of  achiev- 
ing independence,  if  they  only  had 
capable  men  in  all  departments  of  the 
government.'  Mrs.  Chesnut,  an  ad- 
mirer of  Davis  in  the  main,  lays  her 
finger  on  the  secret  of  the  matter  when 
she  says,  'He  (Toombs)  rides  too  high 
a  horse  for  so  despotic  a  person  as 
Jefferson  Davis.'  And  we  get  further 
insight,  when  we  learn  that  in  1862 
Davis  considered  making  Lee  secretary 
of  war,  but  thought  better  of  it.  Per- 
haps Lee  was  of  more  value  in  the  field 
than  he  would  have  been  in  the  cabi- 
net; but  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that 
even  he  could  permanently  have  re- 
mained Davis's  secretary. 


There  are  plenty  of  other  indications, 
besides  his  choice  of  advisers,  to  show 
that  Davis,  able,  brilliant,  noble  figure 
as  he  was,  was  'overparted '  in  the  enor- 
mous role  he  had  to  play.  He  could  not 
always  handle  men  in  a  way  to  win 
them,  as  a  great  ruler  must.  In  his  ear- 
lier life  we  read  that  'public  sentiment 
has  proclaimed  that  Jefferson  Davis 
is  the  most  arrogant  man  in  the  United 
States  Senate';  and  Mrs. Davis  herself 
tells  us,  when  she  first  meets  him,  that 
he  'has  a  way  of  taking  for  granted 
that  everybody  agrees  with  him,  when 
he  expresses  an  opinion,  which  offends 
me.'  'Gifted  with  some  of  the  highest 
attributes  of  a  statesman,  he  lacked  the 
pliancy  which  enables  a  man  to  adapt 
his  measures  to  the  crisis,'  says  his  kins- 
man, Reuben  Davis.  But  the  two  most 
decisive  comments  on  Davis's  career 
that  I  know  of  are  made  again  by  Mrs. 
Davis,  certainly  with  no  intention  of 
judging  her  husband,  and  all  the  more 
valuable  on  that  account.  'It  was  be- 
cause of  his  supersensitive  temperament 
and  the  acute  suffering  it  caused  him, 
I  had  deprecated  his  assuming  the  civil 
administration.'  And  later  she  writes, 
'In  the  greatest  effort  of  his  life  Mr. 
Davis  failed  from  the  predominance  of 
some  of  these  noble  qualities,'  failed, 
that  is,  not  by  reason  of  external  im- 
possibility, but  by  causes  within  him- 
self. Pollard  could  not  have  said  more. 
Most  of  us  would  hardly  say  so  much. 
Mrs.  Davis  certainly  did  not  intend  to, 
yet  she  knew  the  facts  better  than  any 
one  else  in  the  world. 

Whether  another  ruler  than  Davis 
could  have  saved  the  country  or  not, 
an  immense  number  of  people  in  the 
Confederacy  thought  that  one  man 
could — and  that  man  was  Lee.  Every- 
where those  who  most  mistrusted  the 
President  looked  to  Lee  with  confid- 
ence and  enthusiasm.  At  least  as  early 
as  June,  1864,  it  was  suggested  that 
he  should  be  made  dictator.  This  idea 


LEE  AND   DAVIS 


became  more  and  more  popular.  On 
the  nineteenth  of  January,  1865,  the 
Examiner  expressed  itself  editorially,  as 
follows,  'There  is  but  one  way  known 
to  us  of  curing  this  evil :  it  is  by  Con- 
gress making  a  law  investing  Gen.  Lee 
with  absolute  military  power  to  make 
all  appointments  and  direct  campaigns. 
It  may,  indeed,  be  said  that  in  this  new 
position  Gen.  Lee  would  have  to  re- 
lieve generals  and  appoint  others  and 
order  movements  which  perhaps  might 
not  satisfy  the  strategick  acumen  of 
the  general  publick;  and  how,  it  might 
be  asked,  could  he  satisfy  everybody 
any  more  than  Mr.  Davis?  The  dif- 
ference is  simply  that  every  Confeder- 
ate would  repose  implicit  confidence 
in  Gen.  Lee,  both  in  his  military  skill 
and  in  his  patriotic  determination  to 
employ  the  ablest  men,  whether  he 
liked  them  or  not.' 

This  sort  of  thing  could  not  be  very 
agreeable  to  Davis,  and  Mrs.  Davis  is 
said  by  the  spiteful  Pollard  to  have 
exclaimed,  'I  think  I  am  the  proper 
person  to  advise  Mr.  Davis,  and  if  I 
were  he,  I  would  die  or  be  hung  be- 
fore I  would  submit  to  the  humiliation.' 
On  January  17,  however,  before  the 
editorial  appeared  in  the  Examiner,  the 
Legislature  of  Virginia  addressed  a  re- 
spectful appeal  to  the  President  to  make 
Lee  commander-in-chief  of  all  the  Con- 
federate armies.  Davis,  knowing  his 
man  well,  replied  on  the  eighteenth 
that  nothing  would  suit  him  better, 
and  on  the  same  day  wrote  to  Lee  offer- 
ing him  the  position,  thus  anticipating 
the  vote  of  Congress  on  the  twenty- 
third  that  a  commander-in-chief  should 
be  appointed  by  the  President,  by  and 
with  the  consent  of  the  Senate. 

It  -was,  of  course,  the  intention  of 
Congress  to  take  the  military  control 
entirely  out  of  DaVis's  hands.  It  was 
expected  and  hoped  that  Lee  would 
have  agreed  to  this.  What  would  have 


happened  if  he  had  done  so,  or  what 
would  have  happened  if  such  a  change 
could  have  been  made  at  an  earlier 
date,  belongs  more  properly  to  a  dis- 
cussion of  Lee's  general  relations  to  the 
Confederate  government  and  the  na- 
tional policy  as  a  whole.  To  have  at- 
tempted anything  of  the  sort  would 
have  meant  revolution,  for  Davis  would 
have  fought  it  to  the  death.  As  it  was, 
Lee  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  To  all 
suggestions  of  independent  authority 
he  returned  a  prompt  and  absolute  No. 
The  position  of  commander-in-chief  he 
accepted,  but  only  from  the  hands  of 
Davis,  and  with  the  intention  of  acting 
in  every  way  as  his  subordinate.  'I 
am  indebted  alone  to  the  kindness  of 
His  Excellency  the  President  for  my 
nomination  to  this  high  and  arduous 
office,  and  wish  I  had  the  ability  to  fill 
it  to  advantage.  As  I  have  received  no 
instructions  as  to  my  duties,  I  do  not 
know  what  he  desires  me  to  undertake.' 
Thus  we  see  that  Lee,  from  personal 
loyalty,  or  from  a  broad  view  of  policy, 
or  both,  was  determined  to  remain  'in 
perfect  harmony  with  his  chief  to  the 
end.  After  the  war  the  general  said, '  If 
my  opinion  is  worth  anything,  you  can 
always  say  that  few  people  could  have 
done  better  than  Mr.  Davis.  I  knew 
of  none  that  could  have  done  as  well.' 
And  it  is  pleasant  to  feel  that  in  all  the 
conflict  and  agony  of  that  wretched 
time  these  two  noble  figures  —  both 
lofty  and  patriotic,  if  not  equally  so  •*— 
could  work  together  in  the  full  spirit 
of  Lee's  testimony  before  the  grand 
jury,  as  reported  by  himself  to  Davis: 
'He  said  that  he  had  always  con- 
sulted me  when  he  had  the  opportun- 
ity, both  on  the  field  and  elsewhere; 
that  after  discussion,  if  not  before,  we 
had  always  agreed;  and  that  therefore 
he  had  done,  with  my  consent  and  ap- 
proval, what  he  might  have  done  if  he 
had  not  consulted  me.' 


THE  RHETORICIAN  TO  HIS  SPIDER 

BY   KATHARINE   FULLERTON   GEROULD 


GOOD  gossip,  list!  The  lamp  burns  low, 
As  morning  climbs  our  crumbling  stair. 

My  tropes  fade,  too  —  but  ere  I  go, 
I  praise  the  vigil  that  we  share. 

Thy  shape  transmuted  should  have  shone 

A  golden  spinner  in  the  sky, 
Where  haunted  Algol  strays  alone, 

And  gallant  Argo  plunges  by. 

More  than  to  pipe  on  Marsyas'  note, 
To  outweave  Pallas!   Thou  didst  know 

How  skill-less  was  the  hand  that  smote, 

And  mocked  her  web  who  wrought  thy  woe. 

She  housed  thee  in  the  common  dust, 
A  withered  creature,  shrunk  and  gray; 

She  mated  thee  with  moth  and  rust, 
And  named  thee  handmaid  of  decay  — 

Yet  could  not  tame  thy  skill,  or  bring 
Thy  craft  to  aid  the  shame  begun: 

Each  morning  sees  thee  deftly  fling 
Thine  ancient  pattern  on  the  sun. 

We  contradict  their  social  cant: 
Ours  are  not  of  the  eyes  that  see 

Griselda  in  the  patient  ant, 
Or  Brutus  in  the.  dying  bee  — 

Mean  traffickers  for  dusty  trade, 

Betrayers  of  the  simple  flowers! 
We  are  recluses,  subtle  maid; 

The  solitary  cult  is  ours. 


74  THE  RHETORICIAN  TO  HIS  SPIDER 

We  doubt  their  vulgar  Paradise; 

And,  throned  above  the  modern  stir, 
Heretically  canonize 

Saint  Syntax  and  Saint  Gossamer. 

Yet  serve  we,  too:  thy  tender  coils 
Alone  entice  the  brawling  fly; 

I  trip  the  demagogue  in  toils 
Of  syllogistic  symmetry. 

The  unlettered,  whom  the  letter  kills, 
May  prate  of  charity  for  fools  — 

Through  our  pedantic  peace  yet  thrills 
The  sacred  fury  of  the  Schools. 

We  laugh  the  pragmatist  to  scorn, 
Who  seeks  his  truth  in  loudest  lies, 

Awaiting,  on  the  Judgment  Morn, 
Oracular  majorities. 

We  dream  a  State  of  pure  design, 
Beyond  the  anarchy  of  swords, 

Whose  Code  shall  match  thy  lore  with  mine, 
A  perfect  web  of  perfect  words. 

Thy  woven  heart,  my  broidered  page, 
My  logic  and  thy  legend,  girl  — 

These  isolate  us  from  the  Age, 
In  comradeship  above  the  churl. 

Let  Peter  or  Mahomet  save, 

Jahveh  —  or  Cretan  Minos  —  damn; 

So  I  may  pledge,  on  Styx's  wave, 
Arachne,  in  an  epigram! 


THE  PATRICIANS 


BY  JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


XIV 

EXALTATION  had  not  left  Milton.  His 
sallow  face  was  flushed,  his  eyes  glowed 
with  a  sort  of  beauty;  and  Mrs.  Noel, 
who,  better  than  most  women,  could 
read  what  was  passing  behind  a  face, 
saw  those  eyes  with  the  delight  of  a 
moth  fluttering  towards  a  lamp.  But 
in  a  very  unemotional  voice  she  said, 

'So  you  have  come  to  breakfast. 
How  nice  of  you!' 

It  was  not  in  Milton  to  observe  the 
formalities  of  attack.  Had  he  been  go- 
ing to  fight  a  duel  there  would  have 
been  no  preliminary,  just  a  look,  a 
bow,  and  the  swords  crossed.  So  in 
this  first  engagement  of  his  with  the 
soul  of  a  woman !  He  neither  sat  down 
nor  suffered  her  to  sit,  but  stood  close 
to  her,  looking  intently  into  her  face. 

'I  love  you,'  he  said. 

Now  that  it  had  come,  with  this  dis- 
concerting swiftness,  Mrs.  Noel  was 
strangely  calm  and  unashamed.  The 
elation  of  knowing  for  sure  that  she 
was  loved  was  like  a  wand  waving  away 
all  tremors,  stilling  them  to  sweet- 
ness. Since  nothing  could  take  away 
the  possession  of  that  knowledge,  she 
could  never  again  be  utterly  unhappy. 
Then,  too,  in  her  nature,  so  deeply  in- 
capable of  perceiving  the  importance  of 
any  principle  but  love,  there  was  a  se- 
cret feeling  of  assurance,  of  triumph. 
He  did  love  her!  And  she,  him!  Well! 
And  suddenly  panic-stricken  lest  he 
should  take  back  those  words,  she  put 
her  hand  up  to  his  breast,  and  said,  — 

'And  I  love  you.' 


The  feel  of  his  arms  round  her,  the 
strength  and  passion  of  that  moment, 
was  so  terribly  sweet,  that  she  died  to 
thought,  just  looking  up  at  him,  with 
lips  parted  and  eyes  darker  with  the 
depth  of  her  love  than  he  had  ever 
dreamed  that  eyes  could  be.  The  mad- 
ness of  his  own  feeling  kept  him  silent. 
In  this  moment,  the  happiest  of  both 
their  lives,  the  twin  spirits  of  the  uni- 
verse, Force  and  Love,  had  in  their 
immortal,  bright-winged  quest  of  the 
flower-moment,  chosen  these  two.  for 
the  temple  wherein  to  stay  conflict, 
and  worship  Harmony,  the  Overmas- 
ter; for  they  were  so  merged  in  one 
another  that  they  knew  and  cared 
nothing  for  any  other  mortal  thing.  It 
was  very  still  in  the  room;  the  roses 
and  carnations  in  the  lustre  bowl,  well 
knowing  that  their  mistress  was  caught 
up  into  heaven,  had  let  their  perfume 
steal  forth  and  occupy  every  cranny  of 
the  abandoned  air;  a  hovering  bee,  too, 
circled  round  the  lovers'  heads,  scenting, 
it  seemed,  the  honey  in  their  hearts. 

It  has  been  said  that  Milton's  face 
was  not  unhandsome;  for  Mrs.  Noel  at 
this  moment,  when  his  eyes  were  so  near 
hers,  and  his  lips  touching  her,  he  was 
transfigured,  and  had  become  the  spirit 
of  all  beauty.  And  she,  with  heart 
beating  fast  against  him,  her  eyes  half 
closing  from  delight,  and  her  hair  ask- 
ing to  be  praised  with  its  fragrance, 
her  cheeks  fainting  pale  with  emotion, 
and  her  arms  too  languid  with  happi- 
ness to  embrace  him  —  she,  to  him, 
was  the  incarnation  of  the  woman  that 
visits  dreams. 

75 


76 


THE  PATRICIANS 


So  passed  that  moment. 

The  bee  ended  it;  who,  impatient 
with  flowers  that  hid  their  honey  so 
deep,  had  entangled  himself  in  Mrs. 
Noel's  hair.  And  then,  seeing  that 
words,  those  dreaded  things,  were  on 
his  lips,  she  tried  to  kiss  them  back. 
But  they  came. 

'When  will  you  marry  me?' 

It  all  swayed  a  little.  And  with 
marvelous  rapidity  the  whole  position 
started  up  before  her.  She  saw,  with 
preternatural  insight,  into  its  nooks 
and  corners.  Something  he  had  said 
one  day,  when  they  were  talking  of  the 
Church  view  of  marriage  and  divorce, 
lighted  all  up.  So  he  had  really  never 
known  about  her!  At  this  moment  of 
utter  sickness,  she  was  saved  from  faint- 
ing by  her  sense  of  humor  —  her  gentle 
cynicism.  Not  content  to  let  her  be,  peo- 
ple's tongues  had  divorced  her;  he  had 
believed  them!  And  the  crown  of  irony 
was  that  he  should  want  to  marry  her, 
when  she  felt  so  utterly,  so  sacredly 
his,  to  do  what  he  liked  with,  without 
forms  or  ceremonies.  A  surge  of  bitter 
feeling  against  the  man  who  stood  be- 
tween her  and  Milton  almost  made  her 
cry  out.  That  man  had  captured  her 
before  she  knew  the  world  or  her  own 
soul,  and  she  was  tied  to  him,  till  by 
some  beneficent  chance  he  drew  his 
last  breath  —  when  her  hair  was  gray, 
and  her  eyes  had  no  love-light,  and  her 
cheeks  no  longer  grew  pale  when  they 
were  kissed;  when  twilight  had  fallen, 
and  the  flowers  and  bees  no  longer  cared 
for  her. 

It  was  that  feeling,  the  sudden  re- 
volt of  the  desperate  prisoner,  which 
steeled  her  to  put  out  her  hand,  take 
up  the  paper,  and  give  it  to  Milton. 

When  he  had  read  the  little  para- 
graph, there  followed  one  of  those  eter- 
nities which  last  perhaps  two  minutes. 

He  said,  then,  'It's  true,  I  suppose.' 
And  as  she  did  not  answer,  he  added, 
'lam  sorry.' 


The  queer  dry  saying  was  so  much 
more  terrible  than  any  outcry,  that 
Mrs.  Noel  remained,  deprived  even  of 
the  power  of  breathing,  with  her  eyes 
still  fixed  on  Milton's. 

The  smile  of  the  old  Cardinal  had 
come  up  on  his  face,  which  was  to  her 
at  that  moment  like  a  living  accusa- 
tion. It  seemed  strange  that  the  hum 
of  the  bees  and  flies  and  the  gentle 
swishing  of  the  lime-tree  leaves  should 
still  go  on  outside,  insisting  that  there 
was  a  world  moving  and  breathing 
apart  from  her  and  careless  of  her  mis- 
ery. Then  some  of  her  courage  came 
back,  and  with  it  her  woman's  mute 
power.  It  came  haunting  about  her 
face,  perfectly  still;  about  her  lips,  sen- 
sitive and  drawn ;  about  her  eyes,  dark, 
almost  mutinous  under  their  arched 
brows.  She  stood,  drawing  him  with 
her  silence  and  her  beauty. 

At  last  he  spoke. 

'I  have  made  a  foolish  mistake,  it 
seems.  I  thought  you  were  free.' 

Her  lips  just  moved  for  the  words  to 
pass:  'And  I  thought  you  knew.  I 
never  dreamed  that  you  would  want 
to  marry  me.' 

It  seemed  to  her  natural  that  he 
should  be  thinking  only  of  himself ,  but 
with  the  subtlest  defensive  instinct,  she 
put  forward  her  own  tragedy.  'I  sup- 
pose I  had  got  too  used  to  knowing 
that  I  was  dead.' 

'Is  there  no  release?' 

'  None.  We  have  neither  of  us  done 
wrong;  besides,  with  him,  marriage  is 
—  forever.' 

'My  God!' 

She  had  broken  his  smile,  that  was 
cruel  without  meaning  to  be  cruel ;  and 
with  a  smile  of  her  own  that  was  cruel 
too,  she  said,  — 

'  I  did  n't  know  that  you  believed  in 
release.' 

Then,  as  though  she  had  stabbed 
herself  in  stabbing  him,  her  face  quiv- 
ered. 


THE  PATRICIANS 


77 


He  looked  at  her  now,  conscious  at 
last  that  she  was  suffering  too.  And 
she  felt  that  he  was  holding  himself  in 
with  all  his  might  from  taking  her  again 
into  his  arms.  Seeing  this,  the  warmth 
crept  back  to  her  lips,  and  a  little  light 
into  her  eyes,  which  she  kept  hidden 
from  him.  Though  she  stood  so  proud- 
ly still,  some  wistful  force  seemed  to  be 
coming  from  her,  as  from  a  magnet, 
and  Milton's  hands  and  arms  and  face 
twitched  as  though  palsied.  This  strug- 
gle, dumb  and  pitiful,  seemed  never  to 
be  coming  to  an  end  in  the  little  white 
room,  darkened  by  the  thatch  of  the 
veranda,  and  sweet  with  the  scent  of 
pinks  and  of  a  wood-fire  just  lighted 
somewhere  out  at  the  back.  Then, 
without  a  word,  he  turned  and  went 
out.  She  heard  the  wicket-gate  swing 
to.  He  was  gone. 

xy 

Lord  Dennis  was  fly-fishing  —  the 
weather  just  too  bright  to  allow  the 
little  trout  of  that  shallow,  never  silent 
stream  to  embrace  with  avidity  the 
small  enticements  which  he  threw  in 
their  direction.  But  'Old  Magnificat' 
continued  to  invite  them,  exploring 
every  nook  of  their  watery  pathway 
with  his  soft-swishing  line.  In  a  rough 
suit,  and  battered  hat  adorned  with 
those  artificial  and  other  flies  which 
infest  Harris  tweed,  he  crept  along 
among  the  hazel  bushes  and  thorn 
trees,  perfectly  happy.  Like  an  old 
spaniel  who  has  once  gloried  in  the 
fetching  of  hares,  rabbits,  and  all  man- 
ner of  fowl,  and  is  now  happy  if  you 
will  but  throw  a  stick  for  him,  so  one 
who  had  been  a  famous  fisher  before 
the  Lord,  who  had  harried  the  waters 
of  Scotland  and  Norway,  Florida  and 
Iceland,  now  pursued  trout  no  bigger 
than  sardines.  The  glamour  of  a  thou- 
sand memories  hallowed  the  hours  he 
thus  spent  by  that  sweet  brown  water. 


He  fished  unhasting,  religiously,  like 
some  good  Catholic  adding  one  more 
row  of  beads  to  those  he  had  already 
told,  as  though  he  would  fish  himself 
gravely,  without  complaint,  into  the 
other  world.  With  each  fish  caught  he 
experienced  a  certain  solemn  satisfac- 
tion. 

Though  he  would  have  liked  Bar- 
bara with  him  that  morning,  he  had 
only  looked  at  her  once  after  breakfast 
in  such  a  way  that  she  could  not  see 
him,  and  with  a  little  sigh  had  gone  off 
by  himself.  Down  by  the  stream  it  was 
dappled,  both  cool  and  warm,  wind- 
less; the  trees  met  over  the  river,  and 
there  were  many  stones,  forming  little 
basins  which  held  up  the  ripple,  so  that 
the  casting  of  a  fly  required  much  cun- 
ning. This  long  dingle  ran  for  miles 
through  the  footgrowth  of  folding  hills. 
It  was  beloved  of  jays;  but  of  human 
beings  there  were  none,  except  a  chick- 
en-farmer's widow,  who  lived  in  a  house 
thatched  almost  to  the  ground,  and 
made  her  livelihood  by  directing  tour- 
ists with  such  cunning  that  they  soon 
came  back  to  her  for  tea. 

It  was  while  throwing  a  rather  longer 
line  than  usual  to  reach  a  little  dark 
piece  of  crisp  water  that  Lord  Dennis 
heard  the  swishing  and  crackling  of 
some  one  advancing  at  full  speed.  He 
frowned  slightly,  feeling  for  the  nerves 
of  his  fishes,  whom  he  did  not  wish 
startled.  The  invader  was  Milton:  hot, 
pale,  disheveled,  with  a  queer,  hunted 
look  on  his  face.  He  stopped  on  see- 
ing his  great-uncle,  and  instantly  put 
on  the  mask  of  his  smile. 

Old  Magnificat  was  not  the  man  to 
see  what  was  not  intended  for  him, 
and  he  merely  said,  'Well,  Eustace!' 
as  he  might  have  spoken,  meeting  his 
nephew  in  the  halls  of  his  London  clubs. 

Milton,  no  less  polite,  murmured,  'I 
hope  I  have  n't  lost  you  anything.' 

Lord  Dennis  shook  his  head,  and 
laying  his  rod  on  the  bank,  said,  'Sit 


78 


THE   PATRICIANS 


down  and  have  a  chat,  old  fellow.  You 
don't  fish,  I  think?' 

He  had  not  in  the  least  missed  the 
suffering  behind  Milton's  mask;  for 
his  eyes  were  still  good,  and  there  was 
a  little  matter  of  some  twenty  years' 
suffering  of  his  own  on  account  of  a  wo- 
man —  ancient  history  now  —  which 
had  left  him  oddly  sensitive,  for  an 
old  man,  to  the  signs  of  suffering  in 
others. 

Milton  would  not  have  obeyed  that 
invitation  from  any  one  else,  but  there 
was  something  about  Lord  Dennis 
which  people  did  not  resist;  his  power 
lying  perhaps  in  the  serenity  which 
radiated  from  so  grave  and  simple  a 
personality  —  the  assurance  that  there 
was  no  afterthought  about  his  mind, 
that  he  would  never  cause  one  to  feel 
awkward. 

The  two  sat  side  by  side  on  the  roots 
of  trees.  At  first  they  talked  a  little  of 
birds,  and  then  were  silent,  so  silent 
that  the  invisible  creatures  of  the  woods 
consulted  together  audibly.  Lord  Den- 
nis broke  that  silence. 

'This  place,'  he  said,  'always  re- 
minds me  of  Mark  Twain's  writings  — 
can't  tell  why,  unless  it's  the  ever- 
greenness.  I  like  the  evergreen  philo- 
sophers, Twain  and  Meredith.  There 's 
no  salvation  except  through  courage, 
though  I  never  could  stomach  the 
"strong  man"  —  captain  of  his  soul, 
Henley  and  Nietzsche  and  that  sort." 
It  goes  against  the  grain.  What  do  you 
say,  Eustace?' 

'They  meant  well,'  answered  Milton, 
'but  they  protested  too  much.' 

Lord  Dennis  moved  his  head  in  si- 
lent assent. 

'To  be  captain  of  your  soul!'  con- 
tinued Milton  in  a  better  voice;  'it's 
a  pretty  phrase!' 

'Pretty  enough,'  murmured  Old 
Magnificat. 

Milton  looked  at  him.  'And  suitable 
to  you,'  he  said. 


'No,  my  dear,  a  long  way  off  that. 
Thank  God!' 

A  large  trout  rose  in  the  stillest  cof- 
fee-colored pool.  Lord  Dennis  looked 
at  the  splash.  He  knew  that  fellow, 
a  half-pounder  at  the  least,  and  his 
thoughts  began  to  flight  round  the  top 
of  his  head,  hovering  over  the  various 
merits  of  the  flies.  His  fingers  itched 
too,  but  he  made  no  movement,  and 
the  ash  tree  under  which  he  sat  let  its 
leaves  tremble,  as  though  in  sympathy. 

'See  that  hawk?'  said  Milton  sud- 
denly. 

At  a  height  more  than  level  with  the 
tops  of  the  hills,  a  buzzard-hawk  was 
stationary  in  the  blue  directly  over 
them.  Inspired  by  curiosity  at  their 
stillness,  he  was  looking  down  to  see 
whether  they  were  edible;  the  upcurved 
ends  of  his  great  wings  flirted  just  once 
to  show  that  he  was  part  of  the  living 
glory  of  the  air  —  a  symbol  of  freedom 
to  men  and  fishes. 

Lord  Dennis  looked  at  his  great- 
nephew.  The  boy  —  for  what  else  was 
twenty-eight  to  seventy-eight?  —  was 
taking  it  hard,  whatever  it  might  be, 
taking  it  very  hard!  He  was  that  sort 
—  ran  till  he  dropped.  The  worst  kind 
to  help  —  the  sort  that  made  for  trou- 
ble—  that  let  things  gnaw  at  them! 
And  there  flashed  before  the  old  man's 
mind  the  image  of  Prometheus  de- 
voured by  the  eagle.  It  was  his  favor- 
ite tragedy,  which  he  still  read  period- 
ically, in  the  Greek,  helping  himself 
now  and  then,  out  of  his  old  lexicon, 
to  the  meaning  of  some  word  which 
had  flown  to  Erebus.  Yes,  Eustace  was 
a  fellow  for  the  heights  and  depths ! 

He  said  quietly,  '  You  don't  care  to 
talk  about  it,  I  suppose?' 

Milton  shook  his  head,  and  again 
there  was  silence. 

The  buzzard-hawk,  having  seen  them 
move,  quivered  his  wings  like  a  moth's, 
and  deserted  that  plain  of  air.  A  robin, 
from  the  dappled  warmth  of  a  mossy 


THE  PATRICIANS 


79 


stone,  was  regarding  them  instead. 
There  was  another  splash. 

Old  Magnificat  said  very  gently, 
'Don't  move.  That  fellow's  risen 
twice;  I  believe  he'd  take  a"  Wistman's 
treasure." '  Extracting  from  his  hat  its 
latest  fly,  and  binding  it  on,  he  began 
softly  to  swish  his  line.  '  I  shall  have 
him  yet!'  he  murmured. 

But  Milton  had  stolen  away. 

The  further  piece  of  information 
about  Mrs.  Noel,  already  known  by 
Barbara,  and  diffused  by  the  Buck- 
landbury  Gazette,  —  in  its  quest  of 
divinity,  the  reconciliation  of  white- 
wash and  tar,  —  had  not  become  com- 
mon knowledge  at  the  Court  till  great 
Lord  Dennis  had  started  out  to  fish. 
In  combination  with  the  news  that 
Milton  had  arrived  and  gone  out  with- 
out breakfast,  it  had  been  received 
with  mingled  feelings.  Bertie,  Har- 
binger, and  Shropton,  in  a  short  con- 
clave, after  agreeing  that  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  election  it  was  per- 
haps better  than  if  she  had  been  a  di- 
vorcee, were  still  inclined  to  the  belief 
that  no  time  was  to  be  lost  —  in  doing 
what,  however,  they  were  unable  to  de- 
termine. Apart  from  the  impossibility 
of  knowing  how  a  fellow  like  Milton 
would  take  the  matter,  they  were  faced 
with  the  devilish  subtlety  of  all  situa- 
tions to  which  the  proverb  '  Least  said, 
soonest  mended'  applies.  They  were 
in  the  presence  of  that  awe-inspiring 
thing,  the  power  of  scandal. 

Simple  statements  of  simple  facts, 
without  moral  drawn  (to  which  no  legal 
exception  could  be  taken),  laid  before 
the  public  as  a  piece  of  interesting  in- 
formation, or  at  the  worst  made  known, 
bonafide,  lest  the  public  should  blindly 
elect  as  their  representative  one  whose 
private  life  might  not  stand  the  in- 
spection of  daylight  —  what  could  be 
more  justifiable!  And  yet  Milton's 
supporters  knew  that  this  simple  state- 
ment of  where  he  spent  his  evenings 


had  a  poisonous  potency,  through  its 
power  of  stimulating  that  side  of  the 
human  imagination  most  easily  excited. 
They  recognized  only  too  well  how 
strong  was  a  certain  primitive  desire, 
especially  in  rural  districts,  by  yielding 
to  which  the  world  was  made  to  go, 
and  how  remarkably  hard  it  was  not 
to  yield  to  it,  and  how  interesting  and 
exciting  to  see  or  hear  of  others  yielding 
to  it,  and  how  (though  here  of  course 
opinion  might  differ)  reprehensible  of 
them  to  do  so!  They  recognized,  too 
well,  how  a  certain  kind  of  conscience 
would  appreciate  this  rumor;  and  how 
the  Puritans  would  lick  their  lengthened 
chops.  They  knew,  too,  how  irresist- 
ible to  people  of  any  imagination  at  all 
was  the  mere  combination  of  a  member 
of  a  class,  traditionally  supposed  to  be 
inclined  to  having  what  it  wanted, 
with  a  lady  who  lived  alone!  As  Har- 
binger said,  it  was  really  devilish  awk- 
ward! For  to  take  any  notice  of  it 
would  be  to  make  more  people  than 
ever  believe  it  true.  And  yet,  that  it 
was  working  mischief,  they  felt  by  the 
secret  voice  in  their  own  souls,  telling 
them  that  they  would  have  believed  it 
if  they  had  not  known  better.  They 
hung  about,  waiting  for  Milton  to  come 


in. 


The  news  was  received  by  Lady  Val- 
leys with  a  sigh  of  intense  relief,  and 
the  remark  that  it  was  probably  an- 
other lie.  When  Barbara  confirmed 
it,  she  only  said,  'Poor  Eustace!'  and 
at  once  wrote  off  to  her  husband  to 
say  that  Mrs.  Noel  was  still  married, 
so  that  the  worst,  fortunately,  could  not 
happen. 

Milton  came  in  to  lunch,  but  from 
his  face  and  manner  nothing  could  be 
guessed.  He  was  a  thought  more  talk- 
ative than  usual,  and  spoke  of  Bra- 
brook's  speech  —  some  of  which  he 
had  heard.  He  looked  at  Courtier 
meaningly,  and  after  lunch  said  to 
him, — 


80 


THE   PATRICIANS 


'Will  you  come  to  my  den?' 

In  that  room,  the  old  withdrawing 
room  of  the  Elizabethan  wing,  — where 
once  had  been  the  embroideries,  tap- 
estries, and  missals  of  beruffled  dames, 
—  were  now  books,  pamphlets,  oak 
panels,  pipes,  fencing-gear,  and  along 
one  wall  a  collection  of  Red  Indian 
weapons  and  ornaments  brought  back 
by  Milton  from  the  United  States. 
High  on  the  wall  above  them  reigned 
the  bronze  death-mask  of  a  famous 
Apache  chief,  cast  from  a  plaster  tak- 
en of  the  face  by  a  professor  of  Yale 
College,  who  had  declared  it  to  be  a 
perfect  specimen  of  the  vanishing  race. 
That  visage,  which  had  a  certain  weird 
resemblance  to  Dante's,  presided  over 
the  room  with  cruel,  tragic  stoicism. 
No  one  could  look  on  it  without  feel- 
ing that  there  the  human  will  had 
been  pushed  to  its  furthest  limits  of 
endurance. 

Seeing  it  for  the  first  time,  Courtier 
said,  'That's  a  fine  thing.  It  only 
wants  a  soul.' 

Milton  nodded.  'Sit  down,'  he  said. 

Courtier  sat  down. 

There  followed  one  of  those  silences 
in  which  men  whose  spirits,  though 
different,  are  big,  can  say  so  much  to 
one  another. 

At  last  Milton  spoke.  'I  have  been 
living  in  the  clouds,  it  seems.  You  are 
her  oldest  friend.  The  question  now  is 
how  to  make  it  easiest  for  her.  This 
miserable  rumor! ' 

Not  even  Courtier  himself  could 
have  put  such  whip-lash  sting  into  the 
word  'miserable.' 

He  answered, '  Oh !  take  no  notice  of 
that.  Let  them  stew  in  their  own  juice. 
She  won't  care.' 

Milton  listened,  not  moving  a  muscle 
of  his  face. 

'Your  friends  here,'  went  on  Cour- 
tier with  a  touch  of  contempt,  'seem 
in  a  flutter.  Don't  let  them  do  any- 
thing, don't  let  them  say  a  word.  Treat 


the  thing  as  it  deserves  to  be  treated. 
It '11  die.' 

Milton  smiled.  'I'm  not  sure,'  he 
said,  'that  the  consequences  will  be 
what  you  think,  but  I  shall  do  as  you 
say.' 

'As  for  your  candidature,  any  man 
with  a  spark  of  generosity  in  his  soul 
will  rally  to  you  because  of  it.' 

'Possibly,'  said  Milton,  'but  it  will 
lose  me  the  election.' 

They  stared  at  one  another,  dimly 
conscious  that  their  last  words  had  re- 
vealed the  difference  of  their  tempera- 
ments and  creeds. 

'Damn  it!'  said  Courtier,  'I  never 
will  believe  that  people  can  be  so 
mean ! ' 

'Until  they  are.' 

'  Anyway,  though  we  get  at  it  in  dif- 
ferent ways,  we  agree.' 

Milton  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  man- 
telpiece, and  shading  his  face  with  his 
hand,  said,  'You  know  her  story.  Is 
there  any  way  out  of  it,  for  her?' 

On  Courtier's  face  was  the  look 
which  so  often  came  when  he  was  speak- 
ing for  one  of  his  lost  causes  —  as  if 
the  fumes  from  a  fire  in  his  heart  had 
mounted  to  his  head. 

'Only  the  way,'  he  answered  calm- 
ly, 'that  I  should  take  if  I  were  you.' 

'And  that?' 

'The  law  into  your  own  hands.' 

Milton  unshaded  his  face.  His  gaze 
seemed  to  have  to  travel  from  an  im- 
mense distance  before  it  reached  Cour- 
tier. He  answered,  'Yes,  I  thought 
you  would  say  that.' 

XVI 

When  everything,  that  night,  was 
quiet  in  the  great  house,  Barbara,  with 
her  hair  hanging  loose  outside  her  dress- 
ing-gown, slipped  from  her  room  into 
the  dim  corridor.  With  bare  feet  thrust 
into  fur-crowned  slippers  which  made 
no  noise,  she  stole  along,  looking  at 


THE   PATRICIANS 


81 


door  after  door.  Through  a  long  Gothic 
window,  uncurtained,  the  mild  moon- 
light was  coming.  She  stopped  just 
where  that  moonlight  fell,  and  tapped. 
There  came  no  answer.  She  opened  the 
door  a  little  way,  and  said,  — 

'Are  you  asleep,  Eusty?' 

There  still  came  no  answer,  and  she 
went  in. 

The  curtains  were  drawn,  but  a  chink 
of  moonlight,  peering  through,  fell  on 
the  bed.  It  was  empty.  Barbara  stood 
uncertain,  listening.  In  the  heart  of 
that  darkness  there  seemed  to  be,  not 
sound,  but,  as  it  were,  the  muffled  soul 
of  sound,  a  sort  of  strange  vibration, 
like  that  of  a  flame  noiselessly  licking 
the  air.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart, 
which  beat  as  though  it  would  leap 
through  the  thin  silk  coverings.  From 
what  corner  of  the  room  was  that 
mute  tremor  coming?  Stealing  to  the 
window,  she  parted  the  curtains,  and 
stared  back  into  the  shadows.  There, 
on  the  far  side,  lying  on  the  floor  with 
his  arms  pressed  tightly  round  his  head 
and  his  face  to  the  wall,  was  Milton. 

Barbara  let  fall  the  curtains,  and 
stood  breathless,  with  such  a  queer  sen- 
sation in  her  breast  as  she  had  never 
felt :  a  sense  of  something  outraged  — 
of  lost  divinity  —  of  scarred  pride.  It 
was  gone  in  a  moment,  before  a  rush  of 
pity.  She  stepped  forward  quickly  in 
the  darkness,  was  visited  by  fear,  and 
stopped.  He  had  seemed  absolutely 
himself  all  the  evening.  A  little  more 
talkative,  perhaps,  a  little  more  caustic 
than  usual.  And  now  to  find  him  like 
this! 

There  was  no  great  share  of  rever- 
ence in  Barbara,  but  what  little  she 
possessed  had  always  been  kept  for  her 
eldest  brother.  He  had  impressed  her, 
from  a  child,  with  his  aloofness,  and 
she  had  been  proud  of  kissing  him  be- 
cause he  never  seemed  to  let  anybody 
else  do  so.  Those  caresses,  no  doubt, 
had  the  savor  of  conquest;  his  face  had 

VOL.  107  -  NO.  1 


been  the  undiscovered  land  for  her  lips. 
She  loved  him  as  one  loves  that  which 
ministers  to  one's  pride;  had  for  him, 
too,  a  touch  of  motherly  protection, 
as  for  a  doll  that  does  not  get  on  too 
well  with  the  other  dolls;  and  withal  a 
little  unaccustomed  awe. 

Dared  she  now  plunge  in  on  this  pri- 
vate agony?  Could  she  have  borne  that 
any  one  should  see  herself  thus  pro- 
strate? He  had  not  heard  her,  and  she 
tried  to  regain  the  door.  But  a  board 
creaked;  she  heard  him  move,  and 
flinging  away  her  fears,  she  said,  '  It 's 
me!  Babs!'  and  sank  on  her  knees  be- 
side him.  She  tried  at  once  to  take  his 
head  into  her  arms,  but  she  could  not 
see  it,  and  succeeded  indifferently.  She 
could  but  stroke  his  arm,  wondering 
whether  he  would  hate  her  ever  af- 
terwards, and  blessing  the  darkness, 
which  made  it  all  seem  as  though  it 
were  not  happening,  yet  so  much  more 
poignant  than  if  it  had  happened.  Sud- 
denly she  felt  him  slip  away  from  her, 
and  getting  up,  stole  out.  After  the 
darkness  of  that  room,  the  corridor 
seemed  full  of  gray,  filmy  light,  as 
though  dream-spiders  had  joined  the 
walls  with  their  cobwebs,  in  which  in- 
numerable white  moths,  so  tiny  that 
they  could  not  be  seen,  were  struggling. 
Small  eerie  noises  crept  about.  A  sud- 
den frightened  longing  for  warmth  and 
light  and  color  came  to  Barbara. 

She  fled  back  to  her  room.  But  she 
could  not  sleep.  That  terrible,  mute,  un- 
seen vibration  in  the  unlighted  room  — 
like  the  noiseless  licking  of  a  flame  at 
bland  air;  the  touch  of  Milton's  hand, 
hot  as  fire  against  her  cheek  and  neck; 
the  whole  tremulous  dark  episode  pos- 
sessed her  through  and  through.  Thus 
had  the  wayward  force  of  love  chosen 
to  manifest  itself  to  her  in  all  its  wist- 
ful violence.  At  this  first  sight  of  the 
red  flower  of  passion,  Barbara's  cheeks 
burned;  up  and  down  her,  between  the 
cool  sheets,  little  hot,  cruel  shivers  ran; 


82 


THE  PATRICIANS 


she  lay,  wide-eyed,  staring  at  the  ceil- 
ing. She  thought  of  the  woman  whom 
he  so  loved,  and  wondered  if  she  too 
were  lying  sleepless,  flung  down  on  the 
bare  floor,  trying  to  cool  her  forehead 
and  lips  against  a  cold  wall. 

Not  for  hours  did  she  fall  asleep,  and 
then  dreamed  of  running  desperately 
through  fields  full  of  tall  spikey  flowers 
like  asphodels,  and  behind  her  was 
running  herself. 

In  the  morning  she  dreaded  to  go 
down.  Could  she  meet  Milton,  now  that 
she  knew  of  the  passion  in  him,  and  he 
knew  that  she  knew  it?  She  had  her 
breakfast  brought  upstairs.  But  she 
need  not  have  feared.  Before  she  had 
finished,  Milton  himself  came  in.  He 
looked  more  than  usually  self-contain- 
ed, not  to  say  ironic,  and  he  only  said, 
'  If  you  're  going  to  ride,  you  might  take 
this  note  for  me  over  to  old  Haliday  at 
Wippincott.' 

By  his  coming  she  knew  that  he  was 
saying  all  he  ever  meant  to  say  about 
that  dark  incident.  And  sympathizing 
completely  with  a  reticence  which  she 
herself  felt  to  be  the  only  possible  way 
out  for  both  of  them,  Barbara  looked 
at  him  gratefully,  took  the  note,  and 
said, 'All  right!' 

After  glancing  once  or  twice  round 
the  room,  Milton  went  out. 

But  he  left  her  restless,  divested  of 
the  cloak  'of  course,'  in  a  mood  6f 
strange  questioning,  ready  as  it  were 
for  the  sight  of  the  magpie  wings  of 
Life,  and  to  hear  their  quick  flutterings. 
The  talk  of  the  big  house  jarred  on  her, 
with  its  sameness  and  attachment  to 
things  done  and  about  to  be  done,  its 
essential  concern  with  the  world  as  it 
was.  She  wanted  to  be  told  that  morn- 
ing of  things  that  were  not,  yet  might 
be;  to  peep  behind  the  curtain,  and  see 
the  very  spirit  of  mortal  happenings 
riding  on  the  tall  air.  This  was  unusual 
with  her,  whose  body  was  too  perfect, 
too  sanely  governed  by  the  flow  of  her 


blood,  not  to  revel  in  the  moment  and 
the  things  thereof.  Restlessness  sent 
her  swinging  out  into  the  lanes.  It 
drove  her  before  it  all  the  morning,  and 
hungry,  at  midday,  into  a  farmhouse 
to  beg  for  milk.  There,  in  the  kitchen, 
like  young  jackdaws  in  a  row  with  their 
mouths  a  little  open,  were  the  three 
farm  boys,  seated  on  a  bench  gripped 
to  the  alcove  of  the  great  fire-way, 
munching  bread  and  cheese.  Above 
their  heads  a  gun  was  hung,  trigger  up- 
wards, and  two  hams  were  mellowing  in 
the  smoke.  At  the  feet  of  a  black-haired 
girl,  slicing  onions,  lay  a  sheep-dog  of 
tremendous  age,  with  nose  stretched 
out  on  paws,  and  in  his  little  blue  eyes 
a  gleam  of  approaching  immortality. 
They  all  stared  at  Barbara,  as  if  an 
archangel  had  asked  for  milk.  And 
one  of  the  boys,  whose  face  had  the  de- 
lightful look  of  him  who  loses  all  sense 
of  other  things  in  what  he  is  see- 
ing at  the  moment,  smiled;  and  con- 
tinued smiling,  with  sheer  pleasure. 
The  milk  was  new.  Barbara  drank  it, 
and  wandered  out.  She  went  up  a  lane, 
and  passing  through  a  gate  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  steep,  rocky  tor,  she  sat  down 
on  a  sun-warmed  stone.  The  sunlight 
fell  greedily  on  her  here,  like  an  invis- 
ible, swift  hand,  touching  her  all  oVer 
as  she  leaned  back  against  the  wall,  and 
specially  caressing  her  throat  and  face. 
A  very  gentle  wind,  which  dived  over 
the  tor-tops  into  the  young  fern,  stole 
down  at  her,  spiced  with  the  fern  sap. 
All  was  warmth  and  peace,  and  only 
the  cuckoos  on  the  far  thorn  trees  — 
as  though  stationed  by  the  Wistful 
Master  himself  —  were  there  to  dis- 
turb her  heart. 

But  all  the  sweetness  and  piping  of 
the  day  did  not  soothe  her.  In  truth, 
she  could  not  have  said  what  was  the 
matter,  except  that  she  felt  so  discon- 
tented, and  as  it  were  empty  of  all  but 
a  sort  of  aching  impatience,  with  what 
exactly  she  could  not  say.  She  had  that 


THE  PATRICIANS 


83 


rather  dreadful  feeling  of  something 
slipping  by  which  she  could  not  catch. 
It  was  so  new  to  her  to  feel  like  that  — 
no  girl  was  less  given  to  moods  and  re- 
pinings.  And  all  the  time  a  sort  of  con- 
tempt for  this  soft  and  almost  senti- 
mental feeling  in  her,  made  her  tighten 
her  lips  and  frown.  She  felt  distrustful 
and  sarcastic  towards  a  mood  so  utter- 
ly subversive  of  that  fetich  '  hardness ' 
which  unconsciously  she  had  been 
brought  up  to  worship.  To  stand  no 
sentiment  or  nonsense  either  in  herself 
or  in  others  was  the  first  article  of  faith; 
not  to  slop  over  anywhere.  And  to  feel 
like  this  was  almost  horrible  to  Bar- 
bara. And  yet  she  could  not  get  rid  of 
the  sensation.  With  sudden  reckless- 
ness she  tried  giving  herself  up  to  it  en- 
tirely. Undoing  the  scarf  at  her  throat, 
she  let  the  air  play  on  her  bared  neck, 
and  stretched  out  her  arms  as  if  to  hug 
the  wind  to  her;  then,  with  a  sigh,  she 
got  up,  and  walked  on. 

And  now  she  began  thinking  again  of 
Mrs.  Noel;  turning  her  position  over 
and  over  with  impatience.  The  idea 
that  any  one  young  and  beautiful 
should  thus  be  clipped  off  in  her  life, 
roused  indignation  in  Barbara.  Let 
them  try  it  with  her!  They  would 
soon  see!  Besides,  she  hated  anything 
to  suffer.  It  seemed  to  her  unnatural. 
She  never  went  to  that  hospital  where 
Lady  Valleys  had  a  ward,  nor  to  their 
summer  camp  for  crippled  children, 
nor  to  help  in  their  annual  concert  for 
sweated  workers,  without  a  feeling  of 
such  vehement  pity  that  it  was  like 
being  seized  by  the  throat.  Once,  when 
she  had  been  singing  to  them,  the  rows 
of  wan,  pinched  faces  below  had  been 
too  much  for  her;  she  had  broken  down, 
forgotten  her  words,  lost  memory  of 
the  tune,  and  just  ended  her  perform- 
ance with  a  smile,  worth  more  perhaps 
to  her  audience  than  those  lost  verses. 
She  never  came  away  from  such  sights 
and  places  without  a  feeling  of  revolt 


amounting  almost  to  rage;  yet  she 
continued  to  go,  because  she  dimly 
knew  that  it  was  expected  of  her  not 
to  turn  her  back  on  things. 

But  it  was  not  this  feeling  which 
made  her  stop  before  Mrs.  Noel's  cot- 
tage; nor  was  it  curiosity.  It  was  a 
quite  simple  desire  to  squeeze  her 
hand. 

She  seemed  to  be  taking  her  trouble 
as  only  those  women  who  are  not  good 
at  self-assertion  can  take  things  —  do- 
ing exactly  as  she  would  have  done 
if  nothing  had  happened;  a  little  paler 
than  usual,  with  lips  pressed  rather 
tightly  together. 

Neither  of  them  spoke  at  first,  but 
they  stood  looking,  not  at  each  other's 
faces,  but  at  each  other's  breasts. 

At  last,  Barbara  stepped  forward  im- 
pulsively and  kissed  her. 

After  that,  like  two  children  who  kiss 
first  and  make  acquaintance  afterwards, 
they  stood  apart,  silent,  faintly  smil- 
ing. It  had  been  given  and  returned  in 
real  sweetness  and  comradeship,  that 
kiss,  for  a  sign  of  womanhood  mak- 
ing face  against  the  world;  but  now 
that  it  was  over,  both  felt  a  little  awk- 
ward. Would  that  kiss  have  been  given 
if  Fate  had  been  auspicious?  Was  it 
not  proof  of  misery?  So  Mrs.  Noel's 
smile  seemed  saying,  and  Barbara's 
smile  unwillingly  admitting.  Perceiv- 
ing that  if  they  talked  it  could  only 
be  about  the  most  ordinary  things, 
they  began  speaking  of  music,  flowers, 
and  the  queerness  of  bees'  legs.  But 
all  the  time,  Barbara,  though  seemingly 
unconscious,  was  noting  with  her  smil- 
ing eyes  the  tiny  movements  by  which 
one  woman  can  tell  what  is  passing  in 
another.  She  saw  a  little  quiver  tighten 
the  corner  of  the  lips,  the  eyes  suddenly 
grow  large  and  dark,  the  thin  blouse 
desperately  rise  and  fall.  And  her 
fancy,  quickened  by  last  night's  mem- 
ory, saw  this  woman  giving  herself  up 
to  love  in  her  thoughts.  At  this  sight 


84 


THE  PATRICIANS 


she  felt  a  little  of  that  impatience  which 
the  conquering  feel  for  the  passive,  and 
perhaps  just  a  touch  of  jealousy. 

Whatever  Milton  should  decide, 
that  would  this  woman  accept!  Such 
resignation,  while  it  simplified  things, 
offended  that  part  of  Barbara  which 
rebelled  against  all  inaction,  all  dicta- 
tion, even  from  her  favorite  brother. 

She  said  suddenly,  'Are  you  going 
to  do  nothing?  Are  n't  you  going  to 
try  and  free  yourself?  If  I  were  in 
your  position,  I  would  never  rest  till 
I  'd  made  them  free  me.' 

But  Mrs.  Noel  did  not  answer;  and 
sweeping  her  glance  from  that  crown 
of  soft  dark  hair,  down  the  soft  white 
figure,  to  the  very  feet,  Barbara  said, 
'I  believe  you  are  a  fatalist.' 

Then,  not  knowing  what  more  to  say, 
she  soon  went  away.  But  walking  home 
across  the  fields,  where  full  summer 
was  swinging  on  the  delicious  air,  and 
there  was  now  no  bull,  but  only  red 
cows  to  crop  short  the  'milkmaids' 
and  buttercups,  she  suffered  from  this 
strange  revelation  of  the  strength  of 
softness  and  passivity — as  though  she 
had  seen  in  Mrs.  Noel's  white  figure, 
and  heard  in  her  voice,  something  from 
beyond,  symbolic,  inconceivable,  yet 
real. 

XVII 

Lord  Valleys,  relieved  from  official 
pressure  by  subsidence  of  the  war  scare, 
had  returned  for  a  long  week-end.  To 
say  that  he  had  been  intensely  relieved 
by  the  news  that  Mrs.  Noel  was  not 
free,  would  be  to  put  it  mildly.  Though 
not  old-fashioned,  like  his  mother-in- 
law,  in  regard  to  the  marriage  question, 
and  quite  prepared  to  admit  in  general 
that  exclusiveness  was  out  of  date,  he 
had  a  peculiar  personal  feeling  about 
his  own  family,  and  was  perhaps  a  little 
extra  sensitive  because  of  Agatha;  for 
Shropton,  though  a  good  fellow  and  ex- 
tremely wealthy,  was  only  a  third  bar- 


onet, and  had  orginally  been  made  of 
iron.  And  though  Lord  Valleys  passed 
over  with  a  shrug  and  a  laugh  —  as 
much  as  to  say,  '  It 's  quite  natural  now- 
adays '  —  those  numerous  alliances  by 
which  his  caste  were  renewing  the  sin- 
ews of  war;  and  indeed,  in  his  capacity 
of  an  expert,  often  pointed  out  the  dan- 
gers of  too  much  in-breeding;  still,  when 
it  came  to  his  own  family,  he  felt  that 
the  case  was  different.  There  was  no 
material  necessity  whatever  for  going 
outside  the  inner  circle;  he  had  not  done 
it  himself;  moreover,  there  was  a  senti- 
ment about  these  things! 

On  the  morning  after  his  arrival, 
visiting  the  kennels  before  breakfast,  he 
stood  chatting  with  his  head  man,  and 
caressing  the  wet  noses  of  his  two  fav- 
orite pointers,  with  something  of  the 
feeling  of  a  boy  let  out  of  school.  Those 
white  creatures,  cowering  and  quiver- 
ing with  pride  against  his  legs,  and  turn- 
ing up  at  him  their  yellow  Chinese 
eyes,  gave  him  that  sense  of  warmth 
and  comfort  which  visits  men  in  the 
presence  of  their  hobbies.  With  this  par- 
ticular pair,  inbred  to  the  uttermost,  he 
had  successfully  surmounted  a  great 
risk.  It  was  now  touch-and-go  whether 
he  dared  venture  on  one  more  cross  to 
the  original  strain,  in  the  hope  of  elim- 
inating that  last  clinging  touch  of  liver 
color.  It  was  a  gamble  —  and  it  was 
just  that  which  rendered  it  so  vastly 
interesting. 

A  small  voice  diverted  his  attention ; 
he  looked  round  and  saw  his  grand- 
daughter, little  Ann  Shropton.  She  had 
been  in  bed  when  he  arrived  the  night 
before,  and  he  was  therefore  the  newest 
thing  about.  She  carried  in  her  arms 
a  guinea-pig,  and  began  at  once:  — 

'Grandpapa,  granny  wants  you= 
She  's  on  the  terrace;  she  's  talking  to 
Mr.  Courtier.  I  like  him  —  he 's  a  kind 
man.  If  I  put  my  guinea-pig  down, 
will  they  bite  it?  Poor  darling  —  they 
shan't!  Is  n't  it  a  darling?' 


THE  PATRICIANS 


85 


Lord  Valleys,  twirling  his  moustache,  * 
regarded  the  guinea-pig  without  favor; 
he  had  rather  a  dislike  for  all  sense- 
less kinds  of  beasts. 

Pressing  the  guinea-pig  between  her 
hands,  as  it  might  be  a  concertina,  little 
Ann  jigged  it  gently  above  the  point- 
ers, who,  wrinkling  horribly  their  long 
noses,  gazed  upwards,  fascinated. 

'Poor  darlings,  they  want  it  —  don't 
they,  grandpapa?' 

'Yes.' 

'Do  you  think  the  next  puppies  will 
be  quite  white?' 

Continuing  to  twirl  his  moustache. 
Lord  Valleys  answered,  'I  think  it  is 
not  improbable,  Ann.' 

'Why  do  you  like  them  quite  white? 
Oh !  they  're  kissing  Sambo  —  I  must 
go!' 

Lord  Valleys  followed  her,  his  eye- 
brows a  little  raised.  As  he  approach- 
ed the  terrace,  his  wife  came  towards 
him.  Her  color  was  deeper  than  usu- 
al, and  she  had  the  look,  higher  and 
more  resolute,  peculiar  to  her  when 
she  had  been  opposed.  In  truth,  she 
had  just  been  through  a  passage  of 
arms  with  Courtier,  who,  as  the  first 
revealer  of  Mrs.  Noel's  situation,  had 
become  entitled  to  a  certain  confidence 
on  this  subject.  It  had  arisen  from 
what  she  had  intended  as  a  perfectly 
natural  and  not  unkind  remark,  to  the 
effect  that  all  the  trouble  had  arisen 
from  Mrs.  Noel  not  having  made  her 
position  clear  to  Milton  from  the  first. 

He  had  gone  very  red. 

'It 's  easy,'  he  said,  'for  those  who 
have  never  been  in  the  position  of  a 
lonely  woman,  to  blame  her.' 

Unaccustomed  to  be  withstood,  Lady 
Valleys  had  looked  at  him  intently. 

'I  am  the  last  person  to  be  hard  on 
a  woman  for  conventional  reasons.  I 
merely  think  it  showed  a  lack  of  char- 
acter.' 

Courtier's  reply  had  been  almost 
rude. 


'Plants  are  not  equally  robust,  Lady 
Valleys.  Some  are  sensitive.' 

She  had  retorted  with  decision,  'If 
you  like  so  to  dignify  the  simpler  word 
"weak."' 

He  had  become  very  rigid  at  that, 
biting  deeply  into  his  moustache. 

'What  crimes  are  not  committed 
under  the  sanctity  of  that  creed,  "  sur- 
vival of  the  fittest,"  which  suits  the 
book  of  all  you  fortunate  people  so 
well!' 

Priding  herself  on  her  restraint,  Lady 
Valleys  answered,  'Ah!  we  must  talk 
that  out.  On  the  face  of  them,  your 
words  sound  a  little  unphilosophical, 
don't  they?' 

He  had  looked  straight  at  her  with  a 
queer,  rather  unpleasant  smile;  and  she 
had  felt  at  once  uneasy,  and  really  an- 
gry. But  remembering  that  he  was  her 
guest,  she  had  only  said  dryly,  'Per- 
haps, after  all,  we  had  better  not  talk 
it  out.' 

But  as  she  moved  away,  she  heard 
him  say,  'In  any  case,  I  'm  certain 
Audrey  Noel  never  willfully  kept  your 
son  in  the  dark.' 

Though  still  ruffled,  she  could  not 
help  admiring  the  way  he  stuck  up  for 
this  woman;  and  she  threw  back  at  him 
the  words,  'You  and  I,  Mr.  Courtier, 
must  have  a  good  fight  some  day! ' 

She  went  towards  her  husband,  con- 
scious of  the  rather  pleasurable  sensa- 
tion which  combat  always  roused  in 
her. 

These  two  were  very  good  comrades. 
Theirs  had  been  a  love  match,  and  mak- 
ing due  allowance  for  human  nature 
beset  by  opportunity,  had  remained, 
throughout,  a  solid  and  efficient  alli- 
ance. Taking,  as  they  both  did,  so 
prominent  a  part  in  public  and  social 
matters,  the  time  they  spent  together 
was  limited,  but  productive  of  mutual 
benefit  and  reinforcement. 

They  had  not  yet  had  an  opportunity 
of  discussing  their  son's  affair ;  and,  slip- 


86 


THE  PATRICIANS 


ping  her  arm  through  his,  Lady  Valleys 
led  him  away  from  the  house.  '  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about  Milton,  Geoff/ 

'H'm!'  said  Lord  Valleys.  'Yes.  The 
boy 's  looking  worn.  Good  thing  when 
this  election's  over,  anyway!' 

*  If  he 's  beaten  and  has  n't  some- 
thing new  and  serious  to  concentrate 
himself  on,  he  '11  fret  his  heart  out  over 
this  woman.' 

Lord  Valleys  meditated  a  little  be- 
fore replying. 

*  I  don't  think  that,  Gertrude.   He 's 
got  plenty  of  spirit.' 

'Of  course!  But  it's  a  real  passion. 
And,  you  know,  he's  not  like  most 
boys,  who'll  take  what  they  can.' 

She  said  this  rather  wistfully. 

'I'm  sorry  for  that  woman,'  mused 
Lord  Valleys;  '  I  really  am.' 

'They  say  this  rumor  's  done  a  lot 
of  harm.' 

'Oh,  our  influence  is  strong  enough 
to  survive  that.' 

'It'll  be  a  squeak;  I  wish  I  knew 
what  he  was  going  to  do.  Will  you  ask 
him?' 

'You're  clearly  the  person  to  speak 
to  him,' replied  Lord  Valleys.  'I'm  no 
hand  at  that  sort  of  thing.' 

But  Lady  Valleys,  with  genuine  dis- 
comfort, murmured,  '  My  dear,  I  'm  so 
nervous  with  Eustace.  When  he  puts 
on  that  smile  of  his,  I'm  done  for,  at 
once.' 

'This  is  obviously  a  woman's  busi- 
ness; nobody  like  a  mother.' 

'If  it  were  only  one  of  the  others,' 
muttered  Lady  Valleys;  'Eustace  has 
that  queer  way  of  making  you  feel 
lumpy.' 

Lord  Valleys  looked  askance.  He 
had  that  kind  of  critical  fastidiousness 
which  a  word  will  rouse  into  activity. 
Was  she  lumpy?  The  idea  had  never 
struck  him. 

'Well,  I'll  do  it,  if  I  must,'  sighed 
Lady  Valleys. 

When  she  entered  Milton's  'den,' 


Tie  was  buckling  on  his  spurs  prepar- 
atory to  riding  out  to  some  of  the  re- 
moter villages.  Under  the  mask  of 
the  Apache  chief,  Bertie  was  stand- 
ing, more  inscrutable  and  neat  than 
ever,  in  a  perfectly-tied  cravat,  per- 
fectly-cut riding-breeches,  and  boots 
worn  and  polished  till  a  sooty  glow 
shone  through  their  natural  russet. 
Not  specially  dandified  in  his  usual 
dress,  Bertie  Caradoc  would  almost 
sooner  have  died  than  disgrace  a  horse. 
His  eyes,  the  sharper  because  they  had 
only  half  the  space  of  the  ordinary  eye 
to  glance  from,  at  once  took  in  the  fact 
that  his  mother  wished  to  be  alone  with 
'old  Milton,'  and  he  discreetly  left  the 
room. 

That  which  disconcerted  all  who  had 
dealings  with  Milton  was  the  discovery, 
made  soon  or  late,  that  they  could  not 
be  sure  how  anything  would  strike  him. 
In  his  mind,  as  in  his  face,  there  was 
a  certain  regularity,  and  then  —  im- 
possible to  say  exactly  where  —  it 
would  shoot  off  and  twist  round  a  cor- 
ner. This  was  the  legacy,  no  doubt, 
of  the  hard-bitted  individuality  which 
had  brought  to  the  front  so  many  of 
his  ancestors;  for  in  Milton  was  the 
blood  not  only  of  the  Caradocs  and 
Fitz  Harolds,  but  of  most  other  pro- 
minent families  in  the  kingdom,  all  of 
whom  at  one  time  or  another  had  had 
a  forbear  conspicuous  by  reason  of 
qualities,  not  always  fine,  but  always 
poignant. 

Now,  though  Lady  Valleys  had  the 
audacity  of  her  physique,  and  was  not 
customarily  abashed,  she  began  by 
speaking  of  politics,  hoping  her  son 
would  soon  give  her  an  opening.  But 
he  gave  her  none,  and  she  grew  nerv- 
ous. At  last,  summoning  all  her  cool- 
ness, she  said,  'I'm  dreadfully  sorry 
about  this  affair,  dear  boy.  Your  father 
told  me  of  your  talk  with  him.  Try  not 
to  take  it  too  hard.' 

Milton  did  not  answer,  and  silence 


THE  PATRICIANS 


87 


being  that  which  Lady  Valleys  habitu- 
ally most  dreaded,  she  took  refuge  in 
further  speech,  outlining  for  her  son 
the  whole  episode  as  she  saw  it  from 
her  point  of  view,  and  ending  with 
these  words,  '  Surely  it 's  not  worth  it.' 

Milton  heard  her  with  the  peculiar 
look,  as  of  a  man  peering  through  a 
vizor.  Then  smiling  faintly,  he  said, 
'Thank  you,'  and  opened  the  door.1 

Lady  Valleys,  without  quite  know- 
ing whether  he  intended  her  to  do  so, 
indeed  without  quite  knowing  any- 
thing at  the  moment,  passed  out,  and 
Milton  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  and  Bertie  were 
seen  riding  down  the  drive. 

XVIII 

That  afternoon  the  wind,  which  had 
been  rising  steadily,  brought  a  flurry  of 
clouds  up  from  the  southwest.  Form- 
ed out  on  the  heart  of  the  'Atlantic, 
they  sailed  forward,  swift  and  fleecy 
at  first,  like  the  skirmishing  white 
shallops  of  a  dark  fleet,  then  in  great 
serried  masses  overwhelmed  the  sun. 
About  four  o'clock  they  broke  in  rain, 
which  the  wind  drove  horizontally  with 
a  cold,  whiffling  murmur.  As  youth  and 
glamour  die  in  a  face  before  the  cold 
rains  of  life,  so  glory  died  on  the  moor. 
The  tors,  from  being  uplifted,  wild  cas- 
tles, became  mere  gray  excrescences. 
Distance  failed.  The  cuckoos  were  si- 
lent. There  was  none  of  the  beauty^that 
there  is  in  death,  no  tragic  greatness  — 
all  was  moaning  and  monotony.  But 
about  seven  the  sun  tore  its  way  back 
through  the  swath,  and  flared  out. 
Like  some  huge  star,  whose  rays  were 
stretching  down  to  the  horizon,  and  up 
to  the  very  top  of  the  hill  of  air,  it  shone 
with  an  amazing,  murky  glamour;  the 
clouds,  splintered  by  its  shafts,  and 
tinged  saffron,  piled  themselves  up  as 
if  in  wonder.  Under  the  sultry  warmth 
of  this  new  great  star,  the  heather  be- 


gan to  steam  a  little,  and  the  glitter  of 
its  wet,  unopened  bells  was  like  that 
of  innumerable  tiny,  smoking  fires. 

The  two  brothers  were  drenched 
as  they  cantered  silently  home.  Good 
friends  always,  they  had  never  much 
to  say  to  one  another.  For  Milton  was 
conscious  that  he  thought  on  a  differ- 
ent plane  from  his  brother;  and  Bertie 
grudged,  even  to  his  brother,  any  ink- 
ling of  what  was  passing  in  his  spirit, 
just  as  he  grudged  parting  with  diplo- 
matic knowledge,  or  stable  secrets,  or 
indeed  anything  that  might  leave  him 
less  in  command  of  life.  He  grudged 
it,  because,  in  a  private  sort  of  way,  it 
lowered  his  estimation  of  his  own  sto- 
ical self-sufficiency;  it  hurt  something 
proud  in  the  withdrawing-room  of  his 
soul.  But  though  he  talked  little,  he 
had  the  power  of  contemplation  — 
often  found  in  men  of  decided  char- 
acter, with  a  tendency  to  liver.  Once 
in  Nepal,  where  he  had  gone  to  shoot, 
he.  had  passed  a  month  quite  happily 
with  only  a  Ghoorka  servant  who  could 
speak  no  English.  In  describing  that 
existence  afterwards,  he  had  said, '  No, 
was  n't  bored  a  bit;  thqught  a  lot,  of 
course.' 

With  Milton's  trouble  he  had  the 
professional  sympathy  of  a  brother  and 
the  natural  intolerance  of  a  confirmed 
bachelor.  Women  were  to  him  very 
kittle-cattle.  He  distrusted  from  the 
bottom  of  his  soul  those  who  had  such 
manifest  power  to  draw  things  from  you. 
He  was  one  of  those  men  in  whom  some 
day  a  woman  might  awaken  a  really 
fine  affection;  but  who,  until  that  time, 
would  maintain  a  perfectly  male  at- 
titude to  the  entire  sex.  Women  were, 
like  life  itself,  creatures  to  be  watched, 
carefully  used,  and  kept  duly  subserv- 
ient. The  only  allusion,  therefore,  that 
he  made  to  Milton's  trouble,  was  very 
sudden. 

'Old  man,  I  hope  you're  going  to 
cut  your  losses.' 


88 


THE  PATRICIANS 


The  words  were  followed  by  undis- 
turbed silence.  But  passing  Mrs.  Noel's 
cottage,  Milton  said,  — 

'Take  my  horse  on,  old  fellow.  I 
want  to  go  in  here.' 

She  was  sitting  at  her  piano  with 
her  hands  idle,  looking  at  a  line  of 
music.  She  had  been  sitting  thus  for 
many  minutes,  but  had  not  yet  taken 
in  the  notes. 

When  Milton's  shadow  blotted  the 
light  by  which  she  was  seeing  so  little, 
she  gave  a  slight  start,  and  got  up.  But 
she  neither  went  towards  him,  nor 
spoke.  And  he,  without  a  word,  came 
in  and  stood  by  the  hearth,  looking 
down  at  the  empty  grate.  A  tortoise- 
shell  cat  which  had  been  watching 
swallows,  disturbed  by  his  entrance, 
withdrew  from  the  window  beneath 
a  chair. 

This  silence,  in  which  the  question 
of  their  future  lives  was  to  be  decided, 
seemed  to  both  interminable;  yet  nei- 
ther could  end  it. 

At  last,  touching  his  sleeve,  she  said, 
'You're  wet!' 

Milton  shivered  at  that  timid  sign 
of  possession.  And  they  again  stood  in 
silence  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  the 
cat  licking  its  paws. 

But  her  faculty  for  dumbness  was 
stronger  than  his,  and  he  spoke  first. 

'Forgive  me  for  coming;  something 
must  be  settled.  This  rumor  — ' 

'That!'  she  said  scornfully;  but 
quickly  added,  'Is  there  anything  I 
can  do  to  stop  the  harm  to  you?' 

It  was  the  turn  of  Milton's  lips  to 
curl.  'God!  no;  let  them  talk!' 

Their  eyes  had  come  together  now, 
and,  once  together,  seemed  unable  to 
part. 

Mrs.  Noel  said  at  last,  'Will  you 
ever  forgive  me?' 

'What  for?  it  was  my  fault.' 

.'No,  I  should  have  known  you  bet- 
ter.' 


The  depth  of  meaning  in  those  words 
—  the  tremendous  and  subtle  admis- 
sion they  contained  of  all  that  she  had 
been  ready  to  do,  the  despairing  know- 
ledge in  them  that  he  was  not,  and  never 
had  been,  ready  to  '  bear  it  out  even  to 
the  edge  of  doom '  —  made  Milton 
wince  away.  With  desolate  dryness, 
he  said,  '  It  is  not  from  fear  —  believe 
that,  anyway.' 

She  answered,  'I  do.' 

There  followed  another  long  silence. 
So  close  that  they  were  almost  touch- 
ing, they  no  longer  looked  at  one  an- 
other. Then  Milton  said,  — 

'There  is  only  to  say  good-by,  then.' 

At  these  clear  words,  spoken  by  lips 
which,  though  just  smiling,  failed  so 
utterly  to  hide  his  misery,  Mrs.  Noel's 
face  became  as  colorless  as  her  white 
gown.  But  those  eyes,  which  had  grown 
immense,  seemed,  from  the  sheer  lack 
of  all  other  color,  to  have  drawn  into 
them  the  whole  of  her  vitality;  to  be 
pouring  forth  a  proud  and  mournful 
reproach. 

Shivering  and  crushing  himself  to- 
gether with  his  arms,  Milton  walked 
towards  the  window.  There  was  not 
the  faintest  sound  from  her,  and  he 
looked  back.  She  was  following  him 
with  her  eyes.  He  threw  his  hand  up 
over  his  face,  and  went  quickly  out. 

Mrs.  Noel  stood  for  a  little  while 
where  he  had  left  her;  then,  sitting 
down  once  more  at  the  piano,  began 
again  to  con  over  the  line  <jf  music. 
And  the  cat  stole  back  to  the  window 
to  watch  the  swallows.  The  sunlight 
was  dying  slowly  on  the  top  branches 
of  the  lime  tree;  a  drizzling  rain  began 
to  fall. 

XIX 

Claud  Fresnay,  Viscount  Harbinger, 
was,  at  the  age  of  thirty-one,  perhaps 
the  least  encumbered  peer  in  the  United 
Kingdom.  Thanks  to  an  ancestor  who 
had  acquired  land,  and  departed  this 


THE  PATRICIANS 


life  one  hundred  and  thirty  years  before 
the  town  of  Nettlefold  was  built  on  a 
small  portion  of  it,  and  to  a  father 
who  had  died  in  his  son's  infancy,  after 
selling  the  said  town,  he  possessed  a 
very  large  and  well-nursed  income  in- 
dependently of  his  landed  interests. 

He  was  tall,  strong,  and  well-built,  had 
nice  easy  manners,  a  regular  face,  with 
dark  hair  and  a  light  moustache,  more 
than  average  wits,  and  a  genial  smile. 
He  had  traveled,  written  two  books, 
was  a  Captain  of  Yeomanry,  a  Justice 
of  the  Peace,  a  good  cricketer,  a  very 
glib  speaker,  and  marked  for  early  pro- 
motion to  the  Cabinet.  He  had  lately 
taken  up  Social  Reform  very  seriously, 
so  far  as  a  nature  rapid  rather  than  deep, 
and  a  life  in  which  he  was  hardly  ever 
alone,  or  silent,  suffered  him.  Brought 
into  contact  day  and  night  with  people 
to  whom  politics  was  a  game,  run 
after  everywhere,  subjected  to  no  form 
of  discipline,  it  was  a  wonder  that  he 
was  as  serious  as  he  was.  Moreover,  he 
had  never  been  in  love  until,  the  year 
before,  during  her  first  season,  he  met 
Barbara.  She  had,  as  he  would  have 
expressed  it,  —  in  the  case  of  another, 
—  'bowled  his  middle  stump.'  But 
though  deeply  smitten,  he  had  not  yet 
asked  her  to  marry  him  —  had  not,  as 
it  were,  had  time;  nor  perhaps  quite  the 
courage,  or  conviction.  Yet,  when  he 
was  near  her,  it  seemed  impossible  that 
he  could  go  on  longer  without  knowing 
his  fate;  but  then  again,  when  he  was 
away  from  her  it  was  almost  a  relief,  be- 
cause there  were  so  many  things  to  be 
done  and  said,  and  so  little  time  to  do 
or  say  them  in.  During  the  fortnight, 
however,  which,  for  her  sake,  he  had 
managed,  with  intervals  of  rushing  up 
to  London,  to  devote  to  Milton's  cause, 
his  feeling  had  advanced  beyond  the 
point  of  comfort.  He  was,  in  a  word, 
uneasy. 

He  did  not  admit  that  the  cause  of 
this  uneasiness  was  Courtier,  for,  after 


all,  Courtier  was,  in  a  sense,  nobody, 
and  an  extremist  into  the  bargain;  and 
an  extremist  always  affected  the  centre 
of  Harbinger 's  anatomy,  causing  it  to 
give  off  a  peculiar  smile  and  tone  of 
voice.  Nevertheless  his  eyes,  when- 
ever they  fell  on  that  sanguine,  steady, 
ironic  face,  shone  with  a  sort  of  cold 
inquiry,  or  were  even  darkened  by  the 
shade  of  fear.  They  met  seldom,  it  is 
true,  for  most  of  his  day  was  spent  in 
motoring  and  speaking,  and  most  of 
Courtier's  in  writing  and  riding,  his 
leg  being  still  too  weak  for  walking. 
But  once  or  twice  in  the  smoking-room 
late  at  night,  Harbinger  had  embarked 
on  some  bantering  discussion  with  the 
champion  of  lost  causes;  and  very  soon 
an  ill-concealed  impatience  had  crept 
into  his  voice.  Why  a  man  should 
waste  his  time  flogging  dead  horses  on 
a  journey  to  the  moon,  was  incompre- 
hensible. Facts  were  facts,  and  human 
nature  would  never  be  anything  but 
human  nature!  It  was  peculiarly  gall- 
ing to  see  in  Courtier's  eye  a  gleam, 
to  catch  in  his  voice  a  tone,  as  if  he 
were  thinking, '  My  young  friend,  your 
soup  is  cold!' 

On  a  morning  after  one  of  these  en- 
counters, seeing  Barbara  sally  forth  in 
riding-clothes,  he  asked  if  he  too  might 
go  round  the  stables;  and  walked  at 
her  side,  unwontedly  silent,  with  an  odd, 
icy  feeling  about  his  heart,  his  throat 
unaccountably  dry. 

The  stables  at  Monkland  Court  were 
as  large  as  many  country-houses.  They 
accommodated  thirty  horses,  but  were 
at  present  occupied  by  twenty-one, 
including  the  pony  of  little  Ann.  For 
height,  perfection  of  lighting,  gloss, 
shine,  and  purity  of  atmosphere,  they 
were  unequaled  in  the  county.  It  seem- 
ed indeed  impossible  that  any  horse 
could  ever  so  far  forget  himself  in  such 
a  place  as  to  remember  that  he  was  a: 
horse.  Every  morning  a  little  bin  of 
carrots,  apples,  and  lumps  of  sugar 


90 


THE  PATRICIANS 


was  set  close  to  the  main  entrance, 
ready  for  those  who  might  desire  to  feed 
the  dear  inhabitants. 

Reined  up  to  a  brass  ring  on  either 
side  of  their  stalls,  with  their  noses 
towards  the  doors,  they  were  always 
on  view  from  nine  to  ten,  and  would 
stand  with  their  necks  arched,  ears 
pricked,  and  coats  gleaming,  wonder- 
ing about  things,  soothed  by  the  faint 
hissing  of  the  still  busy  grooms,  and 
ready  to  move  their  noses  up  and  down 
the  moment  they  saw  some  one  enter. 

In  a  large  loose-box  at  the  end  of  the 
north  wing,  Barbara's  favorite  hunter, 
a  bright  chestnut,  patrician  all  but 
one  sixteenth  of  him,  having  heard  her 
footstep,  was  standing  quite  still  with 
his  neck  turned.  He  had  been  crump- 
ing up  an  apple  placed  amongst  his 
feed,  and  his  senses  struggled  between 
the  lingering  flavor  of  that  delicacy, 
and  the  perception  of  a  sound  with 
which  he  connected  carrots.  When  she 
unlatched  his  door,  and  said, '  Hal,'  he 
at  once  went  towards  his  manger,  to 
show  his  independence;  but  when  she 
said,  'Oh!  very  well!'  he  turned  round 
and  came  towards  her.  His  eyes,  which 
were  full  and  of  a  soft  brilliance,  under 
thick  chestnut  lashes,  explored  her  all 
over. 

Perceiving  that  her  carrots  were  not 
in  front,  he  elongated  his  neck,  let 
his  nose  stray  round  her  waist,  and 
gave  her  gauntleted  hand  a  nip  with 
his  lips.  Not  tasting  carrot,  he  with- 
drew his  nose,  and  snuffled.  Then,  step- 
ping carefully  so  as  not  to  tread  on  her 
foot,  he  bunted  her  gently  with  his 
shoulder,  till  with  a  quick  manoeuvre 
he  got  behind  her  and  breathed  low 
and  long  on  her  neck.  Even  this  did 
not  smell  of  carrots,  and  putting  his 
muzzle  over  her  shoulder  against  her 
cheek,  he  slobbered  a  very  little.  A 
carrot  appeared  about  the  level  of  her 
waist,  and  hanging  his  head  over,  he 
tried  to  reach  it.  Feeling  it  all  firm 


and  soft  under  his  chin,  he  snuffled 
again,  and  gave  her  a  gentle  dig  with 
his  knee.  But  still  unable  to  reach  the 
carrot,  he  threw  his  head  up,  withdrew, 
and  pretended  not  to  see  her.  And  sud- 
denly he  felt  two  long  substances  round 
his  neck,  and  something  soft  against  his 
nose.  He  suffered  this  in  silence,  laying 
his  ears  back.  The  softness  began  puff- 
ing on  his  muzzle.  Pricking  his  ears 
again,  he  puffed  back,  a  little  harder, 
and  with  more  curiosity,  and  the  soft- 
ness was  withdrawn.  He  perceived 
suddenly  that  he  had  a  carrot  in  his 
mouth. 

Lord  Harbinger  had  witnessed  this 
episode,  oddly  pale,  leaning  against  the 
wall  of  the  loose-box.  He  spoke  as  it 
came  to  an  end:  — 

'LadyBabs!' 

The  tone  of  his  voice  must  have  been 
as  strange  as  it  sounded  to  himself,  for 
Barbara  spun  round. 

'Yes?' 

'How  long  am  I  going  on  like  this?' 

Neither  changing  color  nor  dropping 
her  eyes,  she  regarded  him  with  a  faint- 
ly inquisitive  interest.  It  was  not  a 
cruel  look,  had  not  a  trace  of  mischief, 
or  sex-malice,  and  yet  it  frightened  him 
by  its  serene  inscrutability.  Impossible 
to  tell  what  was  going  on  behind  it. 

He  took  her  hand,  bent  over  it,  and 
said  in  a  low,  hurried  voice,  'You  know 
what  I  feel ;  don't  be  cruel  to  me! ' 

She  did  not  pull  her  hand  away;  it 
was  as  if  she  had  not  thought  of  it. 

'  I  am  not  a  bit  cruel.' 

Looking  up,  he  saw  her  smiling. 

'Then  — Babs!' 

His  face  was  close  to  hers,  but  Bar- 
bara did  not  shrink  back.  She  just 
shook  her  head;  and  Harbinger  flushed 
up. 

'Why?'  he  asked;  then,  as  though 
the  enormous  injustice  of  that  reject- 
ing gesture  had  suddenly  struck  him, 
dropped  her  hand.  'Why?'  he  said 
again,  sharply. 


THE  FOUR  WINDS 


But  the  silence  was  broken  only  by 
the  cheeping  of  sparrows  outside  the 
round  window,  and  the  sound  of  the 
horse,  Hal,  munching  the  last  morsel 
of  his  carrot. 

Harbinger  was  aware  in  his  every 
nerve  of  the  sweetish,  slightly  acrid, 
husky  odor  of  the  loose-box,  mingling 
with  the  scent  of  Barbara's  hair  and 
clothes.  And  rather  miserably,  he 
said  for  the  third  time,  'Why?' 

But,  folding  her  hands  away  behind 
her  back,  she  answered  gently,  'My 
dear,  how  should  I  know  why?' 

She  was  calmly  exposed  to  his  em- 
brace if  he  had  only  dared;  but  he  did 
not  dare,  and  went  back  to  the  loose- 
box  wall.  Biting  his  finger,  he  stared 
at  her  gloomily.  She  was  stroking  the 
muzzle  of  her  horse,  and  a  sort  of  dry 


rage  began  whisking  and  rustling  in 
his  heart.  She  had  refused  him  —  Har- 
binger? He  had  not  known,  he  had  not 
suspected,  how  much  he  wanted  her. 
How  could  there  be  anybody  else  for 
him,  while  that  young,  calm,  sweet- 
scented,  smiling  thing  lived,  to  make 
his  head  go  round,  his  senses  ache,  and 
to  fill  his  heart  with  longing?  He 
seemed  to  himself  at  that  moment  the 
most  unhappy  of  all  men. 

'I  shall  not  give  you  up,'  he  mut- 
tered. 

Barbara's  answer  was  a  smile,  faint- 
ly curious,  compassionate,  yet  almost 
grateful,  as  if  she  had  said,  'Thank  you 
—  who  knows?' 

And  rather  quickly,  a  yard  or  so 
apart,  and  talking  of  horses,  they  re- 
turned to  the  house. 


(To  be  continued.} 


THE   FOUR  WINDS 


BY  FRANK  JEWETT  MATHER,  JR. 


FOR  a  season  it  was  my  fortunate  lot 
to  live  in  a  villa  called  The  Tower  of 
the  Four  Winds.  Just  where  it  lies  is  no 
matter.  Enough  to  say  that  behind  it 
fissured  crags  and  gaunt  monoliths  tear 
the  song  from  the  strong  winds,  while 
below  it  olives  and  trellised  vines  an- 
swer to  every  whisper  of  the  fairer 
breeze.  From  its  terrace  one  surveys 
at  will  either  a  gulf  bordered  by  monu- 
mental peaks,  or  an  endless  expanse  of 
proper  sea, — to  wit,  the  Mediterranean. 
From  such  a  watch-tower  one  might 
recognize  the  winds  from  afar.  Even- 
ing after  evening  one  saw  the  bland 


Northwestern  breeze  ripple  over  the 
gulf,  and  shake  the  still  leaves  of  the 
vines  before  it  filled  our  loggia  with 
perfumed  coolness.  Over  the  shattered 
cliff  behind,  the  West  wind  combed  out 
the  fleecy  clouds  and  gave  back  the 
shreds  to  the  blue  ether.  The  crag  itself 
would  be  full  of  the  petulant  wail  of 
the  Levantine  or  of  the  more  stolid 
complaint  of  the  African  wind,  long  be- 
fore either  had  visibly  tarnished  the 
waters.  In  such  a  place,  with  abundant 
leisure,  it  was  natural  that  I  should 
look  much  at  the  waters,  and  hearken 
much  to  the  winds.  Thus  they  became 


THE  FOUR  WINDS 


familiar  to  me  —  my  friends  and  my 
foes  —  persons  to  me  as  much  as  ever 
they  were  to  Greek  or  Roman  suppli- 
ant. And  as  the  Ancients  set  up  fanes 
to  the  bad  winds,  but  not  to  the  good, 
and  as  my  master  Chaucer  teaches  me 
that  men 

demen  gladly  to  the  badder  ende, 

I  will  begin  with  the  bad  winds  in  gen- 
eral ;  and  then,  Sirocco,  that  I  may  the 
sooner  have  done  with  thee,  I  will  deal 
with  thee  specifically.  Afterwards  let 
the  order  be  as  the  winds  themselves 
shall  intimate. 

The  evil  winds,  in  a  word,  are  the 
Norther  (though  not,  as  you  shall  see, 
invariably),  the  three  southern  winds, 
and  the  Levantine.  If  any  one  doubts, 
let  him  watch  the  scared  sails  flutter 
landward  when  the  clouds  declare  one 
of  these  winds  in  the  upper  air.  For 
a  more  solemn  demonstration  we  have 
only  to  turn  to  Virgil,  and  note  what 
befell  ^Eneas  fleeing  from  Troy  when 
Juno  had  persuaded  ^Eolus  to  do  his 
worst.  We  read  that  all  together  the 
East  wind,  the  South,  and  the  South- 
wester  rushed  squally  upon  the  sea, — 

Una  Eurusque  Notusque  ruunt,  creberque  pro- 

cellis 
Africus,  — 

and  rolled  the  huge  waves  shore  wards, 

et  vastos  volvunt  ad  littora  fluctus. 
Then,  as  if  this  southeastern  concen- 
tration were  not  enough,  a  howling 
Norther  was  added,  which  naturally 
caught  ^Eneas's  sail  aback,  — 

,    stridens  aquilone  procella 
Velum  adversa  ferit. 

How  JSneas,  whose  seamanship  was 
usually  impeccant,  should  have  been 
carrying  more  than  a  rag  of  try-sail  in 
such  weather  I  have  never  understood. 
Possibly  there  was  no  time  to  clew  up 
the  bellying  lateen  sails  and  bring  the 
yard  inboard.  Yet  the  poet  makes 
^neas  pray  at  length,  with  the  main- 
sail aback.  Or  Virgil  may  have  been 


no  sailor-man.  Still  again,  the  crew  may 
have  dropped  work  for  prayer  and  ulu- 
lation,  as  well  might  be,  when  three  of 
the  worst  winds  were  unitedly  threaten- 
ing a  jibe.  However  this  be,  ^Eolus's 
choice  of  bad  winds  for  ^Eneas  —  East, 
South,  Southwest,  and  North  —  would 
still  strike  a  Mediterranean  skipper 
as  a  suitable  combination  for  a  hated 
rival. 

Since  Virgil  has  passed  for  a  senti- 
mentalist and  an  over-literary  chap,  — 
just  why  this  should  seem  a  defect  in  a 
poet  has  never  been  wholly  clear  to  me, 

—  I  feel  glad  that  his  roster  of  evil 
winds  is  confirmed  by  that  good  head 
Horace.    Be  it  noted  too  that  Horace 
does  not  name  these  winds  academ- 
ically, he  invokes  them  most  practi- 
cally upon  the  loathed  poetaster  Mae- 
vius,  who  is  about  to  set  sail.  Horace's 
famous  imprecation  involves  an  artistic 
crescendo  of  merely  terrifying,  positive- 
ly damaging,  and  completely  destruct- 
ive winds.    He  starts  Meevius  rather 
gently  with  a  stiff  South  wind  (Auster, 
the  equivalent  of  Virgil's  Notus):  — 

Do  you,  Auster,  beat  both  sides  of  the  ship  with 
your  horrid  waves. 

This  induction  is  clearly  intended  to 
be  more  disconcerting  than  dangerows. 
For  the  steady  work  of  punishment, 
Horace  very  properly  depends  on  the 
East  wind :  — 

Let  Eurus,  having  turned  the  sea  upside  down 
[nothing  expresses  a  Mediterranean  storm 
like  that  sickening  inverse  mare]  sweep 
away  the  broken  oars. 

Now  the  ill-omened  bark  of  the  vile 
Mffivius  wallows  helplessly  in  the  worst 

—  shall  we  say  the  most '  inverted '  ?  — 
of  seas,  and  Horace  calls  upon  a  North- 
ern blast,  such  as  finally  wrecked  ./Eneas, 
to  complete  the  job:  — 

Let  the  North  wind  with  his  mountainous  waves 
arise  as  when  he  shatters  the  trembling 
ilexes. 

The  urbane  cool-headed  Horace  agrees 


THE  FOUR  WINDS 


93 


so  closely  with  Virgil  that  we  may  be 
sure  the  tearful  poet  has,  after  all,  re- 
corded truly  the  actual  proceedings  of 
^Eolus  re  ^Eneas.  Like  a  finished  man 
of  the  world,  Horace  simplifies  matters. 
An  unaided  South  wind  suffices  for 
Maevius,  whereas  ^Eneas  endures  also 
a  Southwester.  But  then  ^Eneas  had 
offended,  not  a  poet,  but  a  goddess.  It 
appears  that  ^Eolus  prudently  kept  one 
bad  wind,  the  Southeaster,  in  reserve, 
on  the  off  chance  that  ^Eneas  might 
outmanoeuvre  that  buffeting  Norther. 

So  much  concerning  foul  winds,  and 
now  for  the  worst  of  them. 

Sirocco,  the  Southeaster,  may  seem 
to  divide  the  infernal  honors  with  his 
brother  Mezzogiorno  (the  South  wind) 
and  his  remoter  kinsman  Libeccio, 
the  Southwester.  In  fact,  it  seems  to 
have  been  Libeccio  that  the  ancients 
regarded  as  the  'pestilent  African.' 
But  Sirocco  is  after  all  the  type  of 
a  hot  and  humid  storm-wind,  and  the 
others  merely  borrow  and  live  on  his 
unhallowed  repute.  A  moaning  and 
persistent  blast  when  once  he  starts, 
he  often  comes  insidiously,  in  disguise. 
For  I  ours  it  has  been  calm;  the  sun 
beats  pitilessly  upon  the  trembling  sea; 
humid  vapors  shimmer  whitely  before 
distant  headlands;  above,  only  a  few 
light  clouds  fleck  the  vibrant  blue. 
The  sea  sparkles  uniformly,  except 
where  meeting  currents  etch  the  sur- 
face with  dull  filaments,  or  plaques  of 
smooth  enamel  tell  that  the  last  ripple 
is  at  rest.  Soon  an  invisible  breeze  scat- 
ters a  grayness  over  the  sea,  powders 
it  with  the  dust  of  black  pearls.  Then 
the  lower  air  surges  with  inchoate 
vapors,  something  .between  mist  and 
cloud.  These  giant  embryons  cast  deep- 
ly-blue shadows  upon  the  sea.  Through 
thin  places  in  the  mist-cover  the  sun- 
shine strikes,  and  penumbral  irides- 
cences play  slowly  across  the  waters. 
The  surface  now  is  mottled  with  lines 
of  cream,  deep  blue,  rose-gray.  These 


widely-spaced  nacreous  areas  unite  in  a 
satiny  iridescence,  which  soon  tarnishes 
to  a  pewtery  gleam. 

At  the  Tower  of  the  Four  Winds  is 
heard  a  moaning.  The  mist-wrack 
smites  our  mountain  at  mid-cliff,  and 
flings  itself  upward  over  the  crest. 
The  torn  fragments  fly  over  the  bay, 
dulling  its  sheen  as  they  go,  till  they 
shut  out  the  farther  shore  and  the  dark- 
ling blue  mountains  beyond.  Seaward 
the  waves  are  rising,  and  their  break- 
ing becomes  a  steady  clamor.  Under 
the  crags  and  in  the  grottoes,  the  island 
wears  a  hem  of  whitest  spume.  A  light 
diffused  from  the  mist  strikes  thou- 
sands of  dull  reflections  from  the  leaden 
wave-crests.  Here  and  there  the  worry- 
ing blast  strains  the  cloud-veil  to  the 
tearing  point,  and  then  a  shifting  spot 
of  zinc-like  lustre  hurries  across  the 
lumpy  surface.  The  African  wind  is 
here,  and  may  stay  for  three  days,  nay, 
five.  'It  is  Sirocco,  have  patience,'  one 
says  to  his  neighbor. 

If  one  could  but  look  at  the  African 
blast  without  breathing  it  or  moving 
in  it,  one  might  enjoy  the  spectacle. 
About  his  operations  over  the  sea,  in  the 
cliff  crannies,  and  in  the  cloud-wrack, 
there  is  something  grandiosely  willful 
and  potent.  It  is  only  to  unhappy  mor- 
tals that  he  demonstrates  his  seamy 
side.  A  hundred  times  I  have  loyally 
trusted  Sirocco,  believing  the  native 
report  of  him  to  be  too  black,  and  a 
hundred  times  I  have  been  pitifully  un- 
deceived. With  the  same  sentiment, 
I  can  never  reconcile  myself  to  the 
notorious  historical  fact  that  Titian, 
like  Sirocco  a  great  tonalist,  like  Si- 
rocco was  'close.' 

A  discomfort  is  announced  in  the 
first  breathings  of  this  wind.  At  the 
slightest  motion  the  sweat  starts  out, 
and  the  breeze  chills  it  upon  you.  If 
you  sit  still,  the  air  seems  too  thick  for 
respiration.  Watery  humors  seem  to 
enter  one's  head  and  curdle.  Think- 


94 


THE  FOUR  WINDS 


ing  passes  into  deliquescence;  reading 
produces  no  mental  response;  business 
decisions  become  a  tribulation,  —  no 
wise  man  makes  them  while  Sirocco 
blows,  —  personal  adjustments,  a  tor- 
ment. We  may,  however,  unburden 
ourselves,  if  we  must,  in  unknightly 
phrase  or  gesture.  It  will  be  resented, 
but  as  soon  forgiven  us.  'Bah!  is  it  not 
Sirocco?' 

Like  other  disagreeable  wights,  he 
has  his  usefulness,  for  which  he  re- 
ceives small  gratitude.  His  humidity 
is  drunk  up  by  powdery  fields  and 
thirsty  trees  and  vines.  Three  days  of 
him  equal  perhaps  an  hour  of  overt 
drizzle.  Above  the  parched  terraces 
of  the  vineyards,  you  will  find  the 
mountains  clothed  deep  with  a  moist 
tangle  of  roots  and  herbage.  It  has  not 
rained  for  three  months.  What  is  this 
precious  liquor,  then,  but  so  much  life- 
blood  drawn  from  Sirocco's  batter- 
ing wings?  Without  him,  would  there 
be  summer  roses  drooping  from  the 
Amalfi  cliffs?  I  doubt  it.  These  apo- 
logies should  be  made;  and  as  for  his 
disagreeable  habit  of  saturating  the  air 
we  breathe  with  hot  and  sticky  vapors, 
does  not  kind  Doctor  Watts  in  explan- 
ation hold  that  "tis  his  nature  to'? 
Consider  his  origin.  He  begins  to  moan 
and  speed  on  the  torrid  Libyan  sands, 
the  mere  desiccated  ghost  of  a  wind. 
What  wonder  that  he  quaffs  to  bloat- 
ing when  his  brittle  pinions  touch  the 
tideless  sea.  Destiny  wills  that  he  come 
to  land  again  with  his  desert  heat  un- 
quenched,  nay,  raised  to  a  tropical  fer- 
vor by  the  humors  he  licks  up  as  he 
flies.  It  is,  as  the  Italians  say,  'a  com- 
bination' that  oppresses  him  and  us. 
Yes;  on  days  when  he  bloweth  not, 
much  may  be  said  for  Sirocco. 

After  he  has  sufficiently  belabored 
the  sea,  a  change  comes  over  his  sullen, 
humid  spirit.  The  orchards,  vineyards, 
and  porous  cliffs  have  sucked  the  cour- 
age out  of  him.  The  lower  vapors  evade 


his  harrying,  and  assert  themselves  in 
the  upper  air  as  clouds.  The  moaning 
ceases  in  the  crannies  of  the  rocks,  the 
island  drops  its  hem  of  ermine  into  a 
mild  and  hesitant  sea.  Large  tranquil 
undulations  cross  the  choppy  gray 
waves,  carrying  a  pale  cerulean  blue 
piecemeal  through  the  trembling  sur- 
face. Above,  the  clouds  wheel  uncer- 
tainly, then  set  to  the  east  with  drap- 
eries proudly  trailing.  The  West  wind 
is  here.  Ave,  Zephyrus!  May  thy  go- 
ing be  delayed! 

Of  all  the  winds  the  most  open- 
hearted,  the  most  delicately  attentive 
to  mankind,  the  West  wind  alone  comes 
freighted  with  oceanic  mystery.  We 
scent  the  desert  in  the  three  southern 
gales,  the  North  wind  carries  the  wit- 
ness of  its  abode  in  Alpine  heights,  the 
testy  Levantine  has  clearly  had  its 
stride  and  temper  broken  upon  the 
countless  islands  of  the  yEgean  and 
Ionian  seas.  But  the  West  wind  obeys 
a  rhythm  that  admits  of  no  proximate 
terrestrial  explanation.  Is  it  merely 
the  echo  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  Atlantic 
waves,  the  stress  of  currents  that  rise 
from  the  unfathomed  depths, 

A  thousand  miles  to  westward  of  the  West? 

Or  is  there  a  hint  of  spice-laden  Fortun- 
ate Islands?  A  memory  of  blest  At- 
lantises  sunk  in  the  blue  sea  when  the 
world  was  yet  young?  Something  of  all 
this  there  is  in  the  throb  of  the  West 
wind,  but  his  secret  is  not  thereby  ex- 
hausted. 

With  a  sense  of  this,  the  Romans 
called  him  the  tricksy  wind,  Favonius, 
—  the  Fauns'  wind.  To  him  they  im- 
puted all  manner  of  gracious  offices. 
As  Zephyr,  accompanied  by  Venus  and 
Cupid,  he  was  the  harbinger  of  spring. 
On  the  Ides  of  March  he  became  more 
specifically  the  swallow-bringer,  Chel- 
idonios.  It  is  Favonius,  sings  Horace, 
that  after  sharp  winter  drags  the  dry 


THE  FOUR  WINDS 


95 


hulls  to  the  wave;  or,  again,  it  is  Favo- 
nius  that  shall  waft  back  the  lover 
Gyges  to  waiting  Asteria. 

The  Fauns'  wind  can  also  be  heroic. 
In  such  an  exceptional  phase  Shelley 
invokes  him:  — 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere. 
Destroyer  and  Preserver:  hear,  oh,  hear! 

In  some  such  guise  the  West  wind  pre- 
sents himself  at  the  autumnal  equi- 
nox, but  the  year  round  I  fancy  he 
would  hardly  know  himself  in  Shelley's 
magnificent  lines.  It  would  particu- 
larly surprise  him  to  find  himself  serv- 
ing as  a  symbol  of  death,  for  by  and 
large  he  represents  joy  of  life,  intense, 
varied,  and  capricious.  There  is  in 
him  something  of  Puck,  more  of  Ariel, 
with  a  good  deal  of  sheer  woman  to 
boot.  He  is  at  once  a  soothing  and  a 
teasing  elf.  There  is  in  him  as  little 
stability  as  treachery.  Variable  like  a 
woman,  like  one  who  puts  heart  into 
her  caprices,  his  inconstancy  is  ever 
fertile  in  unhackneyed  delights.  Of  all 
winds  he  is  the  most  personal.  His  en- 
dearments are  so  modulated  that  you 
never  take  them  for  granted.  Your 
gratefulness  to  him  is  as  unintermit- 
tent  as  his  own  mindfulness  of  you. 

Like  most  serene  and  joyous  things, 
the  outer  signs  of  Favonius  are  only 
diminished  by  transcription.  Let  me, 
then,  say  bluntly  that  his  tokens  are  the 
contented  sibilation  of  the  olives  and 
the  smoother  rustle  of  the  vines;  the 
even  sailing  of  bright  clouds  athwart 
cerulean  skies;  the  frosty  splendor  of 
blue  water,  argentine  where  the  flaws 
pass;  the  measured  dancing  of  sap- 
phire waves,  over  which  a  swimmer 
may  reach  a  rhythmically  clasping  arm. 
Though  wind  and  sea  rise  high,  the 
cadence  is  never  broken.  An  opaline 
blue  gleams  in  the  greater  as  in  the 
lesser  billows.  Ships  charge  lightly 
through  such  a  sea.  Even  the  pound- 
ing brigs  assume  the  poise  of  skimming 


birds,  their  sordid  patches  of  weathered 
canvas  catching  a  silvery  quality  from 
the  universal  azure. 

The  racing  waves  carry  the  celestial 
hue  into  the  grottoes.  Shoot  your  deft 
skiff  into  one  or  another  and  hold  it 
away  from  the  rounding  walls,  and  you 
shall  see  gleam  and  brightness  and 
casual  reflections  of  the  rocks  mingle 
in  sanguine,  verdant,  and  silver  har- 
monies, or  in  some  triple  distillation 
of  the  blue  outside. 

Always  the  Fauns'  wind  prizes  his 
blue  and  silver,  but  when  he  must 
spend  either,  the  silver  goes  first.  Watch 
him  clearing  up  the  heavens  after  the 
East  or  the  South  wind.  He  urges  the 
shapeless  clouds  and  they  fall  apart  in 
negotiable  masses.  At  the  frayed  edges 
he  nibbles  playfully.  The  fringes  whirl 
as  he  breathes.  Silver  strands  detach 
themselves,  hang  dwindling  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  blue,  turn  thin  and  ashen, 
then  vanish  like  snowflakes  in  the  sur- 
face of  a  lake.  So  Favonius  forms  and 
fines  his  cloud-argosies,  each  of  which 
trails  over  the  leaping  sea  its  shadow 
disk  of  darkling  azure. 

Like  all  elfin  creatures,  the  West 
wind  plays  most  freely  by  moonlight; 
and  mad  work  he  makes  with  the  lunar 
refulgences  on  a  coursing  sea.  Here 
he  effaces,  there  imposes  a  steely  corus- 
cation; here  he  spreads  silver  miles, 
and  there  mottles  them  with  dusky 
cloud  shadows.  So,  in  velvety  mood, 
he  weaves  over  the  waters;  and,  as  he 
wills,  the  waves  stifle  in  blue  murkiness 
or  exult  in  lunar  incandescence,  while 
the  firm  silhouettes  of  clouds  or  sails 
move  with  funereal  precision  across  the 
serene  or  pulsing  blue. 

This  is  the  wind  of  all  pageantry  and 
romance.  It  has  bellied  the  sails  of  the 
dromonds  of  Tyre  and  Sidon,  bearing 
gold  from  Iberia  or  tin  from  the  Hyper- 
borean Isles.  Upon  its  wings  the  Norse- 
men drave  their  bucklered  hulls  into 
fragrant  Sicilian  havens.  It  carried 


THE  FOUR  WINDS 


to  Paynim  ears  the  distant  canticles  of 
Crusaders  pent  up  in  castellated  gal- 
leys. The  course  of  empire  is  admittedly 
western,  but  empire  is  content  to  crawl 
trader-like  by  land,  or  beat  its  way  on 
sea  against  the  headwinds.  The  course 
of  adventure,  on  the  contrary,  is  down 
the  Western  wind.  The  causes  that 
perish,  the  proud  races  that  vanish, 
the  fond  quests  of  sunnier  dominions 
or  of  desecrated  holy  sepulchres,  have 
all  spread  their  sails  and  banners  to  a 
following  West  wind.  Favonius  then 
is  in  some  fashion  the  patron  of  the 
extravagant  element  in  us,  of  the  qual- 
ity that  makes  the  knight-errant,  the 
corsair,  and  the  saint  —  he  blows  not 
merely  to  refresh  us,  but  to  -keep  our 
souls  alive.  We  need  not  live,  but  we 
must  set  sail,  is  his  message:  a  profit- 
able one  to  meditate,  since  it  draws  all 
terrors  from  the  storm-winds. 

At  the  Tower  of  the  Four  Winds  we 
were  doubly  favored.  The  Fauns'  wind 
parted  at  a  mountain  behind  us  and 
came  from  the  south,  rebounding  gust- 
ily from  immense  cliffs,  and  again  more 
suavely  from  the  north  across  vine- 
yards and  rustling  groves  of  saplings. 
By  moving  from  one  end  of  a  terrace 
to  the  other  we  might  enjoy  Favonius 
in  his  boisterous  or  caressing  mood. 
But  his  winning  quality  was  ever  the 
same.  At  every  lull  you  craved  renewal 
of  his  touch  on  your  brow.  Before  your 
ear  grew  dull  to  his  constant  murmur, 
it  fell  to  a  sigh,  or  rose  to  a  vibrant 
organ  note.  So  delicately  he  fingered 
the  keys  of  your  flesh  and  spirit,  that 
you  were  always  aware  of  him,  ever 
awaiting  the  surprise  of  his  next  bene- 
faction. Yes,  incorrigibly  variable,  wo- 
man-like refusing  to  be  monotonous  in 
blessing,  delicately  personal,  insinuat- 
ing himself  in  the  realms  below  thought 
—  such  is  Favonius.  And  some  women 
take  from  him  the  hue  and  rhythm  of 
their  souls.  Happy  he  who  domesti- 
cates such  a  woman,  more  blest  than 


one  about  whose  ivory  tower  the  West 
wind  should  ever  blow.  And  if  such  a 
woman,  like  the  Fauns'  wind  of  our 
terrace,  should  at  intervals  have  a  gust- 
ier phase,  why  that  would  be  only  an 
enhancement  of  her  life-giving  variety. 

There  is  a  kindly  theory,  Aristotelian 
I  believe,  by  which  a  vice  is  to  be  re- 
garded merely  as  the  excess  of  a  virtue. 
If  this  be  so,  the  East  wind  may  be 
taken  as  a  reversed  caricature  of  the 
West  wind.  The  capricious  and  play- 
ful qualities  of  Favonius,  that  is,  re- 
appear in  Eurus,  but  in  extravagantly 
intensified  form,  all  sprightly  geniality 
of  the  Fauns'  wind  being  converted  in- 
to active  malevolence.  The  East  wind 
is  a  booming  and  impatient  spirit  — 
should  you  personify  him  it  must  be 
as  a  mad  giant,  the  Hercules  furens  of 
bolus's  family.  He  abounds  in  wan- 
ton violence.  Stirring  the  sea  to  its 
depths,  he  also  torments  its  surface. 
Whatever  great  rollers  he  launches 
toward  the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  he 
straightway  falls  upon  and  decapitates. 
The  spindrift  smitten  from  their  crests 
slides  level  and  dense  above  the  slow- 
er billows,  low  clouds  clash  above, 
stinging  showers  unite  tumbling  vapors 
with  frothing  sea,  a.  spectral  pallor 
seems  churned  up  from  phosphorescent 
depths.  This  is  'the  tempestuous  wind 
called  Euroclydon,'  before  which  St. 
Paul's  ship  drave  helpless  upon  the 
reefs  of  Malta.  Woe  to  the  ill-fated 
bark  that  lacks  a  roadstead  now.  On 
shore  the  tall  pines  are  being  wrenched 
to  their  spreading  roots.  Some  fall  be- 
fore the  test.  Achilles  fell,  so  Horace 
sings,  'like  a  cypress  smitten  of  the 
East  wind,'  - 

velut 

...  impulsa  cupressus  Euro 
Cecedit. 

Again,  he  writes  from  the  shelter  of  the 
Sabine  roof-tree,  'To-morrow  a  tem- 
pest from  the  East  shall  strew  the 


THE  FOUR  WINDS 


97 


woods  with  many  leaves  and  the  strand 
with  useless  sea-weed,  unless  indeed 
that  augur  of  the  rains,  the  crow,  de- 
ceives us.' 

Nobody  speaks  disrespectfully  of 
the  giant  Eurus.  His  cousin  Auster- 
Notus  (the  South  wind)  men  call  rash 
and  heady,  the  sweltering  African  blast 
(the  Southwester,  the  Libeccio  of  mod- 
ern sailors)  is  qualified  abusively  as 
scorching,  pestilent,  and  the  like,  but 
the  East  wind  is  dealt  with  reverently. 
When  the  shade  of  a  drowned  mariner 
begs  a  handful  of  sand  for  his  mound, 
—  Archytas  overtaken  and  ignobly 
stranded  by  the  South  wind  (Notus), 
— what  does  he  promise  the  pious  way- 
farer? Why,  protection  against  Eurus. 

'Howsoever  Eurus  shall  threaten 
the  Hesperian  waves,  let  the  Venusian 
forest  be  shattered,  thou  being  safe!.'. 

quodcumque  minabiturJSurus 
Fluctibus  Hesperiis,  Venusinse 
Plectantur  silvae,  te  sospite. 

And  again,  when  Horace  wants  a  simile 
to  tell  the  ruthless  speed  of  care,  he 
finds  that  it  boards  the  ships  more 
swift  than  Eurus  bearing  storms. 

Yes,  a  battering,  potent  wind  is  Eu- 
rus, full  withal  of  significant  sound  and 
fury,  for  he  can  make  good  every  threat. 
Like  most  of  the  bad  winds  he  is  a  tar- 
nisher,  blazoning  with  nothing  brighter 
than  lead  or  zinc.  He  beats  the  clouds 
down  close  to  earth  and  sea  as  if  to 
form  low  corridors  in  which  he  may 
rage  the  more  terribly.  In  him  there 
is  something  insensate,  yet  also  pur- 
poseful. He  exhausts  by  his  steady 
pounding,  and  overwhelms  by  his  sud- 
den furious  blasts.  His  frenzies  are 
calculated.  Beside  the  Anarch  in  him 
there  is  much  of  the  Jacobin.  He  plays 
the  leveler.  Perhaps  he  was  long  ago 
the  great  wind  that  sounded  before 
Elijah,  in  which  God  was  not. 

The  younger  Pliny  declares  that  the 
North  wind  is  the  most  healthful  of 

VOL.  107 -NO.  1 


them  all.  Otherwise  I  have  never  read 
a  good  word  about  Tramontano.  In 
winter  the  shivering  Italians  shut  him 
out  with  muffling  cloaks;  in  summer 
even,  they  regard  him  as  a  mixed 
blessing.  On  the  sea  he  is  almost  al- 
ways an  enemy,  for  he  stirs  the  waves, 
if  not  from  the  bottom,  like  Sirocco, 
at  least  most  lamentably  from  the  top. 
He  dashes  the  powdery  dust  from  the 
mainland  upon  island  vineyards  and 
parched  decks  far  beyond  the  looming 
of  the  cliffs.  And  yet,  summer  or  winter, 
he  is  a  brave  and  revealing  wind.  The 
well-moulded  clouds  rise  high  and  es- 
cape him  in  the  upper  blue,  crisp  jets 
of  foam  flower  at  random  through  the 
level  sea.  Above  them  spreads  a  mist 
infinitely  subtile  in  texture,  —  a  lens, 
not  a  screen,  —  for  through  it  one  may 
see  beyond  a  chaplet  of  white  cities  the 
blue  bulwark  of  far-away  mountains. 
At  sunset  the  rugged  sea  rejects  the 
glow,  and  the  gulf  lies  like  a  sombre 
slab  of  rippled  porphyry  between  its 
amethystine  headlands.  Above,  the 
heaven,  barred  with  flaming  clouds, 
passes  from  a  coppery  red  at  the  hori- 
zon through  yellow  to  palest  green  and 
an  upper  blue  interspersed  with  rose. 

Other  winds  are  harmonizers,  melt- 
ing into  a  single  element  earth  and 
sea  and  sky.  Not  so  your  North  wind. 
He  is  a  stickler  for  distinctions.  The 
land,  though  it  be  ten  leagues  distant, 
remains  the  firm  rim  of  the  sea.  The 
mountains  project  their  gaunt  ribs 
toward  you  like  an  athlete  swelling 
his  chest.  Artists  shut  up  their  paint- 
boxes in  despair,  and  protest  they  are 
not  topographers.  The  uttermost  moun- 
tains rise  clear  and  massive  against  the 
sky.  In  the  jargon  of  the  studios,  there 
is  no  atmosphere,  but  there  is  a  crystal- 
line something  in  the  air  that  for  the 
plain  man's  purpose  is  better. 

I  suppose  the  bad  name  Aquilo  had. 
with  the  Romans,  and  Tramontano 
equally  with  the  Italians,  comes  from 


THE  FOUR  WINDS 


the  fact  that,  being  a  good  thing,  one 
almost  always  has  too  much  of  him. 
And  as  our  unperceptive  fellow  beings 
are  too  prone  to  judge  us  by  those 
very  rare  occasions  when  we  are  at  our 
worst,  so  Tramontane,  perhaps,  takes 
his  unpopularity  from  the  unusual 
phase  in  which  he  well  deserves  the  epi- 
thet '  black.'  A  black  Tramontane  may 
bring  thunder,  and  always,  as  the  case 
may  be,  rain,  sleet,  or  hail.  It  brings 
along  also  pretty  much  anything  that 
is  detachable,  favoring,  however,  shut- 
ters, tiles,  chimney-pots,  and  like  ar- 
ticles of  vertu.  After  two  days  of  the 
sable  North  wind  a  great  liner  came  in 
salted  from  water-line  to  truck.  You 
would  have  declared  her  to  be  sprayed 
with  whitewash.  Hardy  revelers  in  the 
grill-room  forty  feet  above  the  spume 
were  forced  to  desist,  as  their  table  was 
covered  with  a  mixture  of  salt  water 
and  shattered  window-panes.  It  was 
this  wind  that  Horace  invoked  against 
the  driveling  Msevius,  and  that  over- 
came uEneas  when  black  night  settled 
upon  the  deep,  — 

ponto  nox  incubat  atra. 

Was  it  not  this  wind  which  the  patri- 
arch Job  had  in  mind  when  he  groaned, 
'O  remember  that  my  life  is  wind :  mine 
eyes  shall  no  more  see  good'?  And 
Horace  rejoiced  that  his  monument 
more  durable  than  brass  was  not  to  be 
exposed  to  the  gnawing  of  the  frosty 
North  wind. 

But  why  judge  old  Boreas  by  his 
worst  blowing?  There  was  once  a  very 
young  clergyman  who  discoursed  on 
the  duty  of  cheerfulness.  When,  by 
way  of  illustration,  a  jackal  slays  a 
child  or  a  tiger  a  man,  we  are  too  prone 
to  say, '  Unlucky  child !  unhappy  man ! ' 
Why  look  only  at  one  side  of  the  trans- 
action, protested  the  apostle  of  cheer- 
fulness. Why  not  say  rather,  'Lucky 
jackal!  happy  tiger!'  The  plea  was  so 
effective  with  the  parish  that  now  I 


venture  to  borrow  it  in  behalf  of  my 
boisterous  friend.  Why  not  say,  'Fine 
old  Boreas,  how  he  enjoys  himself!' 
when  he  playfully  prostrates  a  row  of 
cypresses,  or  casually  removes  a  few 
square  metres  of  your  tiles?  Or,  better 
yet,  let  us  judge  the  North  wind  not  at 
his  worst,  but  at  his  best.  Mark  that 
loveliest  of  the  winds,  the  refresher  of 
sultry  sun-settings,  Maestrale. 

For  long  hours  there  has  been  no 
breeze.  The  heat  reverberates  from 
the  cliffs  in  visible  whorls.  The  shingly 
strand  is  scorching  even  to  a  bather's 
wet  skin.  Fishermen  snore  in  the  shad- 
ow of  their  warping  boats.  The  vines 
are  still,  and  the  fig-leaves  stand  out 
motionless  against  a  coppery  sky  as  if 
cut  in  enameled  metal.  The  olives 
drenched  with  the  sunlight  sparkle  from 
within.  All  is  silence  save  for  the  minor 
drone  of  a  returning  goat-herd.  On  the 
crest  of  the  bluff  far  below,  the  ilexes 
stand  stiffly  before  the  smooth  water. 
The  burnished  level  rises  for  miles 
unruffled,  but  variously  polished  and 
tinted  and  veined  by  the  slow  play  of 
invisible  currents.  A  sullen  mistiness 
broods  over  all.  The  marbled  expanse 
receives  streams  of  orange  and  crimson 
from  the  sinking  sun.  Far  up,  under 
the  looming  white  cities,  the  polished 
sheet  is  tarnished.  The  corroding  area 
sweeps  down  toward  our  island,  and 
at  the  edge  may  be  seen  a  violet  ripple 
racing  for  the  shore.  As  it  passes,  the 
brighter  hues  of  sunset  yield.  Soon  the 
undulation  vanishes  under  the  project- 
ing cliffs,  and  in  a  moment  there  is 
a  tossing  of  their  crowning  ilexes;  far 
down  the  slopes  the  vines  are  already 
sibilant,  and  their  increasing  rustle 
deepens  into  a  cheer  which  flapping  fig- 
leaves  and  vibrating  olives  take  up  more 
sonorously.  A  great  freshness  surges 
into  our  loggia :  Maestrale  is  here. 

As  he  leaps  down  through  vineyards 
and  orchards,  the  formerly  silent  peas- 
ants hail  each  other  from  terrace  to 


THE  FOUR  WINDS 


99 


terrace.  Below,  the  snorers  under  the 
boats  have  counted  upon  his  coming.  A 
dozen  tiny  sails  begin  to  mount  a  sea 
fairly  damasked  by  the  passing  flaws.  In 
hurdling  our  craggy  island,  Maestrale 
has  literally  gone  to  pieces.  To  pull 
himself  together  on  the  farther  side  he 
may  need  a  mile.  As  the  climbing  boats 
scatter  right  and  left,  another  dozen 
dart  out  frorrvthe  port,  and  then  a  score. 
The  tiny  patches  of  sail  soon  lose  them- 
selves in  the  growing  dusk,  but  if  the 
moon  withhold  her  rays,  ever  unfriend- 
ly to  fisher-folk,  covey  after  covey  of 
these  winged  skiffs  will  rise  from  some- 
where under  the  cliff  and  disappear  in 
the  gloom.  Wait  but  a  moment  and 
lights  will  be  twinkling  on  the  deep. 
Tens,  twelves,  whole  constellations  will 
merge  into  one  greater  figure,  until 
you  may  see  a  hundred  beacons  de- 
ployed in  even  lines  upon  the  mysteri- 
ous parade-ground  below.  To-morrow 
the  whole  island  will  feast  on  slender 
young  octopuses  fried  to  a  golden  crisp. 
As  for  Maestrale,  his  day's  work  is  done. 
He  may  sleep  until  to-morrow  needs 
him. 

The  Ancients  are  on  the  whole  un- 
grateful to  Maestrale,  giving  to  the 
gentle  West  wind,  Zephyr,  a  praise 
that  should  be  shared.  But  a  wind  of 
a  few  hours'  duration  may  perhaps 
hardly  expect  better  treatment,  in- 
sistent repetitiousness  being  of  the 
very  essence  of  popular  impress! veness. 
I  think,  however,  we  may  believe  it 
was  Maestrale  that  wafted  JSneas  on 
the  last  stretch  of  his  fateful  voyage 
from  Gaeta  to  Tiber  mouth.  The  sense 
of  gentleness  and  sudden  breathing  in 
two  of  Virgil's  loveliest  lines  forbids 
me  to  think  that  the  stronger,  and  for 


this  course  slightly  adverse,  West  wind 
is  intended.  No,  it  can  only  be  Maes- 
trale of  which  it  is  written,  — 

Adspirant  aurae  in  noctem;  nee  Candida  cursus 
Luna  negat;  splendet  tremulosub  lumine  pontus. 

Such  were  the  winds  that  visited  our 
tower.  While  we  sojourned  there  we 
naturally  took  the  seafarer's  self-in- 
terested view  of  them,  and  perhaps 
dwelt  overmuch  upon  the  bad  winds. 
Would  Sirocco  blow  and  make  climbs 
impossible?  Would  the  Levantine  blast 
make  the  shallows  too  rough  and  tur- 
bid for  bathing?  Might  too  vigorous 
a  Tramontane  keep  in  port  the  little 
steamer  that  brought  the  mails?  — 
These  were  the  questions  we  asked  of 
the  winds.  We  quite  understood  why 
the  mariners  of  old  Rome  set  up  a  fane 
to  the  tempests  near  the  Porta  Capena, 
whereas  the  Fauns'  wind  and  the  de- 
lectable Maestrale  have  never,  I  think, 
boasted  altar  nor  obtained  votive  gar- 
lands of  flowers  and  fruit.  So  in  all  our 
traffic  with  Nature  we  are  wont  to  take 
her  favors  for  granted,  while  shabbily 
calling  upon  the  gods  to  avert  her  buf- 
fets. This,  I  confess,  was  our  pagan 
mood  so  long  as  the  winds  had  power 
to  work  us  annoyance.  But  now  that 
the  Tower  itself  is  becoming  a  fading 
memory,  and  vague  and  featureless 
winds  play  about  our  American  cot- 
tage, our  minds  hold  most  clearly  the 
buoyant  Western  wind  and  the  heal- 
ing northern  breeze  that  preludes  the 
setting  of  the  sun.  May  these  erst- 
while benefactors  deign  to  accept  an 
humble  altar  of  alien  sod,  and  thereon 
some  modest  oblation  of  New  World 
posies,  propitiatory,  I  trust,  albeit  un- 
couth to  Favonius. 


THE   TRAGEDY  OF  THE  MINE1 


BY   JOSEPH   HUSBAND 


IN  the  days  that  followed  the  explo- 
sion there  came  to  all  the  men  the 
unconscious  realization  that  the  next 
attempt  to  open  the  mine  would  in  all 
probability  be  the  last.  If  the  attempt 
should  prove  successful,  a  few  months' 
time  might  see  the  mine  again  in  work- 
ing order;  but  should  another  disaster 
occur,  the  mine — now  partially  ruined 
—  would  probably  be  wrecked  beyond 
any  immediate  recovery. 

As  there  had  been  no  trace  of  smoke 
following  the  explosion,  and  as  the 
mine  had  been  so  promptly  sealed,  it 
was  reasonable  to  suppose  that  little,  if 
any,  fire  existed  in  the  workings;  and 
the  only  question  was,  how  much  of  the 
work  of  restoration  that  had  been  ef- 
fected was  destroyed  by  the  explosion 
of  the  gas? 

Ten  days  later,  the  helmet-men  again 
were  lowered  into  the  mine,  and,  after 
remaining  underground  for  an  hour  and 
a  half,  came  out  and  reported  that  the 
force  of  the  explosion  had  expended 
itself  principally  up  the  air-shaft,  and 
that  although  the  numerous  stoppings 
that  we  had  erected  had  been  for  the 
most  part  destroyed,  there  were  no 
serious  '  falls '  that  they  could  discover, 
or  any  special  damage  to  the  entries 
which  they  had  explored.  Immediate- 
ly the  work  of  restoration  began  afresh, 
and  all  day  and  night  the  helmet-men 
in  regular  shifts  entered  the  gas-filled 

1  In  the  November  number  of  the  Atlantic 
Mr.  Husband  described  the  mine  and  the  condi- 
tions of  life  attending  it.  In  the  December  issue 
he  gave  an  account  of  a  long  fight  with  fire.  — 
THE  EDITORS. 

100 


mine,  and  put  back  in  place  the  stop- 
pings around  the  mine-bottom,  in  or- 
der to  create  once  more  an  air-zone 
for  the  workers.  The  work  was  danger- 
ous. Again  we  lost  a  man,  an  enormous 
Negro,  who  had  in  some  way  loosened 
his  helmet  and  fallen  unconscious,  too 
far  from  the  foot  of  the  hoisting-shaft 
for  his  comrades  to  drag  him  to  the 
hoist;  before  the  rescue  party,  consist- 
ing of  three  more  helmet-men,  had 
reached  him,- he  was  dead.  And  dur- 
ing these  more  recent  days,  another 
miner  had  met  his  death  in  the  black- 
ness of  the  entry.  The  pressure  of  the 
pneumatic  washer  beneath  the  helmet 
had  stopped  the  circulation  around  the 
top  of  his  head,  and  in  endeavoring  to 
loosen  his  helmet  and  relieve  the  pain, 
he  had  let  in  a  breath  of  the  gas.  We 
got  him  to  the  surface  with  his  heart 
still  faintly  beating,  but  death  soon 
followed. 

The  men  used  to  get  into  their  hel- 
mets in  a  little  room  that  we  had  fitted 
up  for  the  purpose  in  the  warehouse, 
one  hundred  feet  from  the  top  of  the 
hoisting-shaft;  and  as  we  saw  the  doors 
close  behind  the  men  as  they  entered 
the  hoist,  every  man  of  us  would  in- 
stinctively look  at  his  watch  and  mark 
the  time  of  the  entrance  of  the  shift. 
An  hour  later,  some  one  was  sure  to 
remark,  'They've  been  gone  an  hour — 
just ';  and  then,  a  little  later,  'They're 
down  an  hour  and  ten  minutes.'  It  was 
then  reasonable  to  expect  their  signal 
to  the  hoisting  engineer  at  any  minute. 
An  hour  and  twenty  minutes,  or  often 
thirty,  would  sometimes  pass  before 


THE   TRAGEDY  OF  THE   MINE 


101 


the  little  bell  in  the  engine-house  rang 
its  '  hoist  away.'  If  it  were  an  hour  and 
a  half,  some  one  would  say, '  They  ought 
to  be  out  by  now';  and  Billy  Tilden, 
who  had  charge  of  the  helmets,  would 
silently  begin  getting  ready  a  second 
set.  It  was  a  terrible  feeling  that  would 
come  over  us  as  we  watched  the  min- 
utes slip  past  the  time  when  the  men 
should  appear;  and  it  was  a  thought 
that  had  come  to  us  all,  that  Charley 
one  day  voiced:  'Times  like  this,  I'd 
rather  be  down  with  'em  than  safe  on 
top  and  all  scareful.' 

'They  are  coming  out!'  some  one 
would  yell  from  the  door  of  the  hoist- 
ing engineer's  house;  and  then  the 
strain  would  become  intense.  An  hour 
and  a  half  or  an  hour  and  three  quar- 
ters down  was  a  long  trip,  and  if  it 
were  the  latter,  the  question  would 
arise  silently  in  every  one's  thoughts: 
'How  many  will  appear?' 

Four  always  went  down  on  a  shift, 
and  twice  I  remember  when  the  door 
of  the  gas-lock  above  the  hoisting-shaft 
burst  open,  and  but  three  helmeted 
men  staggered  out  into  the  sunlight. 
As  the  first  man's  helmet  was  loosened, 
a  dozen  questions  were  fired  at  him. 
Whom  had  they  left?  Where  was  he? 
And  while  they  were  talking,  the  sec- 
ond shift  was  already  on  the  hoist  to 
the  rescue. 

After  three  weeks  it  seemed  that  suc- 
cess would  reward  us.  An  air-zone  was 
created  between  the  two  shafts,  and 
helmets  were  practically  discarded  ex- 
cept for  exploration  into  the  more  dis- 
tant workings  of  the  mine.  From  the 
north  end  of  B  entry  the  air-current 
had  been  directed  into  the  West  North 
portion  of  the  mine,  and  that  entire 
section  had  been  cleared  of  the  gas. 
There  had  been  no  fire  here,  nor  had 
the  effects  of  the  explosion  been  felt, 
and  it  was  like  walking  the  streets  of  a 
silent  and  long-deserted  city  to  explore 
these  entries  so  hastily  abandoned  on 


the  night  of  the  fire  four  months  be- 
fore. Day  and  night,  like  the  skirmish 
line  of  an  army,  the  men  in  charge 
moved  slowly  from  place  to  place  at 
the  edge  of  the  air-zone,  each  day  pen- 
etrating farther  and  farther  from  the 
foot  of  the  man-hoist  as  the  air-cur- 
rents drove  back  the  gas,  and  forced  it 
up  and  out  through  the  shaft;  and  with 
these  men  ever  on  ceaseless  guard, 
gangs  of  miners  attacked  the  great  falls 
in  B  entry,  and  carried  on  the  slow 
work  of  removing  the  piles  of  fallen 
stone,  and  retimbering  and  strengthen- 
ing the  weakened  roof. 

I  went  on  at  three  o'clock,  on  a  shift 
that  lasted  until  eleven  in  the  evening, 
and  for  those  eight  hours  my  chief  work 
consisted  in  testing  and  marking  the 
line  where  the  life-supporting  air  ceas- 
ed, and  the  invisible,  tasteless,  odorless 
gas  began.  Holding  our  safety-lamps 
in  the  right  hand,  level  with  the  eyes 
when  we  suspected  the  presence  of  gas, 
we  would  watch  the  flame.  The  safety- 
lamp — a  heavy,  metal,  lantern-shaped 
object,  with  a  circular  globe  of  heavy 
plate  glass — is  the  only  light  other  than 
electricity  that  can  be  safely  carried 
into  a  gaseous  mine.  The  lamps  were 
lit  before  they  were  brought  into  the 
mine,  and  in  addition  were  securely 
locked,  that  no  accident  or  ignorant 
intention  might  expose  the  open  flame 
to  the  gases  of  the  mine.  Over  the  small, 
sooty,  yellow  flame  which  gives  a  light 
less  bright  than  that  of  an  ordinary 
candle,  are  two  wire-gauze  cones  fitting 
snugly  inside  the  heavy  globe;  and  it  is 
through  these  cones  that  the  flame 
draws  the  air  which  supports  it.  The 
presence  of  black-damp,  or  carbon  di- 
oxide, can  easily  be  detected,  if  not  by 
its  odor,  by  the  action  of  the  flame, 
which  grows  dim,  and,  if  the  black- 
damp  exists  in  any  quantity,  is  finally 
extinguished. 

White-damp,  the  highly  explosive 
gas  which  is  most  feared,  has,  on  the 


102 


THE   TRAGEDY  OF  THE   MINE 


other  hand,  a  totally  different  effect. 
In  the  presence  of  this  gas  the  flame  of 
the  safety-lamp  becomes  pointed,  and 
as  the  gas  grows  stronger,  the  flame 
seems  to  separate  from  the  wick,  and 
an  almost  invisible  blue  cone  forms  be- 
neath it.  If  the  miner  continues  to 
advance  into  the  white-damp,  he  will 
pass  through  a  line  where  there  are 
nine  parts  of  air  to  one  part  gas  (the 
explosive  mixture),  and  the  lamp  will 
instantly  register  this  explosive  condi- 
tion by  a  sudden  crackling  inside  of 
the  gauze  and  the  extinguishing  of  the 
flame.  Were  it  an  open  lamp,  the  ex- 
plosion ignited  by  the  flame  would 
sweep  throughout  the  entire  workings, 
carrying  death  and  destruction  before 
it;  but  by  the  construction  of  the  safety- 
lamp,  the  explosion  confines  itself  to 
the  limited  area  within  the  gauze  cones, 
and  unless  the  lamp  is  moved  suddenly 
and  the  flame  is  dragged  through  the 
gauze  at  the  instant  that  the  explosion 
occurs  within  the  globe,  it  will  not  ex- 
tend beyond  the  gauze.  So  dim  was 
the  light  given  from  these  lamps  that 
we  usually  carried  a  portable  electric 
lamp  for  light,  using  our  safety-lamps 
principally  for  detecting  the  presence 
of  gas. 

As  the  days  went  by,  the  men  be- 
came more  hopeful,  and  it  seemed  that 
we  were  winning  in  our  fight  against 
the  invisible.  Already  an  entire  quarter 
of  the  mine  had  been  recovered  from 
the  gas,  —  a  section  where  men  might 
work  without  the  use  of  helmets,  re- 
storing the  burned  and  blown-down 
timbering,  doors,  and  brattices. 

Rob  Carr,  assistant  mine-manager, 
was  a  tall  young  Scotsman  who  had 
been  but  a  year  or  two  in  America.  He 
had  been  brought  up  from  early  boy- 
hood in  the  coal-mines,  and  had  won 
the  confidence  of  all  who  knew  him,  on 
account  of  his  knowledge  of  the  dif- 
ficulties which  beset  the  miner,  and  his 
ability  in  overcoming  them.  He  was 


a  tall  man,  —  about  six  feet  two  in 
height,  —  with  slightly  stooping  shoul- 
ders, caused  perhaps  by  the  attitude 
which  days  and  nights  of  work  under 
the  low  roofs  of  the  mine-tunnels  made 
necessary.  I  never  heard  him  swear, 
and  the  men  who  knew  him  maintained 
that  he  never  drank  or  smoked;  and 
yet,  in  that  rude  community,  where 
virtues  were  often  more  criticised  than 
faults,  there  was  no  man  more  respect- 
ed— and,  perhaps,  loved — than  he. 

He  joined  me  every  afternoon  in  the 
scale-house  at  about  five,  and  for  four 
hours  we  followed  the  long  west  en- 
tries out  to  their  headings,  testing  for 
gas,  and  confirming  the  safety  of  the 
men  who  worked  at  bottom  and  trust- 
ed their  lives  in  our  hands.  Each  day 
he  joined  me,  and  for  the  last  hours  of 
my  shift  we  remained  together,  exam- 
ining and  marking  everywhere  the  pro- 
gress of  the  air,  and  the  ever-widening 
boundaries  of  the  air-zone.  At  eleven 
our  shift  left  the  mine,  and  the  night 
shift,  under  Carr,  went  down;  and  it 
was  in  order  that  he  might  be  fully  in- 
formed as  to  thp  conditions  under- 
ground before  he  entered  the  mine  with 
his  men  that  he  spent  these  additional 
hours  in  the  evening  with  the  men  of 
the  shift  which  preceded  him. 

One  day  we  had  walked  from  the 
scale-house  down  Second  West  North 
to  the  brattice-door  which  separates 
that  entry  from  two  other  entries 
which  cross  it  at  right  angles  a  half- 
mile  from  the  mine-bottom.  It  was  our 
purpose  to  open  this  door  slightly  and 
start  the  clean  air-current  behind  us, 
moving  through  it  into  the  crossing 
entries,  which  were  filled  with  gas.  A 
temporary  brattice  had  to  be  erected 
in  the  nearer  of  the  cross-entries,  and 
for  an  hour  we  sat  on  the  track  while 
the  air  hummed  through  the  half-open 
door,  until  the  gas  had  been  sufficiently 
blown  back  to  permit  us  to  pass  through 
and  put  up  the  stopping. 


THE    TRAGEDY  OF  THE   MINE 


103 


As  we  sat  on  the  track,  talking  in 
the  low  voice  that  men  always  use  in 
dark  and  quiet  places,  we  remarked 
how  like  the  sound  of  surf  on  a  hard 
beach  and  a  wind  from  the  sea  was 
the  sound  of  the  air-current  as  it  mur- 
mured through  the  cracks  in  the  brat- 
tice-door. For  the  first  time,  Carr  told 
me  of  his  wife  and  the  two  small  child- 
ren whom  he  had  left  in  Scotland,  to 
whom  he  would  some  day  return.  'And 
I'm  going  to  quit  mining  then,'  he  told 
me.  '  I  'm  going  to  build  a  cottage  down 
somewhere  along  a  cove  that  I  know 
of;  where  you  can  hear  the  surf  on  the 
beach,  and  where  you  can  keep  a  sail- 
boat.' He  had  made  good,  he  felt. 
There  was  money  in  the  bank  that,  with 
the  additions  of  a  year  or  two  more, 
would  give  him  all  that  he  desired,  and 
then  he  was  going  home.  And  so  we 
talked  and,  later,  tested  and  found 
that  the  air  was  clear  at  last  in  a  little 
area  beyond  the  door.  We  erected  the 
stopping,  and,  waiting  a  few  minutes 
more  to  measure  with  our  lamps  the 
speed  of  the  retreating  gas,  we  turned 
and  walked  down  the  track.  It  was 
about  ten  o'clock.  In  an  hour  more  I 
would  be  out,  the  long,  hard  day  would 
be  over;  and  then  Carr  with  his  night 
shift  would  return  into  the  mine,  and 
take  up  the  work  where  we  had  left  it. 

There  were  lights  and  voices  in  B 
entry  at  the  mine-bottom,  and  now 
and  then  a  bit  of  laughter;  and  there 
was  a  cheerful  noise  of  sledges  and  the 
rumble  of  the  wheels  of  the  flat  cars  as 
the  men  pushed  them,  laden  with  the 
broken  stone  from  the  falls,  down 
the  track  to  the  hoisting-shaft.  A  lit- 
tle before  eleven,  the  orders  were  given 
and  the  men  laid  down  their  tools,  and 
picked  up  their  safety-lamps,  to  leave. 
Two  decks  on  the  great  hoisting-cage 
carried  us  all,  and  a  minute  later  we 
stepped  out  into  the  fresh,  cold  air  of 
the  winter  night. 

From  the  yellow  windows  and  open 


door  of  the  warehouse  came  the  sounds 
of  voices  and  the  laughter  of  the  night 
shift  who  were  getting  ready  to  go 
down.  We  tramped  in  through  the 
open  door,  blackened  and  wet,  and  for 
a  few  minutes  rested  our  tired  bodies, 
and  warmed  ourselves  in  the  pungent 
heat  of  the  little  room,  telling  the  others 
what  we  had  accomplished.  As  I  left 
the  warehouse,  I  stopped  for  a  minute 
on  the  doorstep  and  took  a  match  from 
Johnny  Ferguson,  another  Scotsman, 
a  strong,  silent  man,  with  friendly  eyes; 
then  turned  and  walked  home  in  the 
darkness  of  the  cloudy  night. 

It  was  about  half  an  hour  later  when 
I  reached  my  room,  for  I  had  stopped 
on  the  way  to  chat  with  the  gate-man. 
I  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
loosening  the  heel  of  one  of  my  rubber 
boots  with  the  toe  of  the  other,  when 
suddenly,  through  the  stillness  of  the 
sleeping  town,  from  the  power-house 
half  a  mile  away  came  a  low  and  rising 
note,  the  great  siren  whistle  in  the  pow- 
er-house. Almost  fascinated,  I  listened 
as  the  great  note  rose  higher  and  more 
shrill  and  died  away  again.  One  blast 
meant  a  fire  in  the  town;  two  blasts, 
fire  in  the  buildings  at  the  mine;  and 
three  blasts,  the  most  terrible  of  all,  a 
disaster  or  trouble  in  the  mine.  Once 
more,  after  an  interminable  pause,  the 
sound  came  again ;  and  once  more  rose 
and  died  away.  I  did  not  move,  but 
there  was  a  sudden  coldness  that  came 
over  me  as  once  more,  for  the  third 
time,  the  deep  note  broke  out  on  the 
quiet  air.  Almost  instantaneously  the 
loud  jingle  of  my  telephone  brought  me 
to  my  feet.  I  took  down  the  receiver: 
'The  mine's  blown  up,'  said  a  woman's 
voice. 

It  was  half  a  mile  between  my  room 
and  the  gate  to  the  mine-yards,  and  as 
my  feet  beat  noisily  on  the  long,  straight 
road,  doors  opened,  yellow  against  the 
blackness  of  the  night,  and  voices  called 
out  —  women's  voices  mostly. 


104 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  MINE 


The  gate-man  knew  little.  'She's  let 
go,'  was  all  that  he  could  say. 

There  were  two  men  at  the  fan-house, 
the  fan-engineer  and  his  assistant,  and 
in  a  second  I  learned  from  them  that 
there  had  come  a  sudden  puff  up  the 
air-shaft  that  had  spun  the  fan  back- 
ward a  dozen  revolutions  on  the  belt 
before  it  picked  up  again.  The  explo- 
sion doors,  built  for  such  an  emergency 
on  the  new  dome  above  the  air-shaft, 
had  banged  open  noisily  and  shut  again 
of  their  own  weight.  That  was  all. 

There  were  half  a  dozen  men  at  the 
top  of  the  hoisting-shaft.  The  hoisting 
engineer  sat,  white-faced,  on  his  seat  by 
the  shaft-mouth,  one  arm  laid  limply  on 
the  window-sill,  his  hand  clenched  on 
the  lever.  'I  tried  to  telephone  'em,' 
he  said, '  but  they  did  n't  answer.  The 
cage  was  down.  She  came  out  with  a 
puff  like  you  blow  out  of  your  pipe; 
that 's  all.'  He  stopped  and  awkwardly 
wiped  his  face.  'Then  I  left  the  hoist 
down  five  minutes  and  brought  her 
up,'  he  continued,  'but  there  was  no 
one  in  it.  Then  I  sent  it  down  again. 
It's  down  there  now.' 

'How  long  has  it  been  down?'  I 
asked. 

'Ten  minutes,'  he  hazarded. 

I  gave  him  the  order  to  hoist;  and 
the  silence  was  suddenly  broken  by  the 
grind  of  the  drums  as  he  pulled  the 
lever  back,  and  the  cable  began  to 
wind  slowly  upward.  A  minute  later 
the  black  top  of  the  hoist  pushed  up 
from  the  hole,  and  the  decks,  one  by 
one,  appeared  —  all  empty. 

There  was  no  one  at  the  mine  except 
the  hoisting  engineer  and  some  of  the 
night  force  who  were  on  duty  at  the 
power-house  and  in  the  engine-room. 
In  the  long  months  of  trouble  our  force 
had  gradually  diminished,  and  of  those 
who  had  remained  and  who  were  equal 
to  such  an  emergency,  part  were  now 
in  the  mine,  and  the  rest,  worn  out  and 
exhausted  by  the  long  day's  work,  were 


faraway  in  the  town,  asleep;  or  perhaps, 
if  the  whistle  had  aroused  them,  on 
their  way  to  the  mine.  Instant  action 
was  necessary,  for  following  an  explo- 
sion comes  the  after-damp,  and  if  any 
were  living  this  poisonous  gas  would 
destroy  them. 

As  I  turned  from  the  shaft-mouth, 
McPherson,  the  superintendent,  a 
square-built,  freckled  Scotsman  about 
fifty  years  of  age,  came  running  to- 
ward the  warehouse.  There  were  but 
two  helmets  ready,  for  so  favorably  had 
our  work  progressed  that  we  had  neg- 
lected to  keep  more  than  two  charged 
with  oxygen,  and  had  allowed  the  rest 
to  be  taken  apart  for  repairs.  Familiar 
with  the  conditions  existing  in  the 
mine,  we  realized  that  the  explosion, 
however  slight,  must  have  blown  down 
many  of  the  stoppings  which  we  had 
erected,  and  allowed  the  pent-up  gas  to 
rush  back  into  the  portion  of  the  mine 
which  we  had  recovered,  and  in  which 
the  night  shift  was  now  imprisoned.  If 
the  gas  had  been  ignited  by  open  fire, 
immediate  action  was  necessary,  for 
our  own  safety  as  well  as  for  the  chance 
of  rescuing  the  men  in  the  mine;  for  in 
the  month  preceding  we  had  seen  the 
mine  '  repeat '  at  regular  intervals  with 
two  explosions,  and  if  the  fire  had  been 
ignited  from  open  flame  we  must  enter 
it,  effect  the  rescue  of  our  comrades, 
and  escape  before  we  could  be  caught 
by  a  second  explosion.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  chances  were  equal  that  the 
explosion  might  have  been  set  off  by  a 
defective  gauze  in  a  safety-lamp  or 
some  other  cause,  and  that  there  would 
be  no  immediate  explosion  following 
the  first  one. 

In  the  hurry  of  adjusting  our  hel- 
mets, no  one  noticed  that  the  charge 
of  oxygen  in  mine  was  short,  and  that 
an  hour  and  forty  minutes  was  my 
working  limit;  and  all  unconscious  of 
this,  I  tightened  the  valve,  and  with  the 
oxygen  hissing  in  the  check-valves,  we 


THE   TRAGEDY  OF  THE   MINE 


105 


left  the  bright  light  of  the  room,  and 
felt  our  way  down  the  steps  into  the 
darkness  of  the  yard,  where  a  great 
arc-light  above  the  hoisting-shaft  made 
objects  visible  in  its  lavender  light.  A 
crowd  had  already  gathered;  a  dark, 
silent  crowd  that  stood  like  a  flock  of 
frightened  sheep  around  the  mouth  of 
the  man-hoist.  With  a  man  on  either 
side  of  us  to  direct  us,  we  walked  to  the 
hoist,  our  electric  hand-lanterns  throw- 
ing long  white  beams  of  light  before  us. 
There  was  no  sound;  no  shrieking  of  wo- 
men, no  struggling  of  frenzied  mothers 
or  sisters  to  fight  their  way  into  the 
mine;  but  there  was  a  more  awful  si- 
lence, and  as  we  passed  a  pile  of  ties,  I 
heard  a  whimpering  noise,  like  a  pup- 
py, and  in  the  light  of  my  lamp  saw  the 
doubled  form  of  a  woman  who  crouch- 
ed alone  on  the  ground,  a  shawl  drawn 
over  her  head,  sobbing. 

We  stepped  on  the  hoist,  and  for  an 
instant  there  came  the  picture  of  a  solid 
line  of  people  who  hung  on  the  edge  of 
the  light;  of  white  faces;  of  the  laven- 
der glare  of  the  arc-lamp,  contrasting 
with  the  orange  light  from  the  little 
square  window  in  the  house  of  the 
hoisting  engineer.  'Are  you  ready?' 
he  called  to  us.  'Let  her  go,'  we  said; 
and  the  picture  was  gone  as  the  hoist 
sank  into  the  blackness  of  the  shaft. 
We  said  nothing  as  we  were  lowered, 
for  we  knew  where  the  men  would  be  if 
we  could  reach  them,  and  there  was 
nothing  else  to  talk  about.  The  grind 
of  the  shoes  on  the  hoist  as  they  scraped 
the  rails  made  a  sound  that  drowned 
out  my  feeble  whistling  of  the  Merry 
Widow  waltz  inside  of  my  helmet. 

We  felt  the  motion  of  our  descent 
slacken,  and  then  came  a  sudden  roaring 
splash  as  the  lower  deck  of  the  hoist  hit 
the  water  which  filled  the  sump.  Slowly 
we  sank  down  until  the  water  which 
flooded  that  part  of  the  mine  rose,  cold 
and  dead,  to  our  knees,  and  the  hoist 
came  to  a  stop.  Splashing  clumsily 


over  the  uneven  floor,  we  climbed  the 
two  steps  which  led  to  the  higher 
level  of  B  entry,  and  for  a  minute 
turned  the  white  beams  of  our  lights 
in  every  direction.  There  was  nothing 
to  be  seen,  and  no  trace  of  any  explo- 
sion except  a  thin,  white  layer  of  dead 
mist  or  smoke  which  hung  lifeless,  like 
cigar-smoke  in  a  quiet  room,  about  four 
feet  from  the  ground;  but  there  was  a 
silence  that  was  terrible,  for  in  it  we 
listened  in  vain  for  the  voices  of  men. 
At  first  we  assured  ourselves  that  there 
was  no  one  around  the  bottom  of  the 
shaft,  for  we  had  expected  that  some 
one,  injured  by  the  explosion,  might 
have  been  able  to  crawl  toward  the 
man-hoist;  but  there  was  no  trace  of 
any  human  being. 

Walking  slowly  and  peering  before 
us  through  the  bull's-eyes  of  our  hel- 
mets, to  right  and  left,  we  advanced 
down  the  entry,  our  lights  cutting  the 
blackness  like  the  white  fingers  of  twin 
searchlights.  Suddenly,  far  off  in  the 
darkness,  there  came  a  sound.  It  was 
laughter.  We  stopped  and  listened. 
High,  shrill,  and  mad  the  notes  caught 
our  ears.  Again  we  advanced,  and  the 
laughter  broke  into  a  high,  shrill  song. 
To  right  and  left  we  swung  the  bars  of 
our  searchlights,  feeling  for  the  voice. 
Suddenly  the  white  light  brought  out 
of  the  darkness  a  tangled  mass  of  black- 
ened timbers  which  seemed  to  fill  the 
entry,  and  into  the  light  from  the  pile 
of  wreckage  staggered  the  figure  of  a 
man,  his  clothes  hanging  in  sooty  rib- 
bons, and  his  face  and  body  blackened 
beyond  recognition.  Only  the  whites 
of  his  eyes  seemed  to  mark  him  from 
the  wreckage  which  surrounded  him. 
In  a  high-pitched  voice  he  called  to  us, 
and  we  knew  that  he  was  mad.  *  Come! 
Come ! '  he  cried.  '  Let 's  get  out  of  here. 
Come  on,  boys!  Let's  go  somewhere'; 
and  then,  as  his  arms  instinctively 
caught  our  necks,  and  we  felt  for  his 
waist,  he  began  talking  to  Jesus.  With 


106 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE   MINE 


our  swaying  burden,  we  turned  and  re- 
traced our  steps  down  the  entry,  and 
fifteen  minutes  after  our  descent  into 
the  mine,  we  handed  out  of  the  hoist 
the  first  man  rescued,  to  his  friends. 

Once  more  came  the  vision  of  the 
great  black  wall  of  people  in  the  lights  at 
the  mine-mouth,  and  again  we  plunged 
down  into  the  blackness  and  silence  of 
the  mine.  Reaching  bottom,  we  walked 
as  rapidly  as  we  were  able  beyond  the 
point  where  we  had  found  the  mad- 
man, to  where  the  great  structure  of 
the  scale-house  had  once  filled  a  cross- 
cut between  B  entry  and  the  air- 
course  behind  it.  Where  once  had  been 
solid  timbers  and  the  steel  structure  of 
the  scales,  now  remained  nothing  but 
the  bare  walls  of  the  cross-cut,  swept 
clean  by  a  giant  force,  and  in  the  en- 
try the  crumbled  and  twisted  wreckage 
marked  where  the  force  of  the  explo- 
sion had  dropped  it  in  its  course.  With 
a  swing  of  my  light  I  swept  the  floor 
of  the  cross-cut.  Halfway  down  it,  on 
the  floor,  lay  what  seemed  to  be  a  long 
bundle  of  rags.  I  knew  it  was  a  man. 
There  was  no  movement  as  I  walked 
toward  it,  and  as  I  knelt  over  it  a  sud- 
den impulse  came  to  me  to  disbelieve 
my  first  thought  that  this  could  be  a 
man.  Prevented  from  seeing  clearly  by 
the  bull's-eye  of  my  helmet,  and  the 
poor  light  of  my  electric  lamp,  I  felt  for 
his  chest,  and  as  my  hand  touched  his 
breast,  I  felt  that  it  was  warm  and  wet. 
Perhaps  he  was  alive.  I  ran  my  light 
along  the  bundle.  Those  were  his  feet. 
I  turned  it  the  other  way.  The  man 
was  headless.  Instantly  I  got  to  my 
feet,  and  in  the  faint  glimmer  of 
McPherson's  light  I  saw  that  he  had 
found  something  in  the  wreckage. 
'What  is  it?'  I  bellowed  to  him  through 
my  helmet.  He  pointed  with  his  ray  of 
light.  A  body  hung  in  the  mass  of 
wreckage,  thrown  into  it  like  putty 
against  a  screen.  We  turned  and  con- 
tinued our  way  up  the  entry. 


Halfway  between  the  shafts  there 
was  a  temporary  canvas  stopping,  and 
we  knew  that  if  we  could  tear  this 
down,  the  air  from  the  fan  which  had 
been  speeded  up  must  short-circuit, 
and  pass  through  B  entry,  clearing 
out  the  after-damp  before  it.  Most  of 
the  men,  if  not  all,  would  be  in  this 
entry;  of  that  we  were  confident.  By 
tearing  down  the  brattice  and  freeing 
the  direction  of  the  ventilation,  life 
might  be  saved. 

As  I  have  said,  I  had  entered  the 
mine  on  my  first  trip  with  a  short 
charge  of  oxygen,  and  in  the  urgency 
had  failed  to  replenish  it  before  going 
down  the  second  time.  As  I  turned 
from  the  cross-cut  a  sudden  tugging  at 
my  lungs  told  me  that  my  air  was  run- 
ing  low.  Beside  the  track,  in  a  pool  of 
water,  lay  a  blackened  object  that  I 
knew  to  be  a  man.  He  was  the  only 
one  I  recognized,  and  I  knew  that  it 
must  be  Daman,  one  of  the  gas-inspect- 
ors, —  the  body  was  so  small.  A  few 
feet  beyond  him  lay  another,  and  an- 
other, all  blackened  and  unrecognizable. 
The  white  wall  of  the  brattice  gleamed 
suddenly  before  us,  and  in  a  second 
we  had  torn  it  from  its  fastenings. 
One  side  had  already  disappeared  from 
the  force  of  the  explosion.  Why  it  was 
not  all  torn  to  ribbons,  I  do  not  know. 

As  I  turned,  I  called  to  McPherson 
that  I  was  in,  and  as  I  spoke  a  sudden 
blackness  engulfed  me.  My  air  was 
gone.  The  sights  of  that  awful  night 
and  the  long  strain  of  the  months  of 
dangerous  work  on  high-strung  nerves 
had  caught  me.  I  came  to  with  my  eyes 
closed,  and  a  clean,  sweet  taste  of  fresh 
air  in  my  mouth.  I  thought  I  was  above 
ground,  but  opening  my  eyes  I  saw 
that  I  was  looking  through  the  bull's- 
eye  of  my  helmet  at  a  blackened  roof, 
dim  in  the  single  shaft  of  a  lamp. 
McPherson  was  talking  to  me.  He  had 
dragged  me  from  where  I  lay  to  where 
he  had  felt  the  air  blow  strongest.  My 


THE  TRAINING  OF  THE  JOURNALIST 


107 


weight,  increased  by  the  forty-five 
pounds  of  the  helmet,  made  it  impos- 
sible for  him  to  think  of  moving  me  un- 
aided. There  was  no  time  to  summon 
assistance.  In  the  strong  current  of  air, 
he  had  opened  my  valves  and  trusted 
that,  revived  by  the  fresh  air,  I  could 
reach  the  hoisting-shaft  under  my  own 
locomotion  before  the  after-damp 
could  overcome  me.  Faint  and  reeling, 


I  got  to  my  feet;  we  started  down  the 
entry,  our  arms  about  each  other's 
necks.  We  were  both  staggering,  and 
halfway  to  the  sump  I  fell.  Then  we 
crawled  and  rested  and  crawled  again. 
I  think  I  remember  splashing  in  the 
water  at  the  foot  of  the  hoisting-shaft, 
but  nothing  more.  We  had  saved  only 
one  man  of  the  twenty-seven  who  had 
entered  the  mine. 


THE   TRAINING  OF  THE   JOURNALIST 


BY   HERBERT  W.  HORWILL 


IN  the  days  when  men  'drifted  into 
journalism '  nothing  was  heard  of  any 
special  schools  for  the  education  of  the 
journalist.  You  do  not  need  lessons  in 
navigation  in  order  to  go  with  the  cur- 
rent. But  its  recognition  as  a  distinct 
profession  has  now  given  journalism  a 
right  to  a  chapter  by  itself  in  books  on 
'What  To  Do  With  Our  Boys,'  and 
there  are  young  men  in  college  who  of 
malice  prepense  are  intending  to  adopt 
it  as  a  life-career.  Newspaper-writing, 
like  acting,  has  thrown  off  much  of  its 
ancient  Bohemianism  and  become  re- 
spectable. The  journalist  is  still  a  step 
ahead  of  the  actor,  for  in  England  the 
stage  knighthoods  are  eclipsed  by  the 
peerages  of  Lord  Northcliffe  and  the 
late  Lord  Glenesk,  and  no  American 
has  been  translated  from  the  boards  of 
a  theatre  to  a  foreign  embassy.  Apart 
from  its  financial  and  social  prizes,  the 
press  nowadays  offers  irresistible  at- 
tractions to  many  young  men  whose 
temperament  makes  the  exercise  of  in- 
fluence over  the  multitude  the  most 
desirable  form  of  ambition. 


It  is  not  surprising,  then,  that  the 
question  should  be  asked:  If  the  older 
professions,  such  as  law  and  medicine, 
train  their  novices  in  special  schools, 
why  should  not  this  new  profession 
provide  its  recruits  with  opportunities 
of  technical  preparation? 

The  analogy  of  the  older  professions 
is  not,  however,  as  cogent  as  it  might 
appear  at  first  sight.  We  may  be  justi- 
fied in  using  the  word  'profession'  of 
what  was  formerly  known  as  a  'pur- 
suit,' but  the  change  of  name  does  not 
of  itself  make  the  occupation  of  jour- 
nalism quite  parallel  with  law  and  med- 
icine. That  there  is  an  important  dif- 
ference is  clear  from  the  fact  that,  while 
a  man  may  still  drift  into  journalism 
without  being  a  quack,  it  is  impossible 
so  to  drift  into  these  other  professions. 
A  candidate  for  one  of  them  has  to 
spend  years  in  mastering  a  multitude 
of  facts  quite  outside  the  range  of  a  lib- 
eral education,  and  also,  especially  in 
surgery,  in  the  acquisition  of  a  skill 
that  is  purely  technical.  But  there  is 
no  such  body  of  special  knowledge  to 


108 


THE  TRAINING  OF  THE  JOURNALIST 


be  assimilated  by  a  journalist  before  he 
can  be  permitted  to  begin  to  practice. 
There  is,  indeed,  no  other  kind  of  in- 
tellectual work  in  which  the  necessary 
technique  is  so  little  in  amount.  To  be 
assured  of  this,  we  have  only  to  glance 
over  the  shelves  of  text-books  that  com- 
pose the  professional  library  of  the 
young  physician  or  lawyer  or  clergy- 
man, and  then  consider  what  can  be 
set  over  against  all  this  as  representing 
the  special  studies  of  the  journalist. 

An  analysis  of  the  esoteric  qualifica- 
tions of  the  newspaper  writer  yields 
little  result.  A  few  mechanical  details 
have  to  be  learned,  — as  to  the  revision 
of  proofs,  the  use  of  various  sizes  of 
type,  etc.,  —  but  these  may  be  ascer- 
tained by  a  few  hours'  reading  of  any 
guide  for  literary  beginners,  and  may 
be  fixed  in  the  memory  by  a  few  weeks' 
experience.  The  occupant  of  a  regular 
position  on  a  newspaper  staff  has  fur- 
ther to  acquaint  himself  with  the  cus- 
tom of  his  own  office  in  such  matters 
as  paragraphing,  and  the  use  of  capi- 
tals, italics,  and  quotation  marks;  but 
as  the  practice  in  these  respects  varies 
in  different  printing-offices,  there  is 
no  stable  substance  for  special  tuition 
here.  If  the  recruit  decides  to  qualify 
himself  for  verbatim  reporting,  he  will 
of  course  need  to  devote  a  good  deal 
of  time  to  shorthand,  an  accomplish- 
ment which  may  be  gained  at  any  or- 
dinary commercial  school.  As  to  its 
importance  for  newspaper  work  in  gen- 
eral, journalists  are  not  agreed. 

Where,  then,  is  the  need  or  room  for 
a  special  school  of  journalism?  The 
function  of  such  a  school  can  scarcely 
be  anything  else  than  that  of  supply- 
ing the  lack  of  general  education  from 
which  those  young  men  suffer  who 
have  been  unfortunate  enough  to  spend 
their  school  and  college  period  in  in- 
stitutions of  a  low  standard. 

That  this  is  so  is  shown  by  some  of 
the  arguments  used  in  favor  of  a  special 


preparation  for  journalists.  Not  many 
years  ago  a  distinguished  English  edit- 
or, Dr.  Robertson  Nicoll,  in  support- 
ing the  establishment  of  an  endowment 
for  this  purpose  in  London,  pleaded 
that  a  school  for  journalism  would  teach 
its  pupils  to  write  paragraphs  well;  it 
would  train  them  to  put  their  points 
in  a  clear  way,  and  not  encumber  their 
work  by  technicalities  and  irrelevancies. 
But  what  has  the  lad's  English  teacher 
been  doing  all  the  time,  if  this  is  yet 
to  learn?  When  Dr.  Nicoll  went  on  to 
speak  of  accuracy  as  the  first  quality 
required  by  a  journalist,  and  to  say 
that  'most  people  when  turned  out 
from  school  are  habitually  inaccurate,' 
he  showed  still  more  plainly  that  what 
is  wanted  is  not  the  establishment  of 
technical  schools,  but  an  improvement 
in  the  quality  of  general  education.  A 
critic  would  reply  to  this  argument,  so 
Dr.  Nicoll  suggested,  by  alleging  that 
these  things  must  indeed  be  learned, 
but  can  be  best  learned  in  the  office. 
Not  so;  the  true  answer  is  that  these 
things  must  be  learned,  but  can  be  best 
learned  in  high  school  or  college. 

The  main  preparation,  then,  for  a 
journalistic  career  can  be  obtained  in 
any  places  of  secondary  and  higher  ed- 
ucation that  live  up  to  their  advertise- 
ments. What  are  the  main  require- 
ments? The  candidate  must,  of  course, 
possess  certain  natural  aptitudes.  Un- 
fortunately these  cannot  always  be 
surely  determined  until  the  pupil  is  a 
good  way  on  in  his  teens.  He  must  have 
that  native  intelligence  which  no  school 
can  impart,  but  which  some  methods 
of  education  can  undoubtedly  impair. 
There  must  also  be  a  peculiar  alertness 
to  the  facts  of  human  life,  a  quickness 
and  catholicity  of  mind  which  would 
almost  justify  the  maxim  that  there  is 
nothing  dull  to  the  born  journalist.  In 
addition,  there  appears  to  be  especially 
needed  wide  and  thorough  information, 
ability  to  observe  and  reason,  and 


THE  TRAINING  OF  THE  JOURNALIST 


109 


skill  in  literary  expression,  together 
with  what  may  be  called  the  essential 
intellectual  habits,  including  accuracy 
and  freedom  from  prejudice. 

If  this  is  a  fair  account  of  the  needs 
of  the  journalist,  it  is  evident  that  his 
purpose  will  best  be  served  by  just  such 
an  equipment  as  would  most  be  de- 
sired by  a  student  who  aimed  simply 
at  a  liberal  culture.  On  the  side  of 
knowledge,  nothing  comes  amiss  to  a 
newspaper  writer,  though  it  would  per- 
haps be  wise  to  pay  special  attention 
to  modern  languages,  modern  history, 
and  economics.  Natural  science,  par- 
ticularly laboratory  and  field-work, 
should  cultivate  the  power  of  observa- 
tion. Logic  and  the  allied  studies  sup- 
ply the  best  stimulus  to  thought  as  well 
as  the  best  training  in  method.  The 
study  of  the  English  literature  and  lan- 
guage, with  practice  in  essay-writing, 
suggests  itself  as  most  likely  to  com- 
municate the  power  of  idiomatic  ex- 
pression, but  equal  stress  should  be 
laid  on  the  study  of  Greek  and  Latin  — 
or  at  least  one  of  these  languages  — 
with  constant  practice  in  translation. 
It  is  not  possible  in  translation,  as  in 
essay-writing,  to  shirk  the  choice  of  the 
fitting  word  or  phrase.  Translation 
from  the  classics  is  sometimes  con- 
demned as  injurious  to  English  style, 
but  it  can  be  so  only  where  the  instruc- 
tor is  incompetent,  for  no  teacher  worth 
his  salt  will  suffer  a  pupil  to  present  to 
him  versions  which  lazily  retain  the 
alien  constructions  of  the  original  in- 
stead of  transmuting  them  into  the 
characteristic  speech  of  the  mother 
tongue. 

Whatever  the  particular  curric- 
ulum followed,  it  is  essential  that  the 
education  given  be  of  a  disciplinary 
quality.  It  must  quicken  the  intellect- 
ual conscience  to  the  point  of  disgust 
with  all  scamped  work,  and  of  readi- 
ness to  take  pains  in  securing  the  ex- 
actness of  a  date  or  a  quotation ;  it  must 


strengthen  the  nerves  of  the  mind  to 
grapple  with  subjects  that  are  not  su- 
perficially attractive. 

Other  things  being  equal,  the  more 
thoroughly  a  young  man  prepares  him- 
self by  an  education  along  these  lines 
the  wider  will  be  his  range  as  a  writer 
for  the  press.  He  will  have  an  easier 
grasp  of  the  everyday  work  of  jour- 
nalism, and  at  the  same  time  will  be 
competent  to  deal  with  topics  that  are 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  average  news- 
paper man. 

A  striking  proof  of  what  can  be  done 
by  the  scholar  in  journalism  was  given 
by  the  career  —  unhappily  cut  short 
by  fever  during  the  siege  of  Ladysmith 
—  of  Mr.  G.  W.  Steevens,  who  went 
on  the  daily  press  after  winning  several 
high  distinctions  in  classics  at  Oxford. 
In  his  accounts  of  the  Diamond  Jubilee 
procession,  of  the  Dreyfus  court-mar- 
tial, and  of  the  bivouac  at  Elandslaagte, 
he  beat  the  descriptive  reporter  on  his 
own  ground,  while  he  could  deal  ade- 
quately with  literary  and  philosophical 
subjects  which  the  mere  reporter  could 
not  even  approach.  His  skill  in  the 
craft  of  the  special  correspondent  so  im- 
pressed itself  upon  his  contemporaries, 
that  a  London  literary  weekly,  com- 
menting on  the  lack  of  any  notable 
descriptions  of  the  coronation  of  the 
present  King,  remarked  that  'the  ab- 
sence from  among  us  of  the  late  G.  W. 
Steevens  was  severely  felt.'  For  an 
earlier  example  one  may  turn  to  Taine's 
Notes  on  England,  some  chapters  of 
which  contain  writing  which  would 
have  won  the  author  high  eulogies  for 
his  'reportorial'  talent  from  the  most 
exigent  of  American  city  editors. 

Further,  the  man  who  comes  to  his 
task  equipped  with  a  liberal  education 
is  likely  to  regard  the  work  itself  with 
greater  freedom  from  convention  and 
less  respect  for  precedent.  Many  of  the 
chief  successes  in  modern  journalism 
have  been  won  by  men  who  have  de- 


110 


THE  TRAINING  OF  THE  JOURNALIST 


fied  tradition  and  have  struck  out  in 
an  entirely  opposite  direction  from 
what  had  come  to  be  regarded  as  the 
only  safe  course.  In  any  profession 
such  originality  is  most  commonly 
found  in  men  who  have  cultivated 
breadth  of  view.  A  student  of  peda- 
gogy, for  example,  whose  special  studies 
have  not  been  based  on  a  good  general 
education  is  likely  to  become  narrowed 
by  his  work  at  the  normal  college. 
What  he  is  told  about  educational 
methods  is  accepted  by  him  as  a  code 
of  inflexible  rules,  instead  of  as  princi- 
ples that  are  to  be  applied  in  various 
forms  according  to  circumstances.  We 
thus  come  across  kindergarten  instruc- 
tion that  faithfully  carries  out  a  cer- 
tain mechanical  syllabus,  but  has  al- 
most forgotten  Froebel's  fundamental 
truth  that  the  child's  mind  is  to  be 
treated  as  a  garden.  In  the  same  way 
a  journalist  may  easily  sink  into  a  rut 
unless  his  outlook  has  been  widened  by 
a  training  that  gives  him  a  feeling  of 
proportion  and  makes  him  sensitive  to 
fresh  impressions. 

It  is  not  until  this  foundation  has 
been  laid  that  the  novice  need  pay 
attention  to  studies  that  will  differen- 
tiate him  from  his  fellows  who  are  en- 
tering other  professions.  He  may  now 
specialize  in  two  directions.  On  the  one 
hand,  he  may  carry  to  a  higher  stage 
those  college  studies  which  most  ap- 
peal to  him,  in  order  that  he  may  be 
able  to  write  about  them  with  the  au- 
thority of  an  expert.  There  is  a  grow- 
ing demand  for  writers  who  are  com- 


petent to  deal  with  the  affairs  of  some 
particular  department,  such  as  art,  or 
economics,  or  foreign  politics.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  must  diverge  from  the 
general  path  by  making  himself  ac- 
quainted with  the  minutiae  of  the  act- 
ual practice  of  the  profession,  partly 
by  reading  books  about  journalism  — 
not  forgetting  the  best  biographies  and 
autobiographies  of  journalists  —  and 
partly  by  observing  the  methods  of  a 
competent  practitioner  and  working 
under  his  guidance.  This  clinical  course 
will  be  most  fruitful  when  the  student 
has  prepared  himself  for  it  by  careful 
preliminary  reading  and  thinking. 

Whatever  may  be  the  future  devel- 
opment of  journalistic  education,  one 
thing  is  certain  — journalism  will  never 
become  a  close  profession.  Courses  of 
study  may  be  organized  whose  certi- 
ficates and  diplomas  will  come  to  be 
accepted  by  editors  as  prima  facie  evi- 
dence of  aptitude  for  certain  kinds  of 
newspaper  work.  But  no  trade-union 
will  ever  prevent  an  editor  from  print- 
ing matter  that  suits  him,  whether  the 
contributor  is  a  Bachelor  of  Journal- 
ism or  not.  Whatever  privileges  jour- 
nalistic or  other  graduates  may  attempt 
to  secure,  a  memorable  utterance  of 
Mr.  J.  Noble  Simms,  that  delightful 
character  in  Mr.  Barrie's  When  a  Man 's 
Single,  will  long  remain  true.  The  call- 
ing of  a  writer  for  the  press  will  still 
be  open  to  everybody  who  has  access 
to  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  with  a  little 
strawberry  jam  to  fasten  the  pages  of 
manuscript  together. 


SAFE 


BY   OLIVE   TILFORD   DARGAN 


MY  dream-fruit  tree  a  palace  bore 

In  stone's  reality, 
And  friends  and  treasures,  art  and  lore 

Came  in  to  dwell  with  me. 

But  palaces  for  gods  are  made; 

I  shrank  to  man,  or  less; 
Gold-barriered,  yet  chill,  afraid, 

My  soul  shook  shelterless. 

I  found  a  cottage  in  a  wood, 

Warmed  by  a  hearth  and  maid; 

And  fed  and  slept,  and  said  't  was  good,  — 
Ah,  love-nest  in  the  shade! 

The  walls  grew  close,  the  roof  pressed  low, 

Soft  arms  my  jailers  were; 
My  naked  soul  arose  to  go, 

And  shivered  bright  and  bare. 

No  more  I  sought  for  covert  kind; 

The  blast  bore  on  my  head; 
And  lo,  with  tempest  and  with  wind 

My  soul  was  garmented. 

Here  on  the  hills  the  writhing  storm 
Cloaks  well  and  shelters  me; 

I  wrap  me  round,  and  I  am  warm, 
Warm  for  eternity. 


BIG  MARY 


BY    KATHERINE   MAYO 


MACLISE,  at  his  office  desk,  dropped 
his  pen,  swung  his  chair,  and  turned 
upon  the  street  without  a  distant,  rum- 
inative gaze.  Clad  in  his  fresh  tan  linens, 
with  his  sturdy  form,  his  ruddy,  hearty, 
fine-featured  face,  his  silver  hair,  his 
clear  and  kind  blue  eyes,  he  made  a 
pleasant  picture,  to  which  the  window 
view  gave  background  well  in  harmony. 
Paramaribo  is  unique  among  South 
American  towns,  and  the  Heernstraat, 
at  the  early  morning  hour  of  peace 
and  cool  and  freshness,  displayed  it  at 
its  comeliest. 

But  Maclise's  eyes,  for  once,  took 
no  note  of  outward  things.  That  after- 
noon he  should  set  forth,  with  a  heavi- 
ly laden  expedition,  by  river,  by  creek, 
and  by  jungle-trail,  for  his  placer,  far 
back  in  the  gold-bush.  His  mind  was 
absorbed  in  the  business  of  it.  Every 
detail  of  organization  had  received 
his  personal  care.  Now  the  great '  fish- 
boats  '  rode  at  the  riverside,  ready  laden 
since  the  night  before.  All  the  mis- 
cellany of  supplies  for  men,  beasts,  and 
machinery  needed  at  the  mine  for  three 
months  to  come,  lay  packed  in  perfect 
trim  and  balance  beneath  their  broad 
tarpaulins.  The  crews  were  contracted 
and  safe  corralled  under  the  police's 
hand. 

Maclise's  own  launch,  the  Cottica, 
tested,  stored,  and  in  perfect  order, 
rocked  at  her  moorings.  The  lists  had 
been  reviewed  and  supplemented  till 
further  care  seemed  useless.  And  still 
Maclise  pondered. 

'Cornelis!'  said  he. 

'Ja,  mynheer?'  The  office  porter,  a 

112 


slender,  spaniel-eyed  mulatto,  darted 
forward  at  attention. 

'  Cornelis,  I  '11  take  three  more  wood- 
choppers.  Get  Moses,  and  a  couple  of 
good  Para  men,  if  you  can  find  them. 
But  be  sure  you  get  Moses.' 

'  Ja,  mynheer,  —  but  — '  The  hum- 
ble voice  trailed  and  faded  in  reluctant 
deprecation. 

'Well?'  —  Cornelis's  trepidations 
were  among  the  minor  thorns  of  Mac- 
lise's life;  yet  he  took  them  with  that 
humorous  understanding  and  indulg- 
ence that,  coupled  with  a  generous 
hand  and  sharp  authority,  wins  the 
Negro's  heart,  respect,  and  unquestion- 
ing obedience.  'Well,  Cornelis?' 

'I  shall  do  my  best,  mynheer,  but 
last  night  I  saw  Moses  in  a  Portuguese 
shop  on  the  Waterkant,  and  he  was 
drinking  —  too  much  drinking,  myn- 
heer.' 

Maclise  considered.  Moses  was  the 
best  wood-chopper  in  the  colony  —  a 
Demeraran,  pure  black,  with  the 
strength  and  patience  of  an  ox;  also, 
with  an  ox's  intelligence.  Moses'  arms 
chopped  cord-wood  in  the  beauty  of 
perfection,  but  the  brain  of  Moses  did 
nothing  at  all;  whence  it  happened  that, 
like  an  ox,  Moses  was  led  by  whoever 
pulled  on  his  nose-ring.  Drunk,  how- 
ever, —  drunk  and  ugly,  —  he  would 
surely  be  no  subject  for  the  gentle  Cor- 
nelis to  tackle,  and  the  boats  must  be 
off  by  three  o'clock.  Maclise's  eyes 
signaled  a  conceit  that  jumped  with  his 
fancy. 

.  'Cornelis,   find   Big   Mary.     Say   I 
want  to  take  Moses  to  the  placer,  and 


BIG   MARY 


113 


that  I  look  to  her  to  send  him  here  by 
noon.  Find  Big  Mary,  tell  her  simply 
that,  and  then  hurry  on  about  the  Para 
men.' 

An  hour  later,  over  the  iced  papaia 
that  prefaced  breakfast,  Maclise  re- 
curred to  the  subject.  'Nora,'  said  he 
to  the  presence  behind  the  coffee-pot, 
—  and  told  the  story.  '  It  would  stump 
half  the  police  force  in  the  town  to 
move  Moses  against  his  will/  he  con- 
cluded. 'If  Big  Mary  sends  him,  will 
you  thank  her  for  me?  It  would  please 
her.' 

'Surely  I  will.  But  how  far  do  you 
really  suppose  she  is  vulnerable,  on 
the  human  side  —  that  huge  primeval 
thing  —  that  great  black  buffalo?  One 
can't  but  wonder.' 

The  morning  at  the  office  passed 
rapidly,  with  its  press  of  last  details. 
Loose  ends  were  tied.  The  Para  men 
were  caught  and  duly  contracted;  and 
when  from  Fortress  Zeelandia,  down 
by  the  river,  the  noon  gun  sounded,  all 
was  in  shape. 

'All  except  Moses,'  thought  Mac- 
lise. '  The  rascal  was  evidently  too  far 
gone  to  listen  to  —  why,  Mary!' 

For  the  side  window,  at  which  labor- 
ers reported  to  the  office,  suddenly 
framed  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a 
burly  Negress. 

It  was  indeed  an  aboriginal  type  — 
pure  Negro,  thin-lipped,  but  flat-nosed, 
ape-eared,  slant-chinned,  broad-jawed, 
and  with  the  little  eyes  of  an  intelligent 
bush  animal. 

'Yes,  mahster,  mahnin',  mahster. 
Ah  hope  mahster  quite  well.' 

'Howdy,  Mary.  Where's  that  vil- 
lain Moses?  Couldn't  find  him,  eh?' 

Turning  silently,  Mary  reached  into 
space.  One  heave  of  her  brawny  arm, 
a  scramble,  and  a  giant  figure  lurched 
beside  her,  darkening  the  window  with 
sheer  bulk.  It  was  Moses,  but  Moses 
dejected,  spiritless,  with  drooping 
head  and  abject  gaze.  Moses,  more- 

VOL.  107  -NO.  1 


over,  with  one  eye  closed,  a  great 
fresh  cut  across  his  ebony  jaw,  and  his 
right  hand  bandaged.  With  honest 
pride  his  helpmate  pointed  to  her  work. 
'Here  he,  mahster.  He  done  come 
mighty  hard,  but  Ah  fotch  he.' 

Maclise  considered  the  pair  briefly, 
in  quiet  enjoyment;  then,  with  the 
gesture  natural  to  the  moment,  slid  his 
hand  into  his  trousers  pocket.  'All 
right,  Mary.  Good  girl.  Here  you  are. 
Now  go  tell  the  Mistress  howdy.' 

Nora  looked  up  in  surprise  as  Mary 
loomed  before  her,  and  the  contrast 
of  her  slight  little  figure,  her  blonde 
hair,  and  her  climate-blanched  face, 
with  the  rough-hewn  form  of  the  great 
Negress,  was  the  contrast  of  the  Twen- 
tieth Century  with  the  Age  of  Stone. 

'And  did  you  bring  Moses?  Oh, 
Mary,  I  am  so  pleased  with  you!  The 
Master  particularly  wanted  him.'  With 
a  sudden  impulse  a  small  white  hand 
went  out  and  rested  upon  the  huge 
blue-black  one.  'Mary,  I  like  to  feel 
that  we  can  trust  you!' 

The  giantess  looked  down  upon  the 
slim  white  fingers  that  lay  upon  the 
great  seamed  fist,  with  visible  wonder, 
as  though  they  had  been  snowflakes 
from  the  equatorial  sky.  A  slow,  vague 
wave  of  something  like  emotion  ebbed 
across  her  face,  making  it,  in  passing, 
more  formless.  Then  an  earlier  pre- 
occupation resumed  control.  She  seized 
a  corner  of  her  apron,  and  began  tor- 
turing it  into  knots,  while  her  un- 
stockinged  feet  shuffled  dubiously  in 
their  flinty  feast-day  slippers. 

'  Is  something  troubling  you,  Mary? ' 

'Lil'  Mistress,'  —  Mary's  voice  came 
oddly  small  and  husky,  —  '  Mahster 
ain't  never  'low  no  womens  on  the 
placer,  is  he?' 

'You  know  he  does  not,  Mary.' 

'Lil'  Mistress,  Moses  ain't  want  to 
come.  Dat  mek  Ah  'bliged  to  mash  he 
up.  Ah  glad  ef  Mahster  want  leff  me  go, 
des  dis  one  time,  fo'  look  po'  Moses/ 


114 


BIG   MARY 


Nora  regarded  the  timid  Amazon 
with  the  wider  comprehension  of  ex- 
perience. 'I  will  see  what  the  Master 
says,'  she  replied.  And  so  it  happened 
that  Big  Mary,  against  all  precedents, 
that  day  was  allowed  to  embark  with 
her  dilapidated  partner  upon  the  long 
journey  to  the  gold-bush. 

The  run  that  followed  Maclise's  ar- 
rival at  the  placer  surpassed  anything 
in  its  history.  For  three  glorious  weeks 
the  whole  affair  worked  as  by  charm, 
without  an  accident  or  a  drawback, 
and  the  'clean-ups'  were  beautiful. 
Then  came  the  eternal  unexpected. 
The  'Directors  at  Home,'  those  fog- 
inspired  bugaboos  of  colonial  enter- 
prise, cabled  a  foolishness.  Maclise, 
would  he  or  would  he  not,  must  drop 
all  and  go  to  town  to  answer  it.  With 
wrath  in  his  heart,  therefore,  he  fore- 
guided  his  beloved  work  as  best  he 
might,  and  addressed  himself  to  the 
downward  journey. 

And  here,  again,  a  fresh  vexation 
met  him:  ,the  Cottica's  picked  and 
trusty  crew  failed.  Duurvoort,  best 
engineer  on  the  river,  was  down  with 
the  fever.  Jacobus,  the  faithful  stoker, 
had  taken  to  his  hammock  with  snake- 
bite. Only  old  Adriaan,  the  steers- 
man, remained.  Adriaan,  to  be  sure, 
knew  his  river,  hoek  by  hoek,  and,  with 
the  fine  sense  of  a  wild  beast,  distin- 
guished landmarks  where  others  saw 
naught  but  unfeatured  stretches  of 
leaves  and  water  and  mud.  Yet  Ad- 
riaan's  faculties  were  like  the  launch's 
engine  —  of  no  use  unless  a  hand  and 
brain  compelled  them.  Given  Duur- 
voort behind  him  to  keep  him  alive 
and  alert,  he  managed  his  wheel  with 
perfect  skill.  But  Adriaan  unwatched, 
alone?  —  Hendrick,  the  untried  sub- 
stitute engineer,  had  the  reputation 
of  a  good  man.  To  him  Fate  added 
Willy,  a  hair-lipped  Barbadian  mulat- 
to, and  the  scrub  crew  was  complete 
as  the  journey  began. 


It  was  sunset-time,  of  the  last  after- 
noon of  the  trip.  The  Cottica,  despite 
her  handicap,  had  thus  far  made  her 
distance  without  delays  or  accidents. 
By  midnight  she  should  reach  her 
mooring  before  the  town.  Maclise,  who 
had  finished  supper,  lay  on  his  cabin 
couch  watching  the  shore  slip  by  and 
thinking  opprobriums.  A  vague  phys- 
ical discomfort  fumbled  at  the  door  of 
his  consciousness,  and  from  moment 
to  moment  he  tossed  and  twisted  rest- 
lessly. He  tried  to  calm  himself.  Nora, 
at  least,  he  reflected,  would  be  pleased. 
He  had  managed  to  send  her  warning 
of  his  coming  and  — 

Maclise  slowly  sat  up,  with  a  face 
of  pure  dismay.  The  door  of  his  con- 
sciousness had  opened  at  last,  to  ad- 
mit a  sensation  no  longer  vague  but 
all  too  sure  and  familiar.  Again  the 
aching  tremor  shot  through  his  body, 
with  increased  force.  'Bless  my  soul!' 
said  Maclise,  quite  gently,  'did  I  need 
this  now?' 

He  rose  and  went  forward  to  the  en- 
gine-room, knowing  he  had  no  time  to 
lose.  He  spoke  to  the  engineer  in  short, 
sharp  words,  saying  the  same  three 
sentences  over  and  over,  to  the  punc- 
tuation of  the  Negro's  '  Ja,  mynheer,' 
and  '  Ja,  mynheer.'  Then  he  moved  on 
toward  the  wheel.  The  steersman  had 
heard  the  voice  behind  him,  and  sat 
erect  as  duty's  self,  eyes  straight  for- 
ward on  the  river  and  the  rosy  sky. 

'Adriaan  — '  A  fresh  rigor  seized 
the  speaker  and  he  laid  hold  of  the  rail 
to  steady  himself.  Maclise  would  never 
learn  the  colonial  Negro-language,  the 
'taki-taki*  ;  but  a  pidgin  of  his  own 
seldom  failed  to  carry  its  meaning,  and 
the  gesture  replaced  the  word.  'Adri- 
aan, fever  catch  me.  No  can  watch 
Adriaan.  Duurvoort  no  here.  Jacobus 
no  here.  Adriaan  must  run  boat.  No 
must  sleep.  No  must  sleep.  Hear?' 

The  little  Negro's  wrinkled  face 
beamed  limitless  good-will  and  sym- 


BIG   MARY 


115 


pathy  and  confidence.  'Poti,  mynheer! 
Mino  sa  slibi.  (Too  bad!  I  will  not 
sleep.)  Mynheer  need  not  fear.  Myn- 
heer must  go  lie  down,  and  Adriaan 
will  carry  him  safe.  Ja,  mynheer,  ee-ja, 
mynheer!' 

Maclise  looked  down  upon  his  will- 
ing servitor  with  little  faith.  But  help 
there  was  none.  'No  must  sleep,'  he 
repeated,  'and  count  the  hoeks.'  Stum- 
bling back  to  his  cabin,  he  stretched 
on  his  couch.  The  fever,  curse  of  the 
country,  gathered  him  into  her  grip, 
gradually  effacing  all  thought  and  un- 
derstanding. And  the  shadows  deep- 
ened into  night. 

'Thud-thud,  thud-thud,'  the  engine 
beat  on,  smoothly.  Smoothly  the 
launch  clove  her  way  over  the  darken- 
ing waters;  and  'tinkle-tinkle,  tinkle- 
tinkle,'  the  little  ripples  sang  around 
the  nose  of  her  tow.  The  tow  was  only 
a  'fish-boat,'  going  back  to  town  for 
repairs.  And  in  it  was  nothing  in  par- 
ticular, —  only  its  oars,  and,  curled 
up  asleep  in  the  stern,  under  a  cotton 
blanket  to  keep  out  the  dark  and  the 
Jumbies,  —  Big  Mary. 

Three  weeks  in  the  bush  had  more 
than  exhausted  her  fancy  for  sylvan 
life.  Moses'  wounds  had  promptly 
healed,  depriving  him,  thereby,  of  a  sen- 
timental interest.  In  fact,  in  such  daily 
proximity  he  palled  upon  her.  'Ah 
close  'pon  sick  'n '  suffik  o'  de  sight  o' 
dat  man,'  she  explained.  'Ef  Ah  ain't 
get  some  relievement  soon  Ah  gwine 
loss'  ma  tas'e  fo'  he.'  The  news  of 
Maclise's  sudden  sortie,  and  of  the 
fish-boat  tow  with  its  possibilities  of 
conveyance,  had  therefore  come  to  her 
as  a  godsend,  for  whose  realization  she 
had  begged  too  earnestly  to  be  denied. 

'Thud-thud,'  hummed  the  engine. 
Hendrik,  singly  intent  upon  his  im- 
mediate job,  hung  above  it,  the  in- 
termittent gleam  of  the  fires  making 
strange  masques  of  his  black  and  drip- 
ping face.  The  ministering  Willy,  like 


a  hair-lipped,  banana-colored  goblin, 
hovered  in  and  out,  or  slumbered  pro- 
foundly in  the  doorway;  and  forward 
at  the  wheel,  alone  in  the  dark,  old 
Adriaan  struggled  with  the  Adversary. 

'Granmasra  told,  mi  no  sa  slibi,'  he 
muttered  aloud  from  time  to  time. 
'Granmasra  siki.  Adriaan  wawan  de 
vo  tjari  hem  boen  nafoto.  Fa  mi  sa  slibi ! ' 
(How  should  I  sleep,  with  Granmasra 
sick  and  Adriaan  the  only  one  to  take 
him  safe  to  town!) 

And  yet,  with  the  soft,  cool  fingers 
of  the  silky  night  pressing  his  eyelids 
down  and  down,  with  the  river  singing 
her  silver,  rhythmic  undertone,  end- 
less, changeless,  with  no  human  govern- 
ance to  sustain  and  spur  him,  the 
task  was  very  hard  —  too  hard.  Slow- 
ly the  small  bright  eyes  grew  dim,  the 
woolly  head  sank  forward,  the  body 
swayed  against  the  wheel,  and  the 
hands  on  the  spokes  hung  lax.  Easily, 
swiftly,  the  Cottica  slid  from  her  course 
and  made  for  the  shadows  of  the  east- 
ern bank.  On  she  sped,  unheeded,  — 
on  till  a  branch  of  brush,  caught  in  the 
deep-sunk  top  of  a  drifting  tree,  struck 
her  a  spattering  blow  across  the  bows. 
The  shower  of  water  upon  his  face 
awoke  the  steersman  with  a  jump.  He 
sprang  to  place,  peering  forward  into 
the  misty  dark. 

'Mi  Gado!  Mi  Gado!'  he  shivered. 
But  there  was  yet  time.  With  a  sharp 
veer  he  put  the  launch  upon  her  course 
again,  and  soon  had  rediscovered  his 
familiar  bearings.  'Pikinso  moro,  ala 
wi  dede  na  boesi,'  Adriaan  reproached 
his  inward  tormentor.  'A  little  more, 
and  we  were  all  killed  in  the  bush.  What 
makes  you  trouble  me  so,  you!1 

He  sat  very  erect  now,  facing  his 
duty  determinedly.  But  the  night  was 
so  still  and  soft,  the  wind  so  small  and 
sweet,  the  river's  song  so  lulling!  The 
woolly  head  nodded,  then  recovered 
with  a  jerk.  'Sleep  kills  me,  for  true,' 
muttered  poor  Adriaan,  pulling  at  his 


116 


BIG   MARY 


pipe  fiercely.  For  a  moment  it  served; 
then  again  the  quick  and  heavy  slum- 
ber of  his  race  descended  upon  him, 
claiming  its  own.  Slowly,  an  inert, 
crumpled  heap,  the  steersman  col- 
lapsed upon  his  seat,  and  the  boat 
swept  on. 

The  noise  was  like  the'  noise  of  a 
volley  of  musketry,  and  like  the  break- 
ing of  a  great  sea  on  a  liner's  deck, 
and  like  the  sucking  and  rending 
of  the  roots  of  the  world.  Out  in  the 
tow  Big  Mary  sprang  to  her  knees, 
flinging  aside  her  covering  before  any 
conscious  thought  could  paralyze  her 
muscles  with  the  image  of  Jumbies. 
Close  above  her  rose  the  broad  stern 
of  the  Cottica.  But  the  Cottica's  body, 
like  Daphne  of  old,  was  transformed 
into  bush.  For  an  instant  Big  Mary 
stared,  collecting  her  wits.  Then  grim 
understanding  dawned.  With  a  haul 
on  the  slack  tow-line  she  brought  her- 
self close,  and  swarmed  up  over  the 
stern.  Peering  into  the  cabin,  she  made 
out  Maclise,  lying  on  his  couch  quietly. 

'Mahster!'  she  called,  alarmed  at 
the  inexplicable  sight.  'Mahster!' 

Through  the  craze  of  his  dreams 
Maclise  heard,  subconsciously,  and 
answered  with  incoherent  mumblings. 
Mary  laid  her  finger  gently  on  his  head. 

'The  fever! '  she  groaned.  'Now  who 
gwine  he'p  we!5  But  the  fiercely  faith- 
ful spirit  of  the  good  old-time  Negro 
even  then  possessed  her.  Her  hour 
had  come. 

Turning,  she  started  forward.  The 
moko-moko,  dense  withy  growth  of 
the  border  waters,  had  buckled  and 
bent  and  twisted  in  its  violent  dis- 
placement, and  crowded  across  the 
decks  in  an  almost  solid  mass.  On  all 
fours,  burrowing  through  it  like  a 
bush  beast,  she  made  the  engine-room. 
Hendrik  and  Willy  stared  out  at  her 
with  helpless,  panic  faces.  Through 
the  tangle  on  the  other  side  protruded 


Adriaan's  ghastly  visage,  wrinkled  in 
a  thousand  seams  of  terror,  his  goat- 
beard  twitching,  his  wild  eyes  rolling 
like  jetsam  by  a  rudderless  wreck. 
The  engine-room  light  caught  upon 
the  broad,  lustrous  surfaces  of  the 
moko-moko  leaves  that  framed  him 
in,  making  them  spear-heads  of  false 
and  lurid  green.  Mary  gazed  upon  the 
speechless  three  in  a  scorn  that,  despite 
her  attitude,  became  magnificent. 

'Well,  niggers?' 

A  palpable  shiver  was  the  only  an- 
swer. * 

'  You !  Ah  ain'  want  neider  wise  man 
fo'  mek  me  know  what  you  is  done. 
Wha'  you  gwine  do  now  ?  Wha'  fo' 
you  isn'  wukkin'  ? ' 

It  was  the  wretched  Adriaan,  from 
his  lurid  ambush,  like  a  sacrificial  ram, 
that  first  essayed  an  answer.  'Sissa, 
don't  be  too  hard  on  us,'  he  bleated 
in  his  native  tongue.  'Night  is  black. 
Boat  too  much  full  of  bush.  Must  wait 
for  day.  Can't  see  to  cut  a  path  to  my 
wheel  till  day  comes.' 

'True,  true,  sissa,  don't  be  hard  on 
us,'  echoed  Hendrik.  'The  propeller 
is  wound  tight  into  the  moko-moko, 
'way  down  below.  Can't  cut  her  loose 
till  day  comes.* 

'Too  true,'  urged  the  fatuous  Willy, 
'raws'  wait  'pon  day.' 

Yet  they  shriveled  before  the  glitter- 
ing eyes  of  the  great  Negress. 

'  Mens,  less  yo'  noise.  Don'  mek  me 
sin  dis  night.  Mahster  lie  down  sick, 
eh?  Lil'  Mistress  watchin'  fo'  he 
comin',  eh?  You  fink  Ah's  gwine  leff 
Mahster  dead  on  de  ribber  an'  HI'  Mis- 
tress wring  she  HI'  white  hands  off  'cause 
a  pa'cel  o'  wufless  black  trash  ain'  wan' 
wuk  in  de  dark  ?  You,  Adriaan,  back  to 
yo'  wheel.  Has'y,  now,'  as  the  steers- 
man hesitated,  'has'y!  You  t'ink  Ah 
foolin'?' 

Dominated,  Adriaan  slunk  back,  and 
the  straining  and  crackling  of  wood 
bespoke  the  ardor  of  his  obedience. 


BIG   MARY 


117 


'You,  Hendrik,  you  gwine  sot  right 

wha'  you  is,  wuk  yo'  engines,  till  dis 

boat  a-movin',  hear?    Willy,  tek  dat 

.cutlass  behime  you  on  de  wall,  an' 

come  outside  to  me.' 

Hypnotized  by  her  imperiousness 
and  by  the  example  of  the  others, 
Willy  followed  the  leader,  creeping 
painfully  to  the  free  space  about  the 
stern.  But  rebellion  dared  in  his  heart, 
for  he  was  a  new  hand,  and  knew  not 
Mary.  On  the  open  deck  she  arose  and 
faced  him  in  the  dark. 

'Willy,'  she  said,  pointing  over  the 
side,  '  you,  now,  dive,  an'  cut  dat  com- 
peller  clean  clear.' 

Willy  stared  with  sincere  surprise. 
'Woman,  you  is  mad?' 

'Ain'  Ah  tole  you,  dive?  Ah  ain' 
foolin',  man.' 

Willy  laughed  a  laugh  of  ugly  mean- 
ing. Big  Mary's  bulk  seemed  to  rise 
and  broaden.  With  a  lunge  she  sprang 
for  him.  The  mulatto  drew  back,  quick 
as  a  cat,  and,  swinging  his  cutlass  over 
his  head,  brought  it  down  viciously. 
They  clinched,  for  a  moment  rocked  in 
each  other's  grip,  and  then  the  greater 
strength  triumphed.  The  cutlass  rat- 
tled upon  the  deck,  the  giant  Negress, 
lifting  her  victim  bodily,  flung  him  over 
the  rail,  and  the  inky  waters  closed 
above  him. 

Hanging  over  the  side  Mary  watch- 
ed. In  a  moment  a  head  appeared 
on  the  surface,  and  Willy's  strangled 
voice  bellowed  for  mercy. 

'Tek  dis,'  shouted  Mary,  thrusting 
into  the  upstretched,  grasping  hand 
the  cutlass.  'Tek  dis,  boy,  go  down 
an'  do  lak  Ah  tole  you.  You  try  to 
bo'd  dis  boat  befo'  you  is  clear  dat  com- 
pellor,  an'  Ah  gwine  bus'  you  wi-ide 
open!'  She  flourished  a  crowbar  over 
the  swimmer's  head,  bringing  it  down 
with  a  crash  on  the  launch's  side. 

Willy  needed  no  more.  'Don'  hit 
me!'  he  shrieked,  'Ah  'se  gwine';  and, 
half-amphibian  that  he  was,  like  all 


Barbadians,  disappeared  to  his  horrid 
work.  In  a  moment  the  black  head 
bobbed  up  again. 

'She  loose!'  it  sputtered.  But  Mary 
knew  it  lied. 

'Boy,  go  back  down!' 

The  head  again  vanished,  and  a 
tremor  along  the  boat's  frame  told  of 
the  force  of  the  attack  on  her  entangle- 
ment. Once  more  he  emerged. 

'Ah  loose  she  fo'  true  dis  time,  Miss 
Mary.  Le'  me  up,  in  Gaad's  name!' 

'You,  Hendrik,  dis  boat  loosed?' 
Mary  shouted  to  the  engine-room. 

'No-no,'  Hendrik  called  back;  'pro- 
peller fast  yet.' 

Mary  addressed  herself  to  the  round 
thing  bobbing  in  the  water.  'You 
dirty  —  black  —  Nigger  !  You  black 
Nigger!'  she  howled,  'you  go  back 
down,  an'  ef  ma  eyes  cotch  you  once 
mo'  befo'  dis  boat  loose,  Ah  — ' 

Willy  sank  beneath  the  whistling 
sweep  of  the  crowbar.  The  launch 
quivered  and  quivered  again  with  the 
snap  of  breaking  bonds.  One  final  tug, 
and  the  thing  was  done.  The  Cottica 
backed  away  into  her  natural  element. 

At  two  o'clock  that  morning,  only 
two  hours  behind  schedule,  the  Cottica 
made  her  moorings  off  the  Water kant. 
Then  it  was  Mary  who,  brushing  aside 
all  other  aid,  half-lifted  Maclise  into 
the  small  boat.  It  was  she,  too,  who 
helped  him  from  the  boat  to  the  wait- 
ing carriage.  And  it  was  she  who, 
through  the  dark  streets  of  the  town, 
stalked  at  the  carriage  step,  all  the  way 
to  the  house  door. 

The  door  flung  open  wide  at  the 
sound  of  approaching  wheels.  In  the 
light  stood  Nora,  her  women  about  her. 
Maclise  was  quite  himself  now,  and 
could  walk  alone,  though  weakly. 

'Mary  fotch  me,'  he  said,  with  his 
whimsical  smile,  as  he  stopped  to  rest 
in  the  hall.  '  Ah  done  come  mighty  hard, 
but  she  fotch  me' 


A  DIARY  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION  PERIOD 


BY  GIDEON  WELLES 


XII.    THE   END    OF   THE  DIARY 


Tuesday,  July  14,  1868. 

THE  Democrats  and  conservatives 
do  not  yet  get  reconciled  to  the  New 
York  nominations.  It  was  undoubt- 
edly a  mistake,  but  they  must  support 
it  as  preferable  to  Grant  in  his  ignor- 
ance, and  radicalism  in  its  wickedness. 
It  will  not  do  to  sacrifice  the  country 
from  mere  prejudice  against  or  par- 
tiality for  men.  I  judge  from  what  I 
hear  that  Chase  and  his  friends  felt  a 
degree  of  confidence  that  he  would  be 
the  nominee.  He  had,  I  have  no  doubt, 
the  money  interest  in  his  favor. 

When  I  went  to  Cabinet  to-day, 
only  Seward  was  in  the  Council  room. 
He  said,  jocosely,  that  he  understood 
I  was  for  the  New.  York  nominations 
and  he  opposed  to  them.  Said  the  pa- 
pers so  stated.  I  observed  that  I  had 
not  seen  the  statement,  but  I  had  no 
hesitation  in  saying  I  was  opposed  to 
Grant  and  the  radicals,  and,  conse- 
quently, I  had,  under  the  circumstances, 
no  alternative  but  to  go  for  Seymour. 
I  tried  to  draw  from  him  some  expres- 
sion, but  without  success. 

Friday,  July  17,  1868. 

The  President  read  a  veto  which  he 
had  prepared  on  the  Edmunds  bill  ex- 
cluding certain  States  from  casting 
electoral  votes,  or  preventing  them  from 
being  counted.  The  veto  is  very  well 
done  and  is  the  President's  own  work. 

He  afterwards  laid  before  us  a  mes- 


sage suggesting  sundry  alterations  of 
the  Constitution.  I  was  uncomfort- 
able while  it  was  being  read,  and  I 
could  perceive  it  was  a  favored  bant- 
ling which  he  had  prepared  with  some 
care.  Seward,  at  once,  on  its  conclu- 
sion, met  the  subject  frankly  and  can- 
didly. Said  he  made  no  objection  to 
the  document  as  an  exhibit,  as  the 
President's  own  personal  views,  but  he 
did  object  to  its  being  given  out  as  an 
administrative  or  Cabinet  paper.  He 
could  readily  assent  to  some  of  the 
propositions,  to  others  he  could  not, 
and  as  a  general  thing  did  not  admire 
changes  of  the  fundamental  law.  He  did 
not  wish  the  Presidential  term  length- 
ened, nor  did  he  wish  there  should  be 
a  prohibition  to  re-elect. 

McCulloch  said  as  a  general  thing 
he  was  against  constitutional  changes, 
but  thought  it  well  for  the  President  to 
present  his  views.  He  rather  liked  ex- 
tending the  term.  Browning  had  never 
given  the  subject  much  thought,  but 
was  favorably  impressed  with  the  sug- 
gestions that  were  made. 

Schofieldand  Randall  said  very  little. 
I  concurred  generally  in  the  remarks 
of  Seward,  but  excepted,  which  he  did 
not,  to  the  encroachments  proposed  to 
be  made  on  the  federation  features  of 
our  system.  I  was  not  for  taking  from 
the  States  the  single  sovereign  vote  in 
case  there  was  no  election  on  the  first 
trial. 


118 


1  Copyright,  1910,  by  EDQAB  T.  WELLBS. 


A  DIARY  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION  PERIOD 


Tuesday,  July  21,  1868. 

Mr.  Evarts  appeared  in  Cabinet 
Council  to-day  for  the  first  time.  He 
arrived  in  Washington  on  Sunday. 
This  appointment  makes  Seward  pot- 
ent beyond  what  he  has  hitherto  been 
witn  the  President,  but  that  fact  will 
not  strengthen  the  administration.  Nei- 
ther of  the  political  parties  likes  Sew- 
ard. He  is  disliked  by  both,  has  not 
public  confidence,  and  there  is  no  af- 
fection for  him  in  any  quarter.  The 
President  does  not  see  this,  nor  will  he; 
but  from  this  time  forward  he  will  prob- 
ably be  too  much  under  the  combined 
influence  of  his  Secretary  of  State  and 
Attorney-General. 

Monday,  July  27,  1868. 

There  was  little  to  interest  during  the 
closing  hours  of  the  session  —  less  ex- 
citement than  usual,  and  more  of  the 
great  absorbing  constitutional  struggle, 
—  such  as  I  have  sometimes  seen  in 
other  years.  Statesmanship  was  want- 
ing. The  members  talked  and  acted  as 
if  in  a  village  caucus.  Petty  intrigues, 
tricks,  and  contrivances  to  help  the 
party  were  the  great  end  and  aim.  In- 
stead of  the  usual  adjournment  sine  die 
to  meet  at  the  regular  session  in  De- 
cember, Congress  took  what  they  call 
a  recess  until  the  21st  of  September. 
This  was  a  scheme  to  cheat  the  Consti- 
tution and  innovate  on  the  executive 
prerogative,  for  it  is  the  President's 
duty  to  convene  Congress,  if  public 
necessity  requires.  But  it  was  not  pre- 
tended there  was  any  public  necessity. 
The  recess  was  to  prolong  the  session, 
and  watch  and  circumscribe  the  Pre- 
sident in  the  discharge  of  his  executive 
duties. 

There  being  no  cause  for  assem- 
bling, the  radical  members,  before 
leaving,  knowing  that  an  extra  session 
was  unnecessary,  signed  a  paper  to  the 
purport  that  they  would  not  convene 
in  September  until  cajled  together  by 


119 

E.  D.  Morgan,  Senator,  and  Schenck, 
Representative.  These  two  men  are 
chairmen  of  the  radical  party  com- 
mittees of  their  respective  Houses,  and 
on  them  was  conferred  the  executive 
authority  of  calling  an  extra  session  for 
party  purposes.  Such  is  radical  legis- 
lation and  radical  government. 

Thursday,  September  17,  1868. 
The  returns  from  Maine  give  a  very 
decided  victory  to  the  radicals.  The 
Democrats  have,  it  is  true,  greatly 
increased  their  vote  but  so  have  the 
radicals  also.  All  their  members  of 
Congress  are  elected. 

Saturday,  October  S,  1868. 

The  country  is  absorbed  with  poli- 
tics and  parties.  More  of  the  latter 
than  the  former.  Speakers  are  over- 
running the  country  with  their  hateful 
harangues  and  excitable  trash.  I  read 
but  few  of  the  speeches.  Those  of  the 
radicals  are  manufactured,  so  far  as  I 
have  seen  them,  of  the  same  material : 
hatred  of  the  rebels,  revenge,  the  evils 
of  reconciliation,  the  dangers  to  be  ap- 
prehended if  the  whites  of  the  South 
are  not  kept  under,  the  certainty  that 
they  will,  if  permitted  to  enjoy  their 
legitimate  constitutional  rights,  control 
the  government,  [in  which  event]  the 
radicals  will  be  deprived  of  power. 

This  is  the  stuff  of  which  every  rad- 
ical oration  is  made,  interlarded  some- 
times with  anecdotes.  No  allusion  to 
the  really  great  questions  before  the 
country  —  the  rights  of  man,  —  the 
rights  of  the  States,  —  the  grants  and 
limitations  of  the  Constitution. 

Had  the  Democrats  made  a  judicious 
nomination  they  would  have  enlisted 
the  good  sense  and  patriotism  of  the 
people,  and  had  an  easy  victory.  As  it 
is  they  have  given  the  radicals  every 
advantage  and,  of  course,  are  likely  to 
suffer  a  terrible  defeat.  At  all  events 
things  appear  so  to  me. 


120 


A   DIARY  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION   PERIOD 


Saturday,  October  10,  1868. 

A  letter  from  General  Schofield  to 
General  Grant,  congratulating  him  on 
his  nomination  and  hoping  for  his  elec- 
tion, is  published.  It  was  written  last 
May  and  confirms  my  impression  that 
Grant  was  consulted  by  Fessenden  and 
Grimes,  and  participated  in  making 
S[chofield]  a  Cabinet  officer.  Schofield, 
like  Grant,  is  shrewd,  and  in  the  civil 
service  acts  with  a  view  to  his  own  in- 
terest in  all  he  does.  This  is  the  fact 
as  regards  both.  They  each  have  as- 
tuteness —  a  certain  kind  of  ability. 
Schofield  is  much  the  best  informed  of 
the  two,  but  Grant  has  more  obstin- 
acy and  self-will.  It  was  natural  enough 
for  Schofield  to  ally  himself  to  his  su- 
perior in  command.  Most  of  the  army 
officers  would  be  apt  to  do  it.  There 
is  not,  however,  much  enthusiasm  for 
Grant.  He  has  not  many  warm  per- 
sonal friends.  Sherman  is  quite  devoted 
to  him,  —  sincerely,  I  think,  —  others 
because  he  is  the  lucky  man,  in  place, 
and  the  Democratic  nomination  ren- 
ders Grant's  election  almost  certain. 

The  elections  will,  I  think,  be  ad- 
verse to  the  Democrats  next  Tuesday 
—  and  also  in  November.  If  so,  a  sad 
fate,  I  fear,  awaits  our  country.  Sec- 
tional hate  will  be  established. 

Wednesday,  October  14,  1868. 

The  President  says  this  p.  M.  that 
he  has  no  definite  news,  nothing  more 
than  is  in  the  papers.  No  one  sends  to 
him.  Heretofore  he  has  always  had 
friendly  telegrams  giving  results.  He 
says  Randall  called  just  before  I  did, 
and  was  feeling  very  blue,  and  when 
he  left  said  he  would  telegraph  Tilden 
to  get  Seymour  out  of  the  way.  It 
was  pretty  evident,  the  President  said, 
that  the  present  ticket  could  have  little 
hope. 

Although  guarded  in  his  remarks,  I 
could  perceive  the  President  was  not 
greatly  displeased  with  the  turn  things 


were  taking,  and  I  think  began  to  have 
hopes  that  attention  may  yet  be  turned 
to  himself.  But  his  intimacy  with  and 
support  of  Seward  forecloses,  if  nothing 
else  would,  any  such  movement.  On 
that  rock  he  split.  It  was  Seward  who 
contributed  to  the  retention  of  Stanton; 
it  was  Seward  who  counselled  him  to 
submit  and  yield  to  radical  usurpation; 
and  it  was  Seward  who  broke  down 
his  administration;  it  was  Seward  who 
drove  from  him  the  people.  The  Pre- 
sident is  bold  and  firm,  when  he  has 
come  to  a  decision,  but  is  not  always 
prompt  in  reaching  it.  The  people 
would  have  stood  by  him  against  the 
usurping  Congress,  had  he  squarely  met 
them  at  first  and  asserted  the  rights  of 
the  Executive  and  the  Constitution. 

Friday,  October  23,  1868. 

At  the  Cabinet  meeting  General 
Schofield  read  a  letter  from  the  Gov- 
ernor of  Arkansas  expressing  great  ap- 
prehension of  trouble  from  the  people 
who  are  armed,  and  requesting  that  he 
might  have  U.  S.  arms  that  are  in  the 
Arsenal  to  put  in  the  hands  of  the  mi- 
litia. General  Schofield  was  very  ear- 
nest in  this  matter,  said  the  opponents 
of  the  Governor  were  rebels  who  re- 
tained their  arms  when  Kirby  Smith 
surrendered,  that  they  are  organized, 
and  unless  something  was  done,  the 
loyal  men  would  be  overpowered  and 
killed  by  the  Ku-Klux.  After  hear- 
ing him  for  some  time  and  a  few  com- 
monplace expressions  of  concern  from 
others,  I  asked  if  the  Governor  of  Ar- 
kansas was  afraid  of  the  people  of 
Arkansas,  if  General  S[chofield]  advised 
the  arming  of  the  Governor's  [party] 
against  their  opponents,  —  the  people 
of  that  State.  In  other  words,  is  popu- 
lar government  a  failure  in  Arkansas? 

General  S[chofield]  said  that  he  and 
the  military  gentlemen  generally  had 
believed  there  was  but  one  way  to  es- 
tablish the  reconstruction  of  the  states 


A  DIARY  OF  THE   RECONSTRUCTION  PERIOD 


121 


south,  and  that  was  by  martial  law.  I 
asked  how  long  martial  law  should  be 
continued.  He  said  until  those  govern- 
ments were  able  to  sustain  themselves. 
'  Do  you  mean  by  that,'  I  enquired, '  un- 
til the  black  and  the  ignorant  element 
controls  the  intelligent  white  popula- 
tion?' The  General  said  he  was  not  a 
politician,  nor  intending  to  discuss  the 
subject  politically;  he  was  describing 
practically  how  these  governments  were 
to  be  maintained.  'And  you  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  form  is  requisite?' 
said  I.  Then  he  said  he  knew  no  other 
way  to  keep  down  the  rebels. 

'Then,'  said  McCulloch,  'if  I  under- 
stand you,  General  S[chofield],  the  re- 
construction laws  are  a  failure.  The 
people  in  those  States  are  incapable  of 
self-government.' 

Browning  said  there  must  be  a  stand- 
ing army  to  carry  out  the  radical  pol- 
icy, and  it  would  have  to  be  kept  up 
through  all  time.  All  agreed  that  it 
was  not  best  to  let  the  governor  have 
the  arms  of  his  party. 

Seward  proposed  U.  S.  troops  to  Ar- 
kansas. This  Schofield  thought  would 
perhaps  answer,  if  we  had  the  troops, 
but  we  had  not  got  them.  He  urged  that 
General  Smith,  commanding,  might  be 
authorized  to  issue  arms  if  he  thought 
it  necessary. 

After  a  long  and  earnest,  but  not 
satisfactory  discussion,  the  compromise 
of  Seward  was  adopted  by  Schofield, 
who  proposed  to  order  the  twelfth  reg- 
iment, stationed  here  in  Washington, 
to  proceed  to  Memphis,  and  by  the 
time  they  reached  that  point,  it  could 
be  determined  what  disposition  should 
be  made  of  them. 

Tuesday,  November  17,  1868. 
Exhausted  and  fatigued  with  office  la- 
bor during  the  day  and  with  preparing 
my  annual  report  and  receiving  com- 
pany evenings,  I  have  been  unable  to 
make  note  in  this  book  for  some  time. 


But  events  of  interest  have  trans- 
pired, and  I  regret  that  I  did  not  from 
day  to  day  make  at  least  a  brief  memo- 
randum. There  was  excitement  over 
the  election,  but  acquiescence  in  the 
declared  result. 

In  New  York  and  Philadelphia  there 
was  a  great  outcry  of  fraud  by  the  rad- 
icals, who,  as  a  party,  now  as  in  other 
days  and  under  other  names,  are  given 
to  frauds.  They  denounce  the  vote  of 
intelligent  whites  of  foreign  birth,  while 
they  illegally  and  by  fraud  polled  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  ignorant  Negro 
votes. 

The  defeat  of  Seymour  did  not  sur- 
prise me.  There  has  been  mismanage- 
ment and  weakness  on  the  part  of  the 
Democratic  leaders,  if  nothing  worse. 

In  nominating  Seymour  the  war  is- 
sue was  unavoidably  raised,  and  the 
Democrats  have  been  busy  in  trying 
to  make  people  believe  Seymour  to 
have  been  a  good  war  man.  They  did 
not  convince  the  voters,  nor  believe 
their  own  assertions. 

Grant  has  returned  to  Washington 
after  loitering  away  several  months 
in  Galena  and  the  region  round  about, 
since  he  was  nominated.  Colfax  has 
been  back  here  also.  He  and  Wade  have 
again  adjourned  Congress,  —  a  mock- 
ery upon  the  Constitution  and  honest 
government. 

A  dinner  is  given  by  the  New  York 
bar  to  Attorney-General  Evarts  this 
evening,  to  which  all  the  Cabinet  men 
were  invited.  I  omitted  writing  the 
Committee  until  Saturday  evening. 
McCulloch  and  Randall  did  not  write 
until  yesterday.  The  others  wrote  a 
week  ago,  declining.  The  papers  state 
that  Grant,  who  is  in  New  York,  de- 
clines to  attend,  if  Secretaries  McCul- 
loch and  Welles  and  P.  M.  General 
Randall  are  to  be  present.  This  an- 
nouncement, publicly  made,  is  from 
his  factotum,  Adam  Badeau,  but  by 
Grant's  authority. 


A  DIARY  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION   PERIOD 


Wednesday,  December  9,  1868. 

As  I  anticipated,  Congress  ventilated 
its  rage  against  the  President.  His  mes- 
sage in  its  soundest  portions  annoyed 
them.  They  felt  his  rebuke  and  knew 
they  deserved  it.  Conness,  who  is  in- 
nately vulgar,  Cameron,  who  is  an 
unconscionable  party  trickster,  and 
Howe,  cunning  and  shrewd  but  not 
profound  or  wise,  had  their  sensibilities 
aroused.  The  President  had  no  business 
to  insult  Congress  by  communicating 
his  opinions.  It  was  indecorous  to  the 
Senate,  and  they  would  not  permit  it  to 
be  read.  So  they  adjourned  in  a  huff. 

The  House  permitted  the  message 
to  be  read,  and  then  denounced  it  as  in- 
famous, abominable,  wicked.  Schenck 
the  leader  was  against  printing,  and 
others  of  about  the  same  calibre  ranted. 
They  attacked  most  violently  that  part 
which  suggests  payment  of  the  bonds, 
not  in  conformity  with  the  original 
understanding.  It  is  the  most  weak  and 
indefensible  [portion  of  the  message]. 

Thursday,  December  10,  1868. 

The  Senators  have  recovered  their 
senses,  and  quietly  submitted  to  the 
reading  of  the  message  after  an  ex- 
hibition of  folly  and  weakness  that 
would  discredit  a  party  caucus.  All 
seemed  ashamed.  The  House,  however, 
prints  only  the  legal  number  of  the 
message  and  documents  —  no  extras. 

These  displays  of  puerile  anger  by 
the  legislative  body  are  ridiculous. 

Saturday,  December  19,  1868. 
There  has  been  some  discussion  on 
the  finances  in  Congress,  and  also  in 
the  newspapers.  Almost  the  whole  that 
I  see  is  crude  absurdity.  Morton  of 
Indiana  has  submitted  propositions 
and  made  a  speech  which  exhibit  some 
ingenuity  and  talent,  but,  if  sincere, 
they  evince  little  financial  knowledge 
or  ability.  There  are  some  clever  things, 
of  course. 


I  do  not,  I  confess,  read  much  of  the 
shallow,  silly  trash  that  appears  in  the 
debates,  —  there  is  not  so  far  as  I  can 
perceive  a  single  financial  mind  in 
Congress.  Most  of  the  editors  are  per- 
fect blockheads  on  the  subject.  The 
more  ignorant  give  us  the  most  words. 

Senator  Doolittle  is  beginning  to 
bestow  attention  on  financial  matters. 
He  made  some  enquiries  of  me  this 
evening.  I  told  him  I  had  given  the 
subject  very  little  thought  for  years.  It 
has  been  painful  for  me  to  do  so,  from 
the  time  Chase  commenced  issuing  ir- 
redeemable paper  and  making  it  a  legal 
tender  for  debt.  Where  the  crude,  un- 
wise and  stupid  management  of  party 
schemers  and  managers  is  to  lead  the 
country  God  only  knows.  We  have  no 
fixed '  standard  of  value.  Everything 
is  uncertain.  There  is  a  redundant  cur- 
rency, all  of  irredeemable  paper,  and 
the  radical  leaders  may  at  any  time 
increase  it  and  make  what  is  bad  worse. 
There  is  no  coin  in  circulation.  In  this, 
as  in  almost  everything  else,  the  coun- 
try is  drifting  and  the  government  and 
all  sound  principles  are  likely  to  be 
wrecked.  Morton  is  said  to  be  fishing 
for  the  Treasury,  but  it  would  be  a 
source  of  regret  to  see  him  appointed 
Secretary,  yet  I  know  not  who  Grant 
can  select.  There  is  talk  of  E.  B.  Wash- 
burne,  who  has  no  capacity  for  the 
place.  He  can,  and  so  could  any  thick- 
headed numskull,  oppose  appropria- 
tions without  judgment  or  discrimin- 
ation, but  this  affectation  of  economy 
from  a  notoriously  mean  man,  is  no 
qualification  for  a  financier. 

The  whole  pack  of  radicals  are,  as  I 
expected  they  would  be,  fierce  in  their 
denunciations  of  the  President  for  his 
suggestions,  yet  many  of  their  leaders 
have  made  quite  as  exceptional  pro- 
positions. 

The  President  did  not  intend  repudi- 
ation, although  his  financial  scheme 
renders  him  liable  to  be  so  represented. 


A  DIARY  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION  PERIOD 


123 


I  was  sorry  he  made  it.  His  scheme 
is  virtually  a  plan  to  extinguish  the 
public  debt  by  paying  the  interest  for 
sixteen  years  and  a  fraction.  But  the 
creditors  are  entitled  to  the  principal. 

If  our  financiers  will  bring  around 
specie  payments  the  debt  can  be  re- 
duced; loans  at  reduced  rates  could 
be  negotiated  to  advantage.  But  there 
is  no  proposition  yet  made  to  effect  the 
first,  and  until  that  is  done  we  cannot 
expect  to  accomplish  the  other. 

So  long  as  the  Government  discred- 
its its  own  paper,  there  will  be  no  re- 
sumption of  specie  payments.  The 
first  step  to  be  taken  is  to  stop  the  is- 
suing of  any  more  fractional  currency. 
Call  it  in,  burn  it  up.  The  vacuum  will 
be  supplied  by  specie,  which  will  come 
when  invited,  treated  respectfully  and 
according  to  its  worth.  Let  the  second 
step  be  a  prohibition  against  all  paper 
money  below  five  dollars.  This  might 
be  gradual.  Coin  would  take  its  place. 
Specie  will  come  when  demanded. 
Supply  and  demand  in  this  as  in  other 
matters  will  regulate  themselves. 

These  steps  cannot  be  taken  without 
an  effort.  Values  are  to  be  effected  and 
prices  brought  to  a  proper  standard. 
They  are  now  inflated.  We  are  not  to 
get  a  return  to  specie  payments  with- 
out some  embarrassment.  But  the 
movement  can  be  made  and  carried 
much  sooner  and  easier  than  is  sup- 
posed. Senator  Morton's  plan  of  hoard- 
ing specie  until  1871  is  ridiculously  ab- 
surd. Instead  of  hoarding  in  the  vaults 
of  the  Treasury  and  the  banks,  let  it 
go  into  the  pockets  of  the  people  when 
demanded  for  ordinary  business  trans- 
actions. Then  [there]  will  be  a  basis 
for  resumption.  The  gold  and  silver 
would  be  retained  in  the  country,  for 
here  the  demand  would  be  greatest, 
until  there  was  a  supply. 

To  discredit  its  own  paper,  compel 
it  to  be  received  as  money  and  in  pay- 
ment of  debt,  and  sell  the  specie  which 


it  collects,  is  bad  government.  While 
this  practice  is  pursued  we  cannot  ex- 
pect resumption.  Our  wise  Congress- 
men think  they  can  order  resumption 
by  law  without  any  strain  or  pressure 
on  the  public,  but  they  are  careful  to 
fix  a  distant  day,  and  before  it  arrives 
they  know  and  intend  it  shall  be  further 
postponed  and  abandoned.  If  they 
would  forbear  persecution,  hate,  and 
oppression  of  the  South,  let  war  cease 
when  none  but  themselves  make  war, 
give  us  real  peace,  instead  of  constant 
strife,  develop  the  resources  of  the 
country,  that  will  contribute  to  the 
restoration  of  confidence  and  a  stable 
currency. 

Tuesday,  December  29,  1868. 
Quite  a  discussion  took  place  on  the 
subject  of  the  currency  at  the  Cabinet 
meeting.  The  President  insisted,  posi- 
tively and  with  sincerity,  that  specie 
payment  might  be  resumed  to-morrow 
without  difficulty  or  derangement.  Al- 
though believing  that  gold  and  silver, 
like  other  commodities,  are  regulat- 
ed by  demand  and  supply,  provided 
there  were  no  paper  substitute,  I  could 
not  assent  to  the  feasibility  of  an  im- 
mediate resumption  without  causing 
some  embarrassment.  It  might  be  less 
perhaps  than  was  generally  believed, 
but  whenever  we  did  return  to  a  specie 
standard  there  would  be  suffering  and 
hardship.  Fasting  is  essential  to  re- 
storation after  a  plethora.  McCulloch 
came  in  while  we  were  discussing  the 
subject,  and  he  and  the  President  soon 
became  engaged  [in  conversation] — the 
President  laying  down  certain  proposi- 
tions which  I  did  not  perhaps  fully  com- 
prehend, to  the  effect,  if  I  understood 
him,  that  if  twenty-five  per  cent  of  the 
greenbacks  were  redeemed  at  once, 
their  place  would  be  immediately  sup- 
plied with  gold.  McCulloch  contro- 
verted this,  said  the  customs  barely 
yielded  sufficient  coin  to  pay  accruing 


124 


A  DIARY  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION  PERIOD 


interest  and  the  requisitions  of  the 
State  and  Navy  departments.  To  re- 
sume at  once,  therefore,  he  declared 
an  impossibility.  The  greenbacks  and 
paper  must  be  gradually  retired,  and 
had  not  Congress  improperly  inter- 
fered and  prevented  the  withdrawal  of 
greenbacks,  we  should  at  this  time  have 
been  near  the  point  of  resumption, 

The  President  insisted  resumption 
could  just  as  well  take  place  now  as  if 
the  withdrawal  had  gone  on.  Scho- 
field  protested  it  would  be  most  un- 
just to  the  whole  debtor  class  to  resume 
without  previous  notice.  I  asked  if  in- 
justice had  not  been  already  done  the 
whole  creditor  class  by  cheapening  the 
currency  by  which  they  received  really 
but  seventy  cents  on  the  dollar.  This 
view  completely  stumped  Schofield, 
who  evidently  had  thought  and  talked 
on  only  one  side  of  the  question. 

This  subject  is  one  of  absorbing  in- 
terest, and  its  rightful  solution  is  of  the 
utmost  importance.  It  must  necessar- 
ily be  attended  with  some  hardships, 
but  less  I  apprehend  than  is  generally 
believed.  The  great  body  of  the  sup- 
porters of  Grant  are  not  hard-money 
men.  They  belong  mostly  to  the  old 
Whig  party,  and  while  full  of  expedients 
have  no  sound  or  fixed  principles  on 
currency,  finance  or  any  other  subject. 
If  Grant  has  any  views  in  regard  to 
currency  or  finance  they  are  not  avowed 
or  declared.  I  doubt  if  he  has  any,  and 
should  feel  quite  as  well  satisfied  to 
know  that  he  had  none  as  that  he  had, 
for  he  may,  provided  he  is  well  advised, 
fall  into  a  correct  train,  if  not  already 
committed  to  some  one  or  more  of  the 
many  wild  and  vague  theories  that  are 
pressed.  If  he  has  any  opinions  on  these 
subjects  my  apprehensions  are  that 
his  notions  are  crude,  and  that  from 
ignorant  obstinacy  he  will  be  likely  to 
aggravate  existing  evils. 

The  country  needs  at  this  time  a 
firm,  intelligent  and  able  executive, 


and  he  should  be  sustained  in  whole- 
some efforts  by  a  decisive  congressional 
majority.  A  wise  policy  persistently 
adhered  to  is  wanted.  The  standard 
or  measure  of  value  must  be  maintain- 
ed to  insure  stability  and  confidence. 

Wednesday,  December  30,  1868. 
There  was,  last  evening,  an  inter- 
esting party  of  two  or  three  hundred 
young  folks  at  the  Presidential  man- 
sion, called  thither  to  meet  the  grand- 
children of  the  President  in  a  social 
dance.  It  was  the  President's  birthday; 
he  being  sixty  years  old  that  day.  The 
gathering  was  irrespective  of  parties, 
and  all  were  joyous  and  festive.  Gen- 
eral Grant,  the  President-elect,  would 
not  permit  his  children  to  attend  this 
party  of  innocent  youths,  manifesting 
therein  his  rancorous  and  bitter  per- 
sonal and  party  animosity. 

Saturday,  January  1,  1869. 

The  weather  is  still  unpleasant.  Made 
a  short  business  call  on  the  President. 
He  says  General  B.  F.  Butler  called 
on  him  yesterday;  Butler  also  called  on 
me  and  I  believe  most  of  the  Cabinet. 
It  was  impudent  and  vulgar  to  intrude 
himself  on  the  President,  —  the  man 
whom  he  had  vilified,  slandered,  and 
abused,  for  the  President  could  not,  if 
so  disposed,  treat  him  as  he  deserved. 
Butler  undertakes  to  discriminate  be- 
tween the  man  and  the  President;  says 
he  has  no  controversy  or  difference  with 
Andrew  Johnson,  and  the  Senate,  wiser 
than  himself,  have  acquitted  the  Pre- 
sident of  official  misconduct  with  which 
Butler  and  his  co-conspirators  deliber- 
ately and  maliciously  charged  him. 

The  President  while  conversing  free- 
ly on  Butler's  call  was  careful  to  ex- 
press no  opinion  as  to  its  propriety  or 
otherwise.  He  says  the  visit  was  en- 
tirely unexpected,  and  was  prompted 
as  much  by  the  absence  of  Grant,  as  a 
desire  to  be  courteous  to  him. 


A  DIARY  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION  PERIOD 


125 


Tuesday,  January  12,  1869. 

Butler,  who  yesterday  carried  the 
repeal  of  the  Tenure-of-Office  Bill 
through  the  House,  made  his  long-pro- 
mised speech  to-day  in  favor  of  paper 
money,  and  against  specie;  in  plain 
words,  a  preference  of  false  promises 
over  truth.  Irredeemable  paper  is  a 
lie;  gold  is  truth.  He  is  a  controlling 
spirit  in  this  Congress,  and  with  the 
radical  party.  He  is  strong-willed,  when 
clothed  with  power,  energetic,  cunning, 
unscrupulous,  and  consequently,  dan- 
gerous, potent  for  good  sometimes,  for 
evil  often.  There  is  very  little  true 
wisdom  or  good  sense  in  the  House  on 
matters  of  currency  or  finance. 

Seward  had  three  or  four  treaties  to 
send  up  to  the  Senate.  He  said  with 
a  self-complacent  air  of  triumph  that 
they  completed  the  fifty-sixth  which 
he  had  concluded;  about  as  many  as 
had  been  made  during  the  whole  pre- 
vious existence  of  the  government.  I 
could  not  resist  remarking  'entangling 
alliances '  —  our  predecessors  deemed 
it  wise  and  prudent  to  have  no  more 
than  were  absolutely  necessary.  The 
remark  vexed  him. 

Wednesday,  February  10,  1869. 

Congress  to-day  counted  and  de- 
clared the  presidential  votes.  There 
was  nothing  novel  or  interesting  in  the 
proceeding,  save  that  certain  States 
were  excluded.  The  truth  is,  Grant  is 
elected  by  illegal  votes  and  fraudulent 
and  unconstitutional  practices.  He 
would  not  have  had  a  vote  south  of 
Washington  but  for  the  usurping  and 
inexcusable  acts  of  Congress. 

The  folly  of  the  Democrats  north  in 
nominating  Seymour  insured  Grant's 
election  and  gave  encouragement  to  the 
outrageous  legislation  to  help  them. 

Thursday,  February  11,  1869. 

It  seems  there  were  some  not  very 
creditable  proceedings  in  Congress  yes- 


terday when  the  two  Houses  were  in 
joint  session,  followed  up  by  the  House 
after  the  joint  convention  was  dis- 
solved. The  subject  has  been  continued 
and  discussed  to-day,  though  with  less 
heat  and  rancor.  Still  there  has  been 
sufficient  to  show  the  antagonisms  in 
the  radical  party  which  must  break 
out  before  Grant  shall  have  been  long 
in  office.  The  hate  between  Butler  and 
Bingham  is  intense.  Both  are  unscrup- 
ulous and  unprincipled;  both  are  cun- 
ning and  adroit.  Butler  has  most  tal- 
ent, most  will,  most  daring  and  per- 
sistency; Bingham  is  more  subtle  and 
deceptive,  has  more  suavity,  is  more 
snaky  and  timid,  with  less  audacity. 
Most  of  the  members  are  with  Bing- 
ham at  present.  He  has  also  Stanton 
and  Grant,  who  are  too  afraid  of  Butler 
to  support  him.  The  difficulties  yes- 
terday grew  out  of  the  radical  intrigue 
and  villainy  to  exclude  the  vote  of 
Georgia,  and  treat  her  as  out  of  the 
Union. 

These  revolutionary  and  wicked  pro- 
ceedings are  having  their  effect  in  more 
ways  than  one  on  their  authors.  I  do 
not  see  how  Grant  —  if  he  has  the  com- 
prehension, which  is  doubtful  —  can 
reconcile  these  differences;  and  before 
his  administration  will  be  half  served 
out,  serious  calamities  are  likely  to  be- 
fall the  country. 

Friday,  February  19,  1869. 
Seward  says  he  intends  to  leave 
Washington  on  the  8th  of  March  and 
go  to  Auburn.  The  President  appears 
to  think  that  the  Cabinet  should  all  go 
out  at  noon  on  the  4th  of  March.  This 
is  my  wish,  and  I  believe  that  of  most 
of  the  members  of  the  Cabinet,  and 
yet  there  is  an  apparent  impropriety, 
if  not  a  positive  wrong  in  abandoning 
our  posts  until  there  has  been  a  sea- 
sonable time  for  our  successors  to  qual- 
ify and  to  take  upon  themselves  the 
duties. 


A   DIARY   OF  THE   RECONSTRUCTION  PERIOD 


Saturday,  February  20,  1869. 
Had  some  talk  with  the  President 
in  relation  to  Inauguration  Day.  Some- 
thing was  said  a  few  days  ago  about 
his  going  to  the  Capitol  and  remaining 
to  the  close  of  the  session  to  sign  bills, 
etc.  I  advised  him  to  do  no  such  thing, 
but  to  remain  at  the  White  House  and 
discharge  his  duties  there.  Unlike  pro- 
ceedings at  inaugurals,  the  next  Con- 
gress would  assemble  on  the  4th;  there 
would  be  no  interruption  of  business. 
He  should  therefore  put  himself  to  no 
special  inconvenience,  and  was  not 
requested  to  do  so. 

Monday,  February  22,  1869. 

I  enquired  how  the  President  was  to 
dispose  of  himself,  if  at  the  Capitol 
at  12  meridian  on  the  4th  prox.  Would 
he  go  on  the  platform  with  the  man  who 
had  deceived  him. 

He  assured  me  he  would  not;  that 
he  would  close  out  his  administration 
in  the  room  where  we  were.  I  do  not 
think  he  can  be  persuaded  to  a  differ- 
ent course,  though  Seward  and  others, 
fond  of  show  and  parade,  will  urge 
him  to  form  part  of  the  pageant. 

Tuesday,  February  23,  1869. 
I  asked  Seward,  whom  I  found  in  the 
Council  room  alone  this  noon,  when  he 
proposed  to  leave  the  Cabinet  and 
Washington.  He  said  his  resignation 
would  take  effect  at  noon  on  the  4th 
of  March,  and  that  he  should  leave 
Washington  that  day.  This  would  be 
personally  agreeable  to  me,  but  I  quer- 
ied as  to  the  propriety  of  abandoning 
our  posts  before  our  successors  appear- 
ed, and  were  qualified. 

Monday,  March  I,  1869. 
The  Committee  have  of  course  been 
embarrassed  how  to  proceed,  and  have 
finally  a  programme  studiously  ar- 
ranged, which  is  for  the  President  and 
President-elect  to  proceed  in  separate 


carriages.  The  President  will  pass 
through  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  on  the 
right,  the  President-elect,  on  the  left, 
etc.,  etc.  Seward  and  Evarts  opened 
the  subject  of  the  procession  and  our 
attendance,  and  had  evidently  had 
some  understanding  with  each  other 
and  with  the  Committee  in  regard  to  it. 
Seward  said  he  did  not  know  but  they 
had  intended  to  shut  us  off  entirely, 
but  since  they  have  been  polite  enough 
to  provide  us  a  place,  he  believed  he 
would  remain  over  another  day  to  per- 
form his  part.  Evarts  thought  it  best 
we  should  go  in  the  procession,  and 
he  made  enquiry  about  carriages.  The 
President  brought  out  a  letter  he  had 
from  the  Marshal,  enquiring  about 
carriages  informally. 

I  expressed  a  hope  the  President 
would  perform  no  part  in  the  parade, 
and  advised  he  should  remain  at  the 
Mansion  until  meridian,  ready  to  dis- 
charge any  and  all  duties.  At  that  time 
his  functions  would  cease,  and  ours 
would  cease  with  his. 

I  asked  whenever  before  there  had 
been  such  a  programme.  Two  proces- 
sions, one  on  each  side  of  the  street! 
What  did  it  indicate,  but  division,  and 
what  would  the  effect  be,  but  to  irri- 
tate and  promote  hostility?  I  dis- 
claimed any  neglect,  or  want  of  court- 
esy; but  on  the  other  hand,  I  would 
submit  to  none.  There  was  a  decency 
and  proper  self-respect  to  be  observed. 

Tuesday,  March  2,  1869. 
At  the  Cabinet  much  time  was  con- 
sumed as  to  the  course  to  be  pursued 
on  the  4th.  Seward  and  Evarts  were 
determined  that  the  President  and 
Cabinet  should  go  to  the  Capitol  and 
take  part  in  the  proceedings.  I  com- 
batted  this  course,  but  no  one  sustained 
me  except  Randall,  who,  near  the  close, 
expressed  a  hope  that  the  President 
would  do  nothing  derogatory  to  him- 
self and  his  position. 


A  DIARY  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION  PERIOD 


127 


Mr.  Evarts  had  the  matter  much  at 
heart,  and  he  and  Seward  proceeded 
to  dispose  of  it  as  a  matter  of  course 
and  as  if  nothing  further  was  to  be  said. 
They  assumed  for  granted  that  things 
must  be  as  they  wished  and  directed. 

Wednesday,  March  3,  1869. 

Went  with  the  Chiefs  of  Bureaus 
and  officers  to  the  Executive  Mansion 
to  introduce  each  and  give  all  an  op- 
portunity to  bid  the  Chief  Magistrate 
farewell.  Rear  Admiral  Joe  Smith,  the 
senior  officer,  who  eight  years  ago,  as 
now,  walked  by  my  side,  then  addressed 
President  Lincoln,  with  a  few  remarks, 
saying  there  were  evidences  of  ap- 
proaching convulsion, — that '  we  [navy 
officers]  will  perform  our  duty,  and  ex- 
pect you  to  do  yours.'  I  now  intro- 
duced the  officers  to  President  Johnson 
with  the  remark,  that  these  are  the 
men  who  in  war  and  peace  have  stood 
first  by  the  Government  and  the  Union. 
He  received  each  cordially,  took  each 
by  the  hand  and  bade  them  farewell. 

On  returning  to  the  Department,  the 
Chiefs  of  Bureaus,  the  clerks,  messen- 
gers and  employees  came  successively 
to  take  their  leave,  and  express  their 
regard  and  kind  wishes  for  me  and  my 
future  welfare.  It  was  something  be- 
sides mere  formality.  Some,  more  sen- 
sitive perhaps  than  others,  or  possessed 
of  deeper  feelings,  were  unable  to  give 
utterance  to  their  thoughts;  others 
with  tears  expressed  their  regrets  and 
spoke  of  lasting  obligations.  I,  not  less 
than  they,  was  moved.  Ties  of  friend- 
ship, formed  and  many  of  them  con- 
tinued through  eight  active  and  event- 
ful years,  cannot  be  easily  and  lightly 
severed  or  forgotten. 

It  was  past  four,  when,  probably  for 
the  last  time  and  forever,  I  left  the 
room  and  the  building  where  I  had 
labored  earnestly  and  zealously,  taken 
upon  myself  and  carried  forward  great 
responsibilities,  endured  no  small  de- 


gree of  abuse,  much  of  it  unmerited 
and  undeserved,  where  also  I  have  had 
many  pleasant  and  happy  hours  in  the 
enjoyment  of  the  fruits  of  my  works 
and  of  those  associated  with  me. 

Thursday,  March  4,  1869. 

1  went  at  nine  this  morning  to  the 
Executive  Mansion,  agreeably  to  ap- 
pointment at  the  last  Cabinet  meeting. 
There  was  quite  a  crowd  on  the  por- 
tico and  walks  as  I  drove  up  and  entered. 
Schofield  was  already  in  the  Council 
room,  having  preceded  my  arrival  a 
few  moments.  The  President  was  busy 
examining  and  signing  bills.  As  I  shook 
hands  with  him,  he  said  quietly,  'I 
think  we  will  finish  our  work  here  with- 
out going  to  the  Capitol.' 

The  President  now  said  he  thought 
it  but  right  that  the  Congress  should 
forward  the  bills  to  him  here.  This  I 
knew  would  be  a  disappointment  to  my 
colleagues,  and  I  had  no  doubt  that 
a  strong  effort  would  be  made  to  bring 
around  a  different  result.  Randall, 
who  came  next  after  me,  was  very 
well  satisfied.  Schofield  discreetly  said 
nothing,  but  I  could  perceive  he  was 
not  pleased  with  the  new  phase  of 
affairs.  McCulloch  was  disappointed 
and  disturbed.  Browning  said  not  a 
word.  Evarts  who  did  not  come  in  until 
about  ten  was  determined  to  change  the 
programme;  said  the  understanding 
was  that  we  should  go  to  the  Capitol, 
that  we  were  expected  there.  When  the 
President  accidentally  left  the  room, 
McCulloch  twice  told  E[varts]  that  the 
President  would  not  go  to  the  Capitol 
unless  he  put  in  strong  for  him  to  do  so. 
Evarts  would  not  take  off  his  overcoat. 
Seward  came  in  last,  smoking  his  cigar. 
Asked  if  all  were  ready  —  meant  to 
have  come  sooner  —  seemed  to  sup- 
pose we  were  waiting  for  him.  The 
President  continued  busy  at  his  desk, 
while  Seward,  Evarts  and  others  talked. 
At  length  Seward,  who  sat  on  the  op- 


128 


A  DIARY  OF  THE   RECONSTRUCTION   PERIOD 


posite  side  of  the  room  from  the  Pre- 
sident asked  aloud  if  we  would  not  be 
late,  ought  we  not  to  start  immediate- 
ly? The  President  said  he  was  inclined 
to  think  we  would  finish  up  our  work 
now  by  ourselves. 

They  were  discomfited,  of  course, 
and  it  was  easy  to  perceive  they  thought 
me  the  author  of  their  disappointment. 

A  few  minutes  past  twelve  the  Pre- 
sident said  we  would  part.  As  he  was 
to  leave,  it  was  proposed  that  we  should 
wait  his  departure.  He  then  shook 
hands  with  each  of  us,  and  we  with 
each  other,  and,  descending  to  the 
portico,  where  our  respective  carriages 
were  waiting,  the  President  entered  his. 
Mine  followed,  and  we  drove  away. 

At  my  house  were  the  President's 
daughter,  Mrs.  Patterson,  and  her 
children  who  had  come  over  in  the 
morning.  They  propose  to  remain  with 
us  a  few  days  before  going  to  Tennes- 
see. 

The  proceedings  at  the  Capitol  are 
represented  to  have  been  without  or- 
der or  system,  and  the  immense  crowd 
swayed  and  pushed  aside  the  digni- 
taries. I  am  more  than  ever  gratified 
that  we  did  not  attend. 

Friday,  March  5,  1869. 
It  is  obviously  a  Grant  Cabinet. 
The  members  belong  to  the  radical 
Republican  party,  but  neither  one,  un- 
less it  be  Creswell,1  would  have  been 
selected  by  that  party.  They  are  not 
the  men  the  radicals  wanted,  but  they 
are  such  men  as  Grant  wants.  Wash- 
burne  2  is  coarse,  comparatively  illiter- 
ate, a  demagogue  without  statesman- 
ship or  enlarged  views,  with  none  of 
the  accomplishments  or  attributes  that 
should  belong  to  a  Secretary  of  State. 
Jefferson  is  the  first,  Washburne  is 
the  last.  Hamilton,  a  man  of  talents 

1  J.  A.  J.  Creswell,  Postmaster-General. 
*  E.  B.  Washburne,  Secretary  of  State  for  a 
brief  period. 


and  genius,  was  the  first  Secretary 
of  the  Treasury.  He  had  financial 
skill  and  ability  to  develop  the  re- 
sources of  the  nation.  Stewart,3  the  last 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury,  has  made 
a  princely  fortune  in  the  trade  of  silks, 
calicoes,  laces,  and  stockings.  So  of 
the  others.  From  first  to  last  there  is 
not  an  experienced  politician  or  states- 
man among  them.  Most  of  them  are 
party  men.  All  are  Grant  men.  Cres- 
well was  a  secessionist  in  1861,  and,  like 
Logan,  raised  a  company  to  resist  the 
Unionists.  There  is  not  now  a  more 
bitter  and  intolerant  radical  in  the 
country,  but  his  radicalism  is  obsequi- 
ous and  subservient  to  Grant. 

The  radicals  are  astounded,  thunder- 
struck, mad,  but  after  taking  breath, 
try  to  reconcile  themselves  and  be  com- 
posed that  things  are  no  worse,  that 
Grant  has  not,  besides  kicking  them 
one  side,  selected  Democrats.  In  this 
is  consolation.  They  therefore  try  to 
praise  the  Cabinet  and  like  it.  The  ad- 
ministration is  to  be  Grant's,  based  on 
radical  usurpations.  Both  parties  are 
to  be  bamboozled,  and  if  Grant  really 
has  any  policy,  which  I  doubt,  it  is  that 
the  animosity  of  each  is  to  be  played 
off  against  the  other. 

Saturday,  March  6,  1869. 
There  is  disturbance  and  trouble  in 
the  radical  camp.  Mr.  Stewart  is  not 
ready  to  give  up  his  extensive  business 
for  the  office  of  Secretary  of  the  Treas- 
ury. Grant  did  not  know  that  it  was 
illegal  for  an  extensive  importer  to  be 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury.  A  sagacious 
and  honest-minded  man  would  have 
seen  the  incompatibility  of  such  a  con- 
junction, even  were  there  no  legal  ob- 
jections. Had  Grant  been  less  secretive 
he  would  have  been  wiser.  His  friends, 
had  he  consulted  them,  would  have 
advised  him  properly.  Stewart  of 
course  knew  no  better.  The  Senate 
J  Alexander  T.  Stewart. 


A  DIARY  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION  PERIOD 


129 


confirmed  Stewart  unanimously,  sup- 
posing, probably,  that  it  was  arranged 
that  he  should  give  up  his  business 
to  take  the  place.  This  was  the  gen- 
eral supposition.  But  to-day,  Grant 
sends  in  a  special  message  addressed  to 
the  Senate  only,  asking  Congress  to 
permit  the  newly  appointed  Secretary 
of  the  Treasury  to  be  exempted  from 
the  law ;  that  the  most  conspicuous  case 
of  the  propriety  and  necessity  of  the 
law  in  the  whole  United  States  shall 
be  relieved  from  the  disabilities  which 
the  law  imposes;  that  Mr.  Stewart, 
the  largest  importer,  shall  have  a  privi- 
lege which  the  law  was  enacted  to  pre- 
vent and  which  is  denied  every  other 
importer. 

This  message  is  a  more  conclusive 
evidence  of  unfitness,  than  the  ignor- 
ance of  appointing. 

Tuesday,  March  9,  1869. 
The  Intelligencer  of  this  morning  con- 
tained a  very  extraordinary  leader  — 
first  under  its  head  —  double-leaded 
—  laudatory  of  Stewart  and  Grant,  be- 
cause the  former  offers  to  give  his  in- 
come, some  two  millions  a  year,  to  the 
poor  of  New  York,  provided  he  can 
thereby  be  permitted  to  hold  the  office 
of  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  and  man- 
age the  finances.  Every  one  on  reading 
the  article  pronounced  the  paper  pur- 
chased. 

Wednesday,  March  10,  1869. 
The  papers  publish  Stewart's  deed  of 
trust,  and  also  his  letter  declining  the 
office  of  Secretary  of  the  Treasury.  It 
was  found,  after  enquiry  and  consulta- 
tion, that  the  arrangements  would  not 
work,  and  that  the  rich  man  could  not 
buy  the  place. 

Thursday,  March  11,  1869. 
Grant  has  finally  surrendered  and 
nominated  Boutwell l  for  the  Treasury. 
He  would  not  at  the  beginning  give  him 
George  S.  Boutwell. 

VOL.  107  -  NO.  1 


the  place,  but  has  been  humbled  and 
subdued  in  a  measure  by  the  exposure 
of  his  ignorance  in  the  first  instance;  by 
his  readiness  to  cheat  the  law  in  the 
second;  third,  by  his  inability  to  pro- 
cure a  repeal  of  the  enactment,  and  be- 
ing finally  compelled  to  withdraw  his 
grossly  improper  proposition .  The  rad- 
icals have  been  very  clamorous  and 
violent  for  distinctive  recognition  as  a 
power,  which  Grant  has  tried  to  evade, 
but  he  at  last  yields. 

He  yields  in  another  respect  from 
his  repeated  declarations  and  immov- 
able principles  that  he  would  not  have 
two  members  of  his  Cabinet  from  one 
State.  But  it  is  reported  that  this  dif- 
ficulty will  soon  be  corrected.  The 
Supreme  Court  is  to  be  enlarged,  and 
Hoar2  is  to  be  got  rid  of  by  being 
transferred  to  the  Bench.  Bargains, 
intrigues,  and  arrangements  are  the 
order  of  the  day;  the  country's  welfare 
is  of  little  consideration.  There  is  an  in- 
accuracy and  readiness  in  these  vicious 
proceedings  which  is  startling.  But  the 
'  party  of  moral  ideas '  seem  to  consider 
the  whole  thing  proper. 

Hamilton  Fish  of  New  York  is  ap- 
pointed Secretary  of  State;  Washburne 
held  the  office  four  days.  He  could  not 
fill  it.  Grant  told  Farragut  that  he  gave 
Washburne  the  place  as  a  compliment. 
That  was  in  character. 

General  Rawlins  succeeds  Schofield 
as  Secretary  of  War.  Of  the  three  per- 
sons who  figured  not  very  largely  eight 
years  ago  in  the  village  of  Galena 3  but 
who  are  now  in  the  most  prominent 
places  in  the  Republic,  I  have  always 
considered  Rawlins  as  possessing  the 
superior,  though  not  great  mind.  His 
health  is  not  good,  but  I  think  his  in- 
fluence will  be,  in  the  right  direction, 
beneficial  for  Grant  and  the  adminis- 
tration. 

1  E.  Rockwood  Hoar,  the  new  Attorney- 
General. 

3  Grant,  Washburne,  and  Rawlins. 


130 


A  DIARY  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION  PERIOD 


Wednesday,  March  17,  1869. 

A  smart  debate  took  place  between 
Butler  and  Schenck,  neither  very  scrup- 
ulous men.  Schenck  has  perhaps  more 
influence  in  the  House,  but  Butler 
knows  the  most. 

I,  this  evening,  parted  with  ex-Presi- 
dent Johnson  and  his  family,  who  leave 
in  the  morning  for  Tennessee.  No  bet- 
ter persons  have  occupied  the  Execu- 
tive Mansion,  and  I  part  from  them, 
socially  and  personally,  with  sincere 
regret.  Of  the  President,  politically 
and  officially,  I  need  not  here  speak 
further  than  to  say,  he  has  been  faith- 
ful to  the  Constitution,  although  his 
administrative  capabilities  and  man- 
agement may  not  equal  some  of  his 
predecessors.  Of  measures  he  was  a 
good  judge,  but  not  always  of  men. 

Saturday,  April  17,  1869. 
McCulloch  called  on  me  last  even- 
ing, and  regretted  that  I  leave  Washing- 
ton. Thinks  I  would  be  better  satis- 
fied here  than  in  Hartford,  —  for  eight 
years'  separation  from  old  friends  at 
the  latter  place  has  weakened  and 
severed  most  of  the  ties  which  once 
endeared  the  place,  while  here  I  have 
formed  new  friendly  associations,  and 
am  generally  known  and  properly  re- 
garded. There  is  much  truth  in  these 
remarks,  and  I  feel  that  I  have  an  or- 
deal and  trial  to  pass  through  for  a  few 
weeks  to  come  which  I  would  be  glad 
to  avoid.  Blair  was  here  this  evening 
and  expressed  himself  even  warmer 
and  more  feelingly  on  the  subject  of 
our  approaching  separation.  I  confess 
to  the  reluctance  with  which  I  part  from 
the  people  and  society  of  Washington, 
where  I  have  experienced  unremitting 


kindness,  and  especially  from  the  cir- 
cle of  intimate  personal  and  political 
friends  and  associates  with  whom, 
through  storm  and  sunshine,  through 
trials  and  vicissitudes  in  war  and  peace, 
under  two  administrations,  I  have  had 
many  pleasant  and  happy,  as  well  as 
some  sad  and  trying  hours.  But  it  is 
best  that  the  brief  span  of  life  that  re- 
mains to  me  should  be  passed  in  the 
land  of  my  nativity. 

I  have  employed  the  week  in  prepar- 
ation for  my  departure,  gathering  up, 
with  my  wife  and  sons,  our  household 
effects  and  making  ready  to  leave. 

Not  a  feeling,  or  one  single  moment 
of  regret  has  crossed  my  mind  on  re- 
linquishing office.  In  leaving  the  cares, 
responsibilities  and  labors,  which  I  have 
borne  and  tried  faithfully  to  execute,  I 
feel  satisfying  relief.  I  miss,  it  is  true, 
the  daily  routine,  which  has  become 
habitual,  but  the  relief  from  many  per- 
plexities more  than  counterbalances  it. 
My  duties  were  honestly  and  fearlessly 
discharged;  these  facts  are  known  by 
all  who  have  any  knowledge  on  the  sub- 
ject. They  have  passed  into  history. 
I  look  back  upon  the  past  eight  years  of 
my  Washington  official  life  with  satis- 
faction, and  a  feeling  that  I  have  served 
my  country  usefully  and  well.  My 
ambition  has  been  gratified,  and  with 
it  a  consciousness  that  the  labors  I  have 
performed,  the  anxieties  I  have  exper- 
ienced, the  achievements  I  have  been 
instrumental  in  organizing  and  bring- 
ing to  glorious  results,  and  the  great 
events  connected  with  them,  will  soon 
pass  in  a  degree  from  remembrance,  or 
be  only  slightly  recollected.  Transient 
are  the  deeds  of  men,  and  often  sadly 
perverted  and  misunderstood. 


(The  End.) 


THE  IGNOMINY  OF  BEING  GOOD 


BY  MAX   EASTMAN 


IN  a  recent  sermon  I  heard  it  stated 
that,  along  with  the  dread  of  diphtheria, 
and  the  bubonic  plague,  and  having 
your  child  sold  into  slavery,  there  had 
disappeared  out  of  the  world  the  fear  of 
being  caught  reading  the  Bible.  I  was 
especially  struck  by  that  statement, 
because  the  time  lies  within  my  own 
memory  when  the  fear  of  being  caught 
reading  the  Bible  had  not  disappeared 
out  of  the  world.  Perhaps  it  lies  with- 
in the  memory  of  any  man  who  has 
had  the  fortune  of  a  pious  rearing.  I 
should  speak  with  hesitation  for  the 
girls,  but  I  say  with  confidence  that  it 
is  habitual  for  healthy  boys  of  a  cer- 
tain age  to  be  ashamed  of  being  good. 
And  much  as  I  enjoy  rising  to  an  opti- 
mistic sermon,  I  cannot  help  doubting 
whether  the  fear  of  being  caught  read- 
ing the  Bible  has  actually  disappeared. 

When  I  was  nine  years  old,  through 
some  accidental  preoccupation  during 
one  of  my  recitation  hours,  I  received 
a  prize  for  good  conduct.  The  prize 
consisted  of  a  pale  blue  ribbon  placed 
upon  the  lapel  of  my  jacket.  Now,  I 
am  not  ashamed  to-day  when  I  remem- 
ber that  I  received  that  prize,  because 
I  know  that  it  was  accidental.  I  was 
subject  to  fits  of  absentmindedness  in 
which  I  neglected  the  business  of  the 
hour.  And  of  those  it  took  only  the  one 
prize  to  cure  me.  I  never  did  it  again. 
So  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it  now,  but 
I  was  then,  and  I  wore  my  jacket  in- 
side out  at  recess  for  a  week,  earnestly 
wishing  that  virtue  was  its  own  reward. 

That  state  of  mind,  which  let  us  call 
the  ignominy  of  the  virtuous,  is  not 


confined  to  boys  of  nine  years.  I  have 
seen  mortification  in  the  faces  of  grown 
men  and  women  when  they  were  ac- 
cused of  saintliness.  They  would  accept 
with  more  complacency  the  tribute  that 
they  were  getting  to  be  devils  in  their 
old  age.  Nor  is  the  attitude  purely 
jocular  or  colloquial.  At  a  commence- 
ment concert  in  a  church  not  long  ago, 
a  young  man  stood  up  in  the  pulpit  and 
sang,  with  all  the  idealistic  enthusiasm 
of  the  great  poet  who  wrote  it,  — 

Ship  me  somewheres  east  of  Suez,  where  the  best 

is  like  the  worst, 
Where  there  aren't  no  Ten  Commandments,  an' 

a  man  can  raise  a  thirst; 
For  the  temple-bells  are  callin',  an*  it's  there 

that  I  would  be  — 
By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  lazy  at  the 

sea! 

And  the  parson  applauded  with  the 
rest,  understanding  in  a  sort  of  mental 
parenthesis,  I  suppose,  that  it  was  not 
a  sacred  or  Sunday  concert. 

To  recur  to  a  greater  poet,  some  of 
the  most  scandalous  and  soul-shocking 
exclamations  of  Walt  Whitman  are  but 
a  revolt  against  the  insipid  taste  of  the 
talk  we  use  in  Sunday-school.  Well 
he  says, — 

I  think  I  could  turn  and  live  with  the  ani- 
mals .  .  . 

They  do  not  sweat  and  whine  about  their  con- 
dition; 

They  do  not  lie  awake  in  the  dark  and  weep  for 
their  sins; 

They  do  not  make  me  sick  discussing  their  duty 
to  God;  .  .  . 

Not  one  kneels  to  another,  nor  to  his  kind  that 
lived  thousands  of  years  ago; 

Not  one  is  respectable  or  industrious  over  the 
whole  earth. 

131 


132 


THE  IGNOMINY  OF  BEING  GOOD 


Walt  Whitman  had  enough  perspicu- 
ity and  insolence  to  see  and  say  that 
there  is  something  disgusting  about 
what  we  call  being  good. 

We  find  it  pretty  strong  in  the 
churches  where  sometimes  we  go  to 
learn  how  to  be  good.  Much  of  what 
we  learn  there  is  summed  up  in  the 
figures  that  occupy  the  stained-glass 
windows.  If  there  is  a  living  man,  with 
the  sap  of  nature  running  in  his  veins, 
who  would  consent  to  be  one  of  those 
boneless  saints,  I  have  yet  to  see  him. 
My  impression  of  the  whole  tribe  is 
that  they  need  help.  And  if  there  is 
anything  in  the  world  that  would  sour 
me  against  virtue,  it  would  be  to  have 
those  lank  and  morose  representatives 
of  it  stalking  round  me. 

Winter  before  last  a  play  appeared 
in  New  York  called  The  Servant  in 
the  House,  To  sum  it  up  briefly:  the 
home  of  a  preacher  was  full  of  trouble 
and  sin;  they  hired  a  butler,  and  the 
butler  turned  out  to  be  a  reincarn- 
ation of  Jesus;  he  won  them  all,  by  the 
power  of  his  character,  to  piety  and 
peace.  The  butler  was  supposed  to  re- 
present our  highest  ideal  of  a  man. 
What  then  was  his  first  characteristic? 
He  dressed  like  a  woman.  He  had  on 
a  long  gown.  He  could  n't  run.  He 
could  n't  kick.  What  was  his  next  char- 
acteristic? He  walked  like  Chopin's 
Funeral  March,  pausing  to  regain  his 
equilibrium  over  each  foot.  Speed  was 
inconceivable  to  him.  It  was  unsaintly. 
And  then  he  came  and  laid  a  long  sol- 
emn hand  over  a  man's  shoulder  and 
called  him  'comrade'  at  breakfast  the 
first  time  he  ever  saw  him. 

Now,  there  is  just  one  answer  to  that 
sort  of  thing  in  these  days,  and  it  is, 
'Aw  come  off! '  And  everybody  uses  it. 
I  think  I  could  sum  up  the  whole  tone- 
color  of  that  hero  by  saying  that  you 
had  difficulty  in  making  him  laugh,  and 
when  he  did  laugh  it  was  a  special  ex- 
press act  of  geniality  in  the  deific,  and 


you  felt  as  if  you  must  have  been  hon- 
ored. The  play  was  very  popular,  and 
is  said  to  have  gone  a  long  way  toward 
reforming  the  morals  of  the  churchly; 
but  to  my  soul  it  was  so  distasteful  to 
see  that  stained-glass  mediaeval  degen- 
eration of  the  idea  of  Jesus,  who  was  a 
man,  brought  out  on  the  boards  as  if  he 
were  anybody's  conception  of  what 
he  would  like  to  be  or  have  in  his  house, 
that  I  could  sit  through  the  play  only 
because  I  enjoyed  scorning  it. 

We  cannot  say  of  a  people  who  con- 
gregate to  praise  in  the  abstract,  or  in 
a  mimic  of  reality,  what  concretely, 
in  their  office,  or  their  playground,  or 
their  home,  they  despise,  —  a  people 
whose  words  of  high  eulogy  have  de- 
cayed in  their  mouths,  till  their  child- 
ren are  ashamed  of  the  titles,  and  after 
their  schools  of  virtue,  their  Sunday- 
schools,  name  the  type  of  mamma's 
boy  that  they  can  least  endure  to  play 
with,  —  we  cannot  say  that  the  fear 
of  being  good  has  disappeared  out  of 
their  world.  They  have  still  a  disease 
in  their  minds,  not  second  to  diphthe- 
ria in  weakening  results,  —  if  it  be  as 
near  akin  to  sentimental  hypocrisy  as 
it  looks.  Their  ideals  and  their  facts 
are  out  of  gear,  and  nothing  could  be 
more  serious. 

I  have  an  idea  that  the  cause  of  this 
condition  is  to  be  discovered  way  back 
in  the  early  days  of  the  church.  It  dates 
about  the  time  when  Saint  Augustine 
wrote  a  book  in  which  he  divided  the 
universe  into  two  parts  —  the  City  of 
God  and  the  City  of  Satan.  And  the 
City  of  Satan  was  just  about  this  very 
world  of  solids  and  liquids  and  gases, 
and  flesh  and  blood,  in  which  we  live 
together  and  beget  children;  and  the 
City  of  God  was  something  else.  It 
was  a  general  idea  of  the  congregation 
of  those  neutral  or  fanatical  persons 
who  had  separated  themselves  from 
the  desires  of  nature  and  the  needs  of 
society,  and  conceived  themselves  to  be 


THE  IGNOMINY  OF  BEING  GOOD 


133 


undergoing  a  supernatural  preparation 
for  another  world  in  which  desires  and 
needs  and  admirations  would  be  alto- 
gether different.  They  were  the  virtuous 
and  the  rest  were  sinful.  And  thus  it 
was  that  sainthood  and  virtue,  and  even 
the  commonest  kind  of  door-yard  good- 
ness, got  separated  from  the  question 
of  the  conduct  of  life  in  a  neighborhood, 
and  lost  for  ages  the  spontaneous  heroic 
admiration  of  the  young,  and  the  can- 
did acceptance  hi  whole-heartedness  of 
anybody. 

We  still  feel  that  there  is  a  sort  of 
milk-blooded  inefficiency  and  lack  of 
temper  in  them  we  call  saints,  and  we 
avoid  for  ourselves  the  title.  But  we 
keep  right  on  eulogizing  them,  and 
putting  up  their  pictures  in  the  window. 
We  lack  the  audacity  to  overthrow 
the  whole  calendar,  and  wash  out  our 
minds,  and  start  clean  with  the  natural 
opinion  that  virtue  is  what  we  deeply 
want  in  ourselves  and  the  people  around 
us;  and  if  it  is  not  what  we  want,  then 
it  is  not  virtue. 

As  we  owe  this  malady  to  the  times 
of  Saint  Augustine,  we  shall  find  an 
example  of  health  in  the  times  before 
him.  In  the  age  and  city  of  Pericles, 
and  long  before  that,  the  attitude  of 
men's  minds  to  the  question  of  good- 
ness was  ideal.  Their  Bible  was  the 
Iliad,  a  story  of  the  nation's  heroes, 
and  neither  in  youth  nor  age  did  they 
stand  in  terror  of  being  caught  reading 
it.  It  would  teach  you  how  to  be  a 
leader  of  the  gang,  or  a  prince  of  the 
people,  admired  and  loved  although 
superior  to  love  and  admiration.  It 
would  make  you  a  man  of  power  and 
beauty  on  the  powerful  and  beautiful 
earth  —  if  not  always  warmly  comfort- 
able to  your  contemporaries,  then  a 
beacon  and  a  light  unto  posterity. 

The  admirations  of  the  Greeks,  to 
be  sure,  and  their  conduct  of  life,  were 
not  ours,  nor  need  we  pine  for  them. 
Good  counsel,  oratory,  athletics,  horse- 


taming,  strength  in  battle,  hospitality, 
and  the  ability  to  shout  loud  and  carry 
all  the  liquor  your  host  offers  you  — 
these  are  some  constituents  of  the 
Homeric  hero,  and  they  are  not  espe- 
cially significant  for  us  in  our  industrial 
and  bed-inhabiting  civilization.  The 
significant  thing  for  us  is  that  those 
qualities  of  their  saints  were  the  very 
things  they  admired  and  demanded  of 
then*  companions.  They  praised  in  their 
sky-canopied  theatres  what  they  loved 
in  the  market-place  and  at  the  hearth. 
Their  divine  temples  were  peopled  with 
statues  of  those  they  would  love  to  see 
standing  there  —  the  chosen  of  the 
earth  in  bodily  grace,  in  athletics,  in 
eloquence,  statecraft,  warfare,  advent- 
ure, laughter  and  jovial  conversation 
—  poets,  generals,  assassins,  courtesans, 
and  whoever  did  to  their  thinking  mag- 
nificently carry  his  part  in  the  drama 
of  our  existence  here  together. 

Their  ideals  being  thus  geared  with 
the  facts  of  the  city  they  lived  in,  the 
love  of  their  ideals  was  not  sterile  va- 
por, but  begot  conduct.  They  gave  the 
prizes  to  their  children,  not  for  a  sick- 
ish  and  unnatural  poverty  of  demeanor, 
but  for  such  exploits  of  individuality 
and  adventurous  mischief  as  in  their 
own  hearts  they  loved.  We  shall  hear 
much  in  the  coming  years  about  the 
superiority  of  the  Greek  attitude  to 
life,  and  that  in  those  days  men  could 
think  straight  about  morals.  The  whole 
essence  of  that  superiority  lies  in  the 
fact  that  if  you  told  a  hardy  Greek 
boy  that  a  person  was  virtuous,  or  that 
an  act  was  good,  he  would  be  attract- 
ed to  that  person  or  that  act,  but  that 
the  equally  hardy  modern  boy  would 
be  repelled. 

And  if  we  wish  to  be  superior  like 
the  Greeks,  we  shall  see  to  it  that  in 
our  times  of  exaltation  we  aspire  to- 
ward a  virtue  that  would  be  admirable 
and  useful  to  us  in  the  hours  of  the 
days  of  the  week.  It  can  be  a  virtue 


134 


PUNCH 


higher  than  any  they  thought  of,  be- 
cause we  inherit  from  Jesus  a  fervor 
for  the  ideal  of  universal  love,  and 
from  our  Teutonic  fathers  a  pride  in  re- 
cognizing the  equality  of  men,  unknown 
even  to  the  idealists  of  Athens.  But 


our  virtue  will  never  be  heartily  loved 
by  us,  as  virtue  was  loved  of  old,  until 
it  is  purged  of  those  elements  which 
we  condemn  in  the  reality  on  six  days 
of  the  week  and  praise  in  the  ideal  on 
Sunday. 


PUNCH 


BY   ROBERT  M.  GAY 


IN  the  archives  of  dogdom  he  is  reg- 
istered as  a  descendant  in  the  second 
generation  from  Sullivan's  Punch,  who 
was  valued  at  $3500.  In  the  same 
illustrious  table  his  name  is  given  as 
Felsmere  Focus.  Why  Focus  rather 
than  Fieldmouse  or  Feather-Duster  or 
Flapjack,  I  shall  not  pretend  to  know. 
Burdened  from  birth  with  an  august 
ancestry  and  a  grandiloquent  name,  it 
would  have  been  no  great  wonder  if  he 
had  not  amounted  to  much.  To  para- 
phrase the  poet,  however,  — 

Sure  some  kind  saint  took  pity  on  him 
And  blessed  him  unaware,  — 

for  his  master,  perceiving  that  Fels- 
mere Focus  did  not  lend  itself  aptly  to 
abbreviation,  and  foreseeing  that  there 
might  be  an  element  of  the  ridiculous 
in  a  grown  man  of  large  dimensions 
addressing  a  snub-nosed  bow-legged 
puppy  as  Felsmere  Focus,  promptly  re- 
named him  Punch;  and  Punch  he  has 
remained,  except  when  derisive  friends 
have  inspirationally  dubbed  him  Pop- 
Eye  or  Muggins  or  Snoozer. 

He  early  developed  plebeian  procliv- 
ities of  which  his  grandfather  would  no 
doubt  have  disapproved.  No  amount 
of  admonition  deterred  him  from  bolt- 


ing his  food;  he  abhorred  the  bath,  and 
vanished  like  a  puff  of  smoke  even  be- 
fore the  water  began  to  splash  in  the 
washtub;  his  favorite  coign  of  vantage 
was  the  coal-bin,  whence  he  had  to  be 
dragged,  and  whither  he  betook  him- 
self, when  he  could,  to  dry;  and  from 
the  Tartarus  of  the  cellar  he  was  prone 
to  climb  to  the  Olympus  of  the  guest- 
room bed  or  the  sitting-room  sofa.  He 
preferred  silk  or  satin  pillows  whereon 
to  rest  his  weary  head,  and  his  trail 
was  over  them  all.  Remonstrances  ac- 
centuated with  a  slipper  or  trunk-strap 
impressed  him  for  a  while,  and  for  per- 
haps an  hour  he  assumed  the  demeanor 
of  one  whose  heart  has  suffered  an  in- 
curable blight;  but  he  usually  cheered 
up  in  time  to  chase  the  neighbor's  cat 
up  a  tree,  whence  she  had  to  be  res- 
cued with  a  ladder,  or  to  frighten  the 
butcher-boy  out  of  some  wits  he  could 
ill  spare. 

Affecting  an  extreme  sensibility  of 
soul,  he  at  times  deluded  the  unwary 
into  the  conviction  that  he  was  a  pat- 
tern of  deportment;  as  Bridget  the 
maid-of-all-work  put  it,  'Sure,  he's  that 
meek,  butter  would  n't  melt  in  his 
mouth';  but  on  such  occasions  she  im- 
mediately began  a  search  of  the  pre- 


PUNCH 


135 


mises  to  discover  what  mischief  he 
had  been  up  to.  Gifted  with  a  pair  of 
prominent  brown  gazelle-like  eyes  and 
an  appealing  snub-nose  at  one  end,  at 
the  other  a  tail  which  could  execute  the 
deaf-and-dumb  manual  in  fifty-three 
languages,  and  in  the  middle  a  heart  as 
sentimental  as  the  Reverend  Laurence 
Sterne's,  he  knew  how  to  inveigle  the 
most  inveterate  canophobe  with  these 
and  the  added  allurement  of  a  tenta- 
tively proffered  diffident  paw,  usual- 
ly well  powdered  with  coal-dust.  The 
same  sentimental  heart  prompted  him 
to  jump  into  the  laps  of  dozing  old  la- 
dies, or  press  an  icy  nose  unexpectedly 
against  the  hands  of  nervously-consti- 
tuted young  ones;  and  his  abject  self- 
effacement  when  they  screamed  saved 
him  from  punishment  until  an  oppor- 
tunity offered  to  do  the  same  thing 
over  again. 

A  study  of  Punch,  lasting  many 
months,  leaves  me  still  in  doubt  whether 
he  is  a  Pecksniffian  hypocrite  or  merely 
the  victim  of  an  affectionate  tempera- 
ment and  a  short  memory.  Not  long 
ago  I  chastised  him  for  barking  at  pass- 
ing dogs.  His  grief  was  so  profound 
that  I  left  the  task  of  correction  filled 
with  remorse,  but  hid  behind  a  door  to 
observe  whether  it  had  been  effective. 
In  a  few  moments  a  coach-dog,  spotted 
with  what  looked  like  mildew,  trotted 
by. '  Woof! '  said  Punch.  He  knew,  how- 
ever, that  I  was.behind  the  door,  and 
executed  a  propitiatory  cringe  in  my 
direction.  I  remained  silent.  'Woof!' 
said  he  again,  erecting  his  scruff  and 
baring  his  teeth;  and  again  he  looked 
my  way,  the  picture  of  humble  suppli- 
cation, wagging  an  uncertain  tail  and 
yawning  in  anguish  of  spirit.  As  long 
as  the  mildewed  dog  was  in  sight,  he 
continued  to  alternate  between  leonine 
ferocity  and  lamblike  docility  with  a 
rapidity  which  would  have  put  a  '  light- 
ning-change artist '  to  the  blush.  What 
could  one  do  but  defer  his  further  train- 


ing until  the  humor  of  the  occasion 
should  be  less  fresh  hi  the  mind? 

Training  dogs  is  like  training  child- 
ren. We  always  know  exactly  what  we 
would  do  with  other  people's  children 
if  we  only  had  the  chance.  Usually 
we  would  spank  them.  When  we  own 
the  children, — or  the  dogs,  —  the  pro- 
blem becomes  unexpectedly  compli- 
cated. We  learn  that  each  child  is  not 
merely  a  microcosmical  entity,  sum- 
ming up  in  himself  all  the  features  of 
all  children  (even  if  he  were,  it  would 
be  a  difficult  matter  to  spank  such  an 
abstraction),  but  a  very  peculiar  and 
remarkably  individual  little  pagan  who 
does  the  most  unanticipated  things  for 
the  most  admirable  reasons,  —  from 
his  point  of  view,  —  and  seems  daily 
and  hourly  bent  upon  turning  topsy- 
turvey  our  best-laid  plans  for  his  educa- 
tion. Some  philosophers  advocate  toss- 
ing up  a  cent  when  in  doubt  whether  to 
spank  or  not;  others  advise  spanking 
in  any  event  and  trusting  to  luck;  while 
still  others,  maudlin  with  the  milk  of 
a  humanitarian  age,  as  ardently  main- 
tain that  all  spanking  is  barbarous. 
Who  shall  decide  when  mothers  dis- 
agree? The  problem  as  it  relates  to  dogs 
is  sufficiently  difficult. 

In  WTood's  Natural  History,  richly  em- 
bellished with  over  two  hundred  wood- 
cuts, which  I  absorbed  at  the  age  of 
nine,  we  were  told  that  the  dog  is 
related  to  the  wolf,  and  is  thought  by 
some  to  be  a  descendant  of  that  ani- 
mal. To  look  at  Punch  lying  on  his 
back  with  his  Boston-terrier  legs  point- 
ing ceilingward,  the  blue  blood  of  his 
illustrious  grandparent  not  preventing 
his  snoring  lustily,  he  seems  a  far  cry 
from  the  four-footed  demons  who  gob- 
bled Little  Red  Riding-Hood  (in  the 
authentic  version)  and  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch's  friend's  children.  Yet,  again, 
seeing  him  circling  tiptoe  around  a  dog 
he  intends  to  slay,  his  white  fangs 
gleaming,  his  hair  on  end  along  his 


136 


PUNCH 


chine,  one  realizes  that  his  heart  is 
made  of  sterner  stuff  than  even  his 
lupine  cousins';  that,  unlike  them,  he 
knows  no  cowardice,  scorns  treach- 
ery, and  will  fight  even  on  a  full 
stomach. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  dual  nature  of  the 
dog  —  the  two  strong  dogs  struggling 
within  him,  as  in  Saint  Paul's  text, 
Barnard's  statue,  and  the  romances  of 
Stevenson  and  Poe  —  that  makes  him 
so  human  to  most  people.  Poor  little 
Punch  has  a  hard  time  of  it  between 
his  good  and  bad  instincts.  'Bark,' 
says  his  own  particular  devil.  'Be  si- 
lent,' says  his  conscience.  Is  it  any 
wonder  if  he  temporizes,  if  he  barks  at 
his  enemy  and  propitiates  his  Nemesis 
in  the  same  breath?  What  else  are  we 
mortals  doing  every  day? 

Not  long  ago  he  faced  his  hardest 
ethical  problem.  He  was  called  upon 
to  fraternize  with  a  rabbit,  —  a  poor, 
fluffy,  white,  long-eared,  pink-eyed  rab- 
bit! He  had  received  his  orders  not  to 
hurt  Bunny,  and  he  observed  them  for 
a  time  in  a  way  to  win  him  a  crown  of 
glory  in  the  canine  heaven.  But  when 
the  rabbit,  mistaking  an  armed  neu- 
trality for  brotherly  love,  began  to  eat 
out  of  the  same  dish  and  snuggle  against 
him  for  friendship's  sake,  Punch's  trou- 
bles commenced.  The  proper  and  usual 
procedure  for  a  dog  in  such  a  fix  was 
to  shake  Bun's  soul  out  of  her  puny 
body.  But  he  had  received  his  com- 
mands. And  so  there  followed  the  un- 
usual spectacle  of  a  misguided  but  af- 
fectionate rabbit  chasing  a  scandalized 
bull  terrier  round  and  round  the  garden 
with  a  persistency  worthy  a  better 
cause.  Punch  might  growl  and  glare 
to  his  heart's  content;  but  Bun,  intent 
upon  the  company  misery  loves,  con- 
tinued to  follow;  and  Punch  — 

As  one  who  on  a  lonely  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  looked  round  walks  on 
And  no  more  turns  his  head, 


Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread  — 

continued  to  flee.  Who  shall  say  how 
his  soul  was  ground  between  the  upper 
millstone  of  his  humanly-inculcated 
forbearance  and  the  nether  millstone  of 
his  wolfish  instincts?  Who  shall  guess 
how  his  heart  was  harrowed  with  hu- 
miliation at  the  picture  he  presented 
running  away  from  a  rabbit?  It  ended 
as  only  it  could,  by  his  instincts  tri- 
umphing. One  evening  he  turned  upon 
Bun,  seized  her  by  the  back,  and  shook 
her.  She  was  startled,  but  appeared  to 
take  the  admonition  philosophically. 
Two  days  later,  however,  she  died, 
whether  of  shock  or  a  broken  heart  or 
internal  injuries  did  not  appear. 

Punch's  elation  was  cloaked  in  his 
usual  garb  of  deprecation.  He  fawned, 
he  cringed,  he  licked  his  chops,  and 
sneezed  to  express  his  profound  sor- 
row, yet  no  one  detected  him  shedding 
tears  of  remorse  over  Bunny's  grave. 
Bridget,  as  coroner,  officiating  clergy- 
man, and  grave-digger,  decided  that 
death  was  due  to  causes  unknown,  al- 
though, 'Faith,  the  dog  had  a  hand  in 
it';  and  so  the  incident  closed. 

It  is  an  open  question  whether 
Punch's  illustrious  grandparent  would 
have  managed  this  situation  more  skill- 
fully. He  could  hardly  have  handled 
it  more  effectively.  Punch  has  quite 
as  much  blue  blood  as  his  grandfather, 
^  but  somewhere  in  the  intervening  gen- 
eration some  of  the  points  which  go  to 
make  up  a  bench-dog  were  lost,  and  so 
Punch's  body  is  too  long,  his  legs  too 
near  together,  and  his  tail  as  straight  as 
a  ramrod.  He  cannot  aspire  to  the  blue 
ribbon.  Yet  the  loss  sits  lightly  upon 
him.  He  joyously  nips  the  butcher- 
boy's  calves  and  blithely  rolls  in  the 
coal  and  hypocritically  affects  a  sen- 
sitive conscience.  He  barks  at  the 
neighborhood  cats  and  dogs,  and  bolts 
his  one  meal  a  day,  and  takes  your  ca- 
ress with  heartfelt  gratitude  and,  'for 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


137 


a  full  discharge  of  a  present  benefac- 
tion, having  wagged  a  hearty  express- 
ive tail,  pursues  it  gently  round  the 
hearth-rug  till,  in  restful  coil,  he  reaches 
it  at  last,  and  oblivion  with  it,'  to  sleep 
as  only  the  innocent  —  or  the  utterly 


sinful  —  can  sleep.  He  may  dream  of 
pedigrees  and  blue  ribbons,  but,  know- 
ing him,  it  seems  more  probable  that 
the  subjects  of  his  somnial  visions  are 
cats  and  mutton-chops;  his  nightmares 
are  undoubtedly  white  rabbits. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


ON   INANIMATE   OBJECTS 

To  be  an  inanimate  object  must  be, 
I  fancy,  a  very  uninteresting  affair. 
Certainly,  being  one  appears  to  have  a 
disastrous  effect  upon  the  disposition. 
No  one  who  has  had  any  intercourse 
with  inanimate  objects  can  doubt  that 
their  one  end  and  aim  is  to  try  the 
temper  of  animate  objects.  It  is  unfor- 
tunate, truly,  to  have  all  the  energies 
concentrated  upon  such  a  very  low  am- 
bition, and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
the  dullness  of  their  existence  is  really 
responsible  for  this;  therefore  I  sup- 
pose one  should  deal  with  them  more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger. 

But  deal  with  them  one  must,  and  it 
is  because  I  have  discovered  one  rule 
to  be  most  efficacious  in  one's  conduct 
toward  them  that  I  have  seized  this 
opportunity  of  setting  it  forth  for  the 
benefit  of  my  fellow  animate  objects. 
The  rule  is:  Keep  your  temper,  observ- 
ing as  far  as  possible  an  attitude  at 
least  of  outward  calm.  No  matter  how 
irritating  they  may  be,  and  indeed 
they  can  be  most  irritating,  never  give 
them  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  you 
show  vexation.  This  may  all  sound 
very  trite,  and  I  suppose  it  is,  but,  like 
so  many  commonplace  things,  let  one 
try  really  to  practice  it,  and  immedi- 
ately one  finds  that  it  is  anything  but 
commonplace. 


In  common  with  the  rest  of  human- 
ity I  have  had,  in  my  dealing  with  in- 
animate objects,  many  opportunities 
for  the  observance  of  serenity,  and 
when  I  have  succeeded  in  observing  it 
I  have  reaped  a  joyous  reward. 

There  was,  for  instance,  the  discip- 
line that  I  received  all  one  winter  from 
a  net  frock,  the  desire  of  whose  being 
was  to  get  itself  hooked  into  things.  I 
congratulate  myself  on  the  calmness 
which  I  early  learned  to  show,  when  the 
hooks  of  the  skirt,  having  been  foiled 
in  their  attempt  to  catch  in  my  pom- 
padour, succeeded  in  clutching  them- 
selves with  an  unholy  gle§  into  the 
bodice,  just  in  the  very  middle,  at  the 
most  inaccessible  spot  in  my  back.  Of 
course  at  such  moments  the  first  im- 
pulse is  to  go  perfectly  wild,  to  squirm, 
to  clutch,  to  swear,  if  one  happens  to  be 
a  man, — which  perhaps  under  the  cir- 
cumstances is  unlikely,— -- but  I  learned 
to  resist  all  these  impulses.  I  cultivated 
an  absolute  calm.  I  sang  a  snatch  of 
song  —  I,  who  never  sing.  I  polished 
my  fingernails,  I  looked  at  the  view,  in 
fact,  I  did  any  and  every  thing  to  show 
my  utter  indifference  to  those  infuriat- 
ing hooks.  And  then,  at  last,  after  the 
song,  the  look  at  the  view,  or  whatever 
I  had  resorted  to,  —  and  sometimes  it 
even  required  a  whole  essay  of  Emer- 
son's to  restore  my  peace  of  mind,  — 
I  would  quietly  and  sweetly  squirm  my 


138 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


hand  up  and  gently  detach  the  hooks 
from  my  back.  And  glad  enough  I 
found  them  to  let  go,  being  quite  con- 
vinced by  that  time  that  they  were 
not  exciting  any  attention  whatever. 
After  the  first  few  weeks  of  ownership 
I  learned  to  play  the  game  successfully, 
to  meet  with  an  unruffled  brow  all  that 
frock's  most  subtle  attempts  to  try  my 
temper;  and  I  rejoice  to  think  what  an 
uninteresting  time  it  must  have  had. 
The  only  satisfaction  it  ever  obtained 
was  at  parties,  where  it  invariably 
managed  to  hook  itself  up  to  perfectly 
strange  ladies.  Even  this  I  learned  to 
meet  with  equanimity;  the  stranger, 
however,  was  not  always  so  placid. 

This  rule  of  the  kept  temper,  and 
outer  indifference,  may  be  applied  to 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  inanimate 
objects.  I  have  found  it  most  effectual 
in  the  case  of  dictionaries  and  type- 
writer erasers.  Their  great  desire  is  to 
get  themselves  lost  when  they  are  most 
needed.  Now,  of  course,  the  only  real 
pleasure  in  being  lost,  to  an  inanimate 
object,  is  the  delight  that  it  obtains 
from  the  frantic  search  for  it  to  which 
it  stirs  some  animate  object.  My  dic- 
tionary has  in  times  past,  I  doubt  not, 
been  afforded  many  an  agreeable  half- 
hour  from  the  extreme  exasperation 
to  which  it  has  provoked  me,  when, 
just  in  the  middle  of  a  most  crucial  sen- 
tence, I  have  been  forced  to  pause  in 
my  writing  and  institute  a  wild  search 
for  it,  just  because,  forsooth,  I  did  not 
know  how  to  spell  a  word.  The  same 
with  the  eraser;  when  I  needed  it  most, 
it  was  not  to  be  found.  Now,  however, 
I  am  enabled  to  maintain  an  attitude 
of  indifference  toward  them  both  by 
the  simple  expedient  of  never  settling 
to  write  without  first  having  at  hand 
three  dictionaries,  and  at  least  half  a 
dozen  erasers.  Even  in  the  most  im- 
passioned morning's  work  one  is  not 
likely  to  lose  three  whole  dictionaries 
and  six  rubbers.  When  I  reach  eagerly 


now  for  either  of  these  articles,  and 
find  that  they  have  maliciously  conceal- 
ed themselves,  I  draw  a  calm  breath, 
and  simply  take  another,  remarking, 
perhaps,  'Oh,  well,  I  don't  care!  this 
dictionary  or  eraser '  (as  the  case  may 
be)  'is  really  much  better,'  this  having 
the  double  effect  of  driving  home  to 
the  offender  my  indifference  to  it,  and 
of  administering  at  the  same  time  a 
little  gentle  flattery  to  the  fresh  one 
taken.  After  my  work  for  the  day  is 
finished,  I  cast  a  careless  eye  about  for 
the  lost  articles,  and  by  that  time  glad 
enough  they  are  to  be  found,  having 
discovered  that  the  game  of  being  lost 
when  no  one  looks  for  them  is  a  very 
dull  business. 

Of  course  these  are  only  examples. 
Every  one  will  have  his  or  her  own  par- 
ticularly infuriating  inanimate  object 
to  which  to  apply  the  rule  of  the  kept 
temper. 

I  may  add  that  for  the  keeping  of 
one's  temper  in  this  respect  there  is 
sometimes  a  pretty  reward.  My  grand- 
mother used  to  tell  a  story  of  a  young 
lady  whose  plant-stand  managed,  one 
morning  when  she  was  tending  her 
flowers,  in  some  way  —  the  devil  of 
inanimate  objects  knows  how  (my 
grandmother  did  not  say  devil)  —  to 
upset  itself,  and  to  dash  all  its  precious 
burden  to  the  ground.  Without  so 
much  as  an  exclamation  of  annoyance* 
the  young  lady  immediately  set  about 
gathering  up  the  broken  plants  as  best 
she  could,  whereupon  a  young  gentle- 
man —  in  every  way  all  that  was  de- 
sirable —  who,  unknown  to  the  lady 
had  witnessed  the  accident,  stepped 
forth  and  at  once  proposed  to  her, 
rightly  supposing  that  a  woman  of  such 
sweetness  of  disposition  was  a  jewel 
beyond  price.  In  my  youth  I  used  to 
wonder  if  the  lady  was  really  quite 
oblivious  of  the  young  gentleman's 
presence;  but  age  has  softened  me  and 
made  me  glad  to  believe  that  she  was. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


139 


THE   LITTLE   HOUSE 

IF  I  had  known  that  it  was  going  to 
prove  such  a  tyrant  I  should  never  have 
taken  it,  as  I  did,  for  better  or  worse. 
It  looked  so  gentle  and  confiding  in  its 
setting  of  green  grass  and  apple  trees 
the  morning  when  I  first  saw  it,  that 
I  could  not  resist  the  spell.  'The  old- 
fashioned  windows  gave  it  an  expres- 
sion of  which  one  reads  in  impassioned 
novels,  making  me  feel  as  if  the  house 
and  I  had  met  and  become  one  in  the 
infinite  earlier  than  time.  It  coaxed  me 
with  that  feminine  appeal  almost  im- 
possible to  withstand.  The  closed  door 
and  locked  sashes,  the  grass  in  the  walk, 
hinted  at  loneliness,  suggested  that  I 
could  understand;  and  so,  because  of 
its  quaintness,  and  the  pathos  of  the 
worn  doorstep,  I  took  it  for  my  own. 

Doubtless  the  strong  hold  upon  me 
was  partly  due  to  helplessness,  for  it 
was  constantly  appealing,  in  new  kinds 
of  need,  as  a  child  would.  I  had  no  idea 
that  it  would  mean  so  much  trouble; 
so  small  and  sturdy  and  independent  a 
thing  would,  I  thought,  more  than  half 
take  care  of  itself.  Oh,  the  work  and 
the  worry  that  have  been  expended  on 
this  diminutive  house!  The  tasks  it 
has  thought  up,  the  sudden  needs  where- 
with it  has  confronted  me!  It  has  in- 
vention infinite  in  keeping  itself  before 
my  mind.  Chief  among  its  devices  is 
an  air  of  suffering  from  neglect  if  I  but 
venture  out  of  its  sight.  Never  have 
I  failed  to  turn  the  last  corner  leading 
homeward  with  a  leaping  of  the  heart 
in  fear  of  what  may  have  happened. 
Suppose  that  it  were  gone,  by  fire  or  by 
flood ;  suppose  it  had  never  really  been 
there,  being  but  a  dream,  a  figment 
of  the  imagination  wherein  my  spirit 
has  been  resting,  as  at  an  inn,  before 
the  long  journey  begins  again.  The 
corner  turned,  there  is  always  some- 
thing reassuring  in  the  touch  of  my 
finger  on  the  latch,  telling  me  that  the 


little  house  is  still  there,  really  there. 
When  I  grow  angry  at  the  tyrant  for  the 
homely  tasks  it  suggests,  the  constant 
watchfulness  it  demands,  it  looks  upon 
me  with  a  mild  expression  of  ancient 
wisdom  about  the  roof,  as  one  who, 
from  old  time,  has  known  and  pitied 
all  fluctuations  of  human  mood.  There 
is  something  of  eternal  wisdom  about 
a  roof-line;  when  did  man  first  learn 
to  lift  roofs  against  the  stars? 

I  have  fallen  into  the  habit,  as  one 
always  does  with  feminine  creatures, 
of  taking  home  things  to  please  it,  and 
I  marvel  at  the  personality  which  dom- 
inates its  caprice.  Now  and  then  it 
disdains  an  offering  for  this  or  that 
corner,  scorning  a  long-meditated  gift; 
again  it  will  seize  upon  some  insigni- 
ficant thing,  for  wise,  inscrutable  pur- 
poses, making  it  beautiful  as  part  of 
itself,  so  that  one  could  almost  swear 
that  the  little  house  has  organic  life. 
Lately  it  has  refused  to  shelter  perfect- 
ly reputable  reproductions  of  the  old 
masters;  Madonnas  heretofore  toler- 
ated it  will  no  longer  live  with.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  long  strip  of  ecclesias- 
tical embroidery,  harmoniously  faded, 
purchased,  after  much  haggling,  at  the 
Rag  Market  at  Rome,  it  has  graciously 
accepted,  as  it  did  the  antique  lamp  of 
bronze.  Books  it  indulgently  allows  in 
any  numbers,  —  all  but  elaborate  gift 
books, —  as  who  should  say,  'All  peo- 
ple must  have  their  vices,  and  yours  is 
fairly  innocent.'  Such  charity  becomes 
it  well,  for  itself  hath  vice,  a  ruinous, 
consuming  thirst  for  old  mahogany,  a 
passion  that  may  yet  lead  me  to  the 
debtor's  prison,  or  its  modern  substi- 
tute, whatever  that  may  be. 

The  measure  of  its  hold  upon  me  is 
the  depth  of  its  understanding;  at  first 
glance  I  knew  that  it  was  simpatica,  as 
the  Italians  say.  In  those  tired  mo- 
ments when  one  shrinks  from  human 
beings,  the  companionship  of  the  quiet 
corner  is  all  in  all,  and  there  is  no  such 


140 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


rest  elsewhere  as  comes  from  watching 
the  shadows  of  the  woodbine  flicker  in 
the  moonlight  upon  the  old-fashioned 
mirror  by  the  window.  In  times  of 
grief  it  knows  that  nothing  else  can 
comfort;  one  learns  in  its  wise  silences. 
How  many  births  and  deaths  it  has 
lived  through  I  do  not  know,  but  lately 
I  have  seen  how  wide  its  narrow  door 
may  swing  upon  eternity.  Living 
through  many  lives,  gleaning  long  ex- 
perience, the  little  house  seems  —  as 
one  who  has  known  it  all  before  —  to 
fold  one's  mere  individual  sorrow  in 
the  long  sorrow  of  the  race. 

In  such  manifold  ways  of  giving  and 
demanding  it  has  so  tightened  its  hold 
upon  me  that  I  wear  its  bonds  on  hand 
and  foot.  The  moment  of  strongest 
contest  of  will  between  us  came  with 
my  need  of  going  far  away.  The  little 
house  put  its  foot  down,  insisting  that 
I  should  go  nowhere  that  it  could  not 
go.  It  dominated,  coaxed,  said  that  it 
needed  care,  was  sorrowful,  and  some- 
times merely  silent,  suggesting  that  it 
knew  perfectly  well  I  could  not  get 
away  from  it  if  I  tried.  As  usual,  it 
was  right.  What  messengers  it  sends! 
Now  subtle  ones:  quivering  aspen  twig 
or  blown  leaf  of  autumn  suddenly  re- 
minds me  that  I  cannot  go  beyond  its 
creeping  shadow.  Though  I  fare  over 
leagues  of  sea,  I  get  no  farther  than 
its  chimney;  great  Jupiter  swings  across 
the  eastern  sky  to  lead  me  to  the  elm 
tree  by  the  back  door.  In  Grasmere's 
lovely  green  and  gray  of  storied  moun- 
tain pasture,  which  almost  persuade 
me  that  I  have  wandered  into  another 
world  of  too  delicate  beauty  to  be  called 
part  of  earth,  the  sudden  howl  of  a 
street  musician,  — 

There 's   a  hold  fashioned  cottage,  with  hivy 
round  the  door,  — 

going  on  to  certain  statements  about 
a  sanded  floor,  and  the  assertion, — 
Where'er  I  roam  I  will  always  think  of  home,  — 
compels  me  back. 


When  I  waken,  watching  the  sun- 
light flood  Pentelicon,  dim  blue  against 
the  clear  gold  of  a  Grecian  dawn,  I  feel 
the  little  house  tugging  softly  at  my 
heartstrings,  just  a  slight  tug,  to  say, 
'You  may  have  your  fling,  but  you 
cannot  escape  me;  sooner  or  later  you 
will  come  back.'  At  Agamemnon's  aw- 
ful threshold  I  think  upon  my  own,  and 
Argive  Hera's  ruined  doorway  fills  me 
with  longing  for  humbler  portals  not 
yet  battered  down.  It  is  hard  to  tread 
always  another's  stairs,  even  though 
they  be  the  exquisite  carven  marble 
stairways  of  the  chateau-land;  and  the 
sheepfolds  of  Scotch  hills  or  wide 
French  plains  bring  a  sudden  sinking 
of  the  heart  to  one  who  wanders  far, 
unfolded  yet.  Ah,  yes,  however  far  I 
stray  into  the  storied  past,  the  little 
house  puts  its  finger  on  me  and  I  come. 

It  makes  me  no  reproaches  for  my 
having  gone,  but  it  does  not  quite  ad- 
mit me  to  its  old  confidence,  or  as  yet 
go  back  to  its  old  ways.  Watchful, 
seemingly  indifferent,  it  waits  aloof, 
yet  still  it  stands,  as  heretofore,  with 
that  look  of  immemorial  wisdom,  mak- 
ing the  old  demands.  Soon  will  come 
the  old  concessions,  and  the  earlier  un- 
derstanding. 

What  will  be  the  end  I  do  not  know, 
but  this  spot  of  earth  seems  to  have 
laid  its  spell  upon  me  for  life,  and  yet 
beyond.  Long  ago,  one  summer  night 
of  opened  windows,  with  cool  leaves 
just  beyond,  silent  as  the  stars,  I 
dreamed  of  lying  under  the  turf  of  the 
dooryard,  and  of  being  taken  back,  in 
wholly  pleasant  fashion,  into  the  ele- 
ments, immeasurably  rested  from  my- 
self by  being  absorbed  into  green  living 
grass. 

THE    CALL-DRUM 

EVERY  one  of  the  Bulu  tribe  among 
whom  I  live  has  a  drum-name,  and  so, 
I  suppose,  has  every  member  of  all  the 
interior  tribes  of  this  West  African  for- 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


141 


est  of  the  Kamerun.  By  this  phrase, 
beaten  out  on  the  call-drum,  the  indi- 
vidual is  summoned  from  the  forest  to 
the  village,  or  from  town  to  town. 

Abote  tells  me  that  her  ndan  or 
drum-call  is,  '  Don't  laugh  —  I  am 
dead ! '  (Te  woe  —  me  juya ! ) 

'My  ndan,'  says  Esola,  'is,  "The  lit- 
tle parrot  has  eaten  all  the  palm  nuts  "; 
which  is  a  way  of  saying  that  I  am 
small  but  able.' 

'And  mine,'  says  Zam,  'is,  "Don't 
walk  in  the  towns,  your  husband  is 
jealous." 

One  looks  at  Zam  and  wonders  why. 
Not  tattoo,  nor  careful  frettings  of  the 
skin  of  her  body  into  designs  in  a  low 
relief,  nor  a  brass  collar  weighing  a 
good  four  pounds,  nor  any  other  of  the 
artful  resources  practiced  by  this  for- 
est people,  have  repaired  in  the  person 
of  Zam  the  '  irreparable  outrage  of  the 
years.'  Then  one  remembers  that  her 
drum-name  may  be  the  history  of  her 
youth,  —  the  seal  of  a  day  when  she 
carried  her  elaborate  headdress  above 
a  young  body,  and  when  her  proud 
walkings  abroad  were  notable. 

But  that  would  be  long  ago  now,  and 
before  we  made  our  clearing  on  this 
hill  among  the  many  hills  of  the  forest, 
or  built  our  little  brown  settlement  of 
bark  houses  and  thatched  them  with 
leaf-thatch. 

From  the  shade  of  our  house  I  see 
our  own  call-drum,  a  hollowed  log  four 
feet  long,  trimmed  to  an  oval  and  with 
blind  ends.  It  stands  on  a  frame  under 
its  hood  of  thatch,  overhanging,  from 
the  rim  of  our  clearing,  our  world  of 
crowding  hills  and  the  climbing  tide  of 
the  forest.  Lost  to  the  eye  in  that  green 
flood,  little  villages  sleep,  and  every 
little  village  has  its  tongue.  Now  and 
again  from  the  deep  of  the  forest  rises 
the  staccato  beat  of  a  call-drum,  —  the 
voice  of  the  village  speaking  across  the 
uninhabited  places,  calling  the  women 
in  from  the  garden  '  for  the  guests  are 


many,'  warning  an  absent  hunter  that 
'your  wife  has  run  away,'  or  'your  wife 
has  borne  a  child.'  Presently  Sakutu 
our  drummer  will  put  his  hand  in  the 
fissure  that  runs  the  length  of  the  drum 
and  will  bring  out  his  sticks;  striking 
the  drum  with  these,  he  will  abruptly 
and  terrifically  shatter  the  afternoon. 
Then  the  voice  from  the  thick  lip  of 
the  drum  that  is  the  man-voice,  and 
the  voice  from  the  thinner  lip  that  is 
the  woman- voice,  will  cry  out  articu- 
lately to  the  rim  of  our  horizon.  Every- 
where the  villages  will  give  ear  to  a 
message  from  the  white  man's  town, 
until  seventeen  miles  from  here,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Njabilobe,  the  last 
vibration  dies. 

To  the  trained  ear  the  drum  actually 
syllabizes;  the  inflection  of  a  phrase, 
its  cadence,  are  perfectly  transmitted; 
and  a  Bulu  speaking  his  ndan  speaks 
curiously  like  a  drum. 

The  drum  is  as  noncommittal,  as 
evasive,  as  the  Bulu.  Sakutu  calling  up 
the  women  of  the  neighborhood  to  bar- 
ter for  food  will  beat  the  convention- 
al phrase,  'Since  morning  I  have  not 
eaten,'  or  'Hunger  is  in  my  stomach,'  • 
or  —  most  subtle  and  reproachful  of 
suggestions  —  'As  I  was  yesterday,  so 
am  I  to-day.'  Of  a  Sunday,  before  the 
late  tropical  dawn  has  dimmed  the 
morning  star,  he  will  beat  a  Sunday 
morning  call:  'The  promise  we  pro- 
mised is  fulfilled  to-day';  a  phrase  that 
is  a  whole  engagement-book  in  itself, 
and  that  is  ratified  in  this  case,  by  the 
interested  parties,  with  calculations 
upon  certain  notched  sticks,  or  the 
moving  up  of  wooden  pegs  into  the  last 
of  seven  holes. 

Thus  to  all  primal  facts  of  life  have 
been  fitted  phrases  for  the  call-drum; 
and  these  phrases,  long  traditional, 
have  shaken  the  hearts  of  this  forest 
people  for  generations.  Yesterday  I 
sat  chatting  with  a  group  of  men  who 
fell  silent  at  the  beat  of  a  drum  from  a 


142 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


village  in  the  forest  below  us.  'Obam 
has  died,'  one  told  me;  and  the  drum- 
name  of  Obam  rose  to  us  in  the  blue 
afternoon,  coupled  with  the  old  poign- 
ant call  to  mourning,  'Ba,  ba,  mo 
toe!'  (Cross,  cross  his  hands  on  his 
breast.) 

Thus  to  the  members  of  this  tribe 
since  the  memory  of  man  has  the  death 
of  their  fellows  been  announced;  and 
through  unnumbered  years  the  hearts 
of  men  have  halted  under  the  imme- 
diate stroke  of  this  phrase. 

The  drum  is  indeed  very  powerful 
with  the  human  heart.  When  it  is 
beaten  in  rhythm  —  and  the  dance- 
drums  of  this  country  are  beaten  with 
an  incredible  perfection  of  rhythm  — 
the  heart,  the  white  man's  heart,  is 
troubled  and  guesses  at  secret  mean- 
ings, at  obscure  and  hurrying  agita- 
tions, at  ignoble  lassitudes  and  latent 
despairs — not  so  much  of  the  senses  as 
of  the  spirit.  But  when  the  call-drum 
gives  tongue,  sudden  and  violent 
tongue,  to  the  sudden  and  violent  dis- 
asters of  our  uncertain  life,  the  heart 
is  stricken  and  halts.  I  have  wakened 
at  night  with  the  clamor  of  the  night 
alarm  falling  from  many  drums  upon 
my  heart  in  a  rain  of  terror:  'Abroad 
— abroad  —  let  no  man  sleep ! '  And  no 
man  slept.  The  memory  of  this  mid- 
night panic  has  long  outlived  any  mem- 
ory of  the  simple  explanation  which 
came  to  us  with  morning. 

Drums  are  not  all  of  equal  power, 
nor  indeed  are  their  voices  more  alike 
than  the  voices  of  people  are.  So  I  am 
told  by  my  friends,  who  could  never  — 
say  they  —  fail  to  locate  a  drum  by  its 
voice.  Ekom,  the  famous  craftsman, 
is  dead,  but  his  drums  yet  speak;  and  it 
was  he  who  made  for  Ngem  his  great 
drum  —  the  one  that  never  lied.  For 
so  brave  was  Ngem  and  of  such  an  in- 
fallible cruelty,  that  a  warning  once 
beaten  by  him  was  speedily  fulfilled. 
His  exceeding  joy,  say  my  friends,  was 


the  killing  of  men.  A  most  admirable 
man.  He  died,  to  the  long  grief  of  his 
tribe,  and  for  him  too,  I  suppose,  was 
beaten  the  call  to  mourn.  But  not  on 
his  own  drum.  'For  who,'  ask  my 
friends,  'should  beat  the  drum  of  so 
great  a  man  ? '  '  At  the  voice  of  it  many 
would  remember  and  grieve,'  say  some; 
and  others  say,  'Might  it  not  be  that 
the  people,  hearing  the  drum,  would 
say  in  their  hearts  that  Ngem  had 
returned?' 

Into  the  daylight  of  our  little  clear- 
ing how  many  miseries  are  brought, 
of  the  body  and  of  the  mind,  and  how 
many  obscure  terrors!  For  here  is  al- 
ways some  one  to  speak  comfortable 
words,  like  the  words  of  a  mother  in  the 
dark.  So  what  should  certain  poor 
bodies  do,  when  they  heard  a  dead 
man's  drum-call,  but  rise  with  the 
dawn  and  make  their  way  by  the  little 
paths  of  the  forest  to  Efulen. 

'  For  he  died  you  understand  and  we 
put  him  in  the  grave,  all  that  was  fin- 
ished. Yet  we  hear  his  ndan,  —  not 
from  any  village,  but  from  the  unin- 
habited places  of  the  forest  where  no 
town  is,  —  the  beating  of  a  drum  that 
calls  him  by  his  name.  So  we  said  in 
our  hearts  we  will  arise  and  go  to 
Efulen ;  and  now  we  have  come  we  ask 
you:  What  are  we  to  think  of  this?' 

THE   UTTERANCE   OF    NAMES 

A  NAME  is  a  practical  convenience, 
—  so  much  so  as  to  excuse  us  for  for- 
getting that  it  is  also  a  conduit  of  emo- 
tion and  a  rhetorical  felicity.  In  the 
third  person  it  is  normally  colorless, 
and  even  in  the  second  person  its  office 
is  commonly  that  of  insuring  the  safe 
arrival  of  a  thought  or  word  at  its  de- 
stination. The  humility  of  this  func- 
tion is  apt  to  blind  us  to  the  fact  that, 
when  pronounced  on  occasions  where 
no  practical  need  requires  its  employ- 
ment, the  utterance  of  the  mere  name 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


143 


is  one  of  the  most  powerful  auxiliaries 
which  the  lover  of  emphasis  or  emotion 
can  summon  to  his  aid. 

A  name  can  italicize  or  underscore 
a  thought.  Take  the  little  phrase,  'In 
my  mind's  eye,  Horatio,'  or  the  weighty 
maxim,  — 

There  are  more  things  in  Heaven  and  Earth, 

Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy; 

abstract  that  apparent  irrelevance  and 
superfluity,  the  proper  name,  and  ob- 
serve how  the  withdrawal  of  that  prop 
leaves  the  whole  expression  unbraced 
and  debilitated.  The  dead  name  is  half 
the  life  of  the  passage. 

The  pronunciation  of  the  name  in 
places  where  its  use  is  not  imperative 
is  felt  to  be  an  act  of  homage.  Its  ut- 
terance even  in  greeting  is  so  far  com- 
plimentary that  its  omission  is  held  to 
be  a  slight;  and  the  recurrence  of  the 
name  at  short  intervals  is  one  of  the 
naive  means  by  which  the  poor  and  ig- 
norant —  like  Ham  Peggotty  with  his 
'Mas'r  Davy,  bor/  and  poor  Jo  with 
his  unceasing  '  Mr.  Sangsby,'  —  testify 
their  respect  for  their  superiors.  That 
men,  even  wise  men,  should  be  con- 
scious of  a  delicate  flattery  in  the  mere 
sound  of  their  own  names  may  seem 
singular  enough;  but,  after  all,  our 
separation  in  the  minds  of  others  from 
the  mass  of  meaningless  somebodies  or 
nobodies  is,  in  its  way,  a  just  ground 
for  complacence;  we  have  ceased  to  be 
aliquis  and  become  quidam. 

Any  access  of  sympathy  in  conver- 
sation is  likely  to  mark  itself  by  this 
simple  expedient.  As  the  uttered  name 
is  the  means  by  which  we  call  or  recall 
a  distant  friend  to  our  side,  so,  by  a 
simple  but  pleasing  analogy,  it  is  the 
name  that  expresses  and  promotes  the 
moral  approaches,  the  spiritual  ap- 
proximations, of  man  to  man  in  the 
process  of  discourse.  Intimacy  even 
between  intimates  is  a  thing  of  shades 
and  variations;  hearts  draw  near  and 


recede,  relations  tighten  and  relax,  per- 
sonalities bulk  large  or  small,  a  score 
of  times  perhaps  in  the  course  of  half 
an  hour's  friendly  conversation.  When 
our  friend  says  something  which  makes 
him  seem  for  the  moment  large  and 
near  to  us,  —  near  because  large,  or 
large  because  near,  —  the  sturdy  An- 
glo-Saxon nature  satisfies  its  double 
need  of  expression  and  reticence  by  that 
barest  and  baldest  but  most  suggest- 
ive and  efficient  of  resources,  the  ut- 
terance of  the  name.  'That  is  true, 
Edgar,'  we  say;  'I  think  you  are  right, 
John.' 

The  psychology  of  all  this  is  not  hard 
to  unravel.  In  impersonal  or  general 
conversation  the  outlines  of  our  friend's 
individuality  become,  not  effaced  in- 
deed, but  softened  and  attenuated;  but 
the  moment  he  arouses  any  strong  emo- 
tion in  us,  his  personality  defines  itself 
with  instant  and  powerful  distinct- 
ness against  the  background  of  that 
vivid  feeling;  and  our  quickened  sense 
of  his  distinctness  from  other  beings 
finds  vent  in  the  one  word  or  term  in 
the  entire  language  which  belongs  to 
him  and  to  him  only. 

A  phrase  like '  I  thank  you,'  standing 
alone,  is  empty  and  arid;  but  add  to 
that  phrase  a  mere  name;  say,  'I  thank 
you,  Alice,'  'I  thank  you,  Charles,'  and 
observe  how  the  commonplace  has  be- 
come tremulous  and  vibrant  and  elo- 
quent; and  all  from  its  mere  juxta- 
position with  a  word  so  lifeless,  apart 
from  its  associations,  as  a  proper  name. 
This  dead  thing,  fit  only,  in  appearance, 
to  conclude  documents  or  fill  up  direct- 
ories, is  in  fact  a  magazine  of  power. 
Bulwer  in  an  amusing  and  well-known 
passage  has  dwelt  upon  the  malignity 
of  the  words  'my  dear,'  and  has  illus- 
trated the  varieties  of  effect  by  placing 
the  phrase  'Charles  dear,'  or  'my  dear 
Jane,'  in  various  locations  at  the  be- 
ginning, middle,  and  end  of  the  sen- 
tence. His  strictures  are  confined  to 


144 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


the  endearment;  but  if  any  one  will 
read  his  sentences,  retaining  the  'dear' 
and  omitting  the  'Jane'  or  'Charles,' 
he  will  see  that  the  proper  name  is  the 
source  of  at  least  half  the  deadliness  of 
the  censured  phrase.  It  is  well  known 
that  indignation  among  the  vulgar  is 
prone  to  reenforce  itself  by  the  ener- 
getic and  heated  enunciation  of  the 
combined  Christian  and  family  names 
of  its  object.  'Look  here,  Mat  Beeler!' 
exclaims  the  peppery  sister  in  Mr. 
Moody's  Faith  Healer,  '  I  'm  your  born 
sister.  Don't  try  to  fool  me!' 

There  is  hardly  a  passion  which  does 
not  sometimes  avail  itself  of  this 
simple  but  potent  instrument.  'Why, 
John!'  cries  the  mother  in  the  joyful 
surprise  of  an  unlooked-for  caress  from 
the  wayward  son.  'Philip!'  exclaims 
the  wife,  in  a  burst  of  love  and  pity, 
when  the  husband  returns  home  at 
night  to  falter  out  the  tale  of  his  ruined 
fortunes.  'George!'  breaks  out,  in 


wrath  and  warning,  the  friend  whose 
patience  at  last  succumbs  before  the 
torrent  of  undeserved  censure.  'Bill, 
Bill,'  cries  poor  Nancy  in  the  moments 
of  terrified  appeal  between  the  mur- 
derer's threat  and  his  crime.  The  name 
serves  any  office;  it  pleads,  pities, 
scorns,  threatens,  rebukes,  fondles;  its 
eloquence  scarcely  needs  the  support 
of  other  words.  Tragedjs  in  its  deepest 
moments,  is  content  with  the  wealth 
of  its  implications.  Lear  says  to  his 
daughter,  — 

Beloved  Regan, 

Thy  sister  's  naught.    O  Regan,  she  hath  tied 
Sharp-tooth'd  unkindness,  like  a  vulture  here,  — 
[points  to  his  heart] 

1  can  scarce  speak  to  thee;  thou  'It  not  believe 
In  how  depraved  a  quality  —  O  Regan! 

Words  fail  the  confused  mind  of  the 
old  man,  and  his  stumbling  tongue  is 
reduced  to  the  repetition  of  his  child's 
name.  He  can  do  no  more.  Could  he, 
or  Shakespeare,  have  done  better? 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


FEBRUARY,  1911 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  RISING  GENERATION 


BY   CORNELIA   A.    P.    COMER 


FROM  the  dawn  of  time,  one  gener- 
ation has  cried  reproof  and  warning  to 
the  next,  unheeded.  '  I  wonder  that  you 
would  still  be  talking.  Nobody  marks 
you,'  say  the  young.  'Did  you  never 
hear  of  Cassandra?'  the  middle-aged 
retort. 

Many  of  you  young  people  of  to-day 
have  not  heard  of  Cassandra,  for  a  little 
Latin  is  no  longer  considered  essential 
to  your  education.  This,  assuredly,  is 
not  your  fault.  You  are  innocent  vic- 
tims of  a  good  many  haphazard  edu- 
cational experiments.  New  ideas  in 
pedagogy  have  run  amuck  for  the  last 
twenty-five  years.  They  were  intro- 
duced with  much  flourish  of  drums; 
they  looked  well  on  paper;  they  were 
forthwith  put  into  practice  on  the 
helpless  young.  It  has  taken  nearly 
a  generation  to  illustrate  their  results 
in  flesh  and  blood.  Have  they  justified 
themselves  in  you? 

The  rising  generation  cannot  spell, 
because  it  learned  to  read  by  the  word- 
method;  it  is  hampered  in  the  use  of 
dictionaries,  because  it  never  learned 
the  alphabet;  its  English  is  slipshod 
and  commonplace,  because  it  does  not 
know  the  sources  and  resources  of  its 
own  language.  Power  over  words  can- 
not be  had  without  some  knowledge  of 
the  classics  or  much  knowledge  of  the 

VOL.  107 -NO.  2 


English  Bible — but  both  are  now  quite 
out  of  fashion. 

As  an  instance  of  the  working-out  of 
some  of  the  newer  educational  methods, 
I  recall  serving  upon  a  committee  to 
award  prizes  for  the  best  essays  in  a 
certain  competition  where  the  com- 
petitors were  seniors  in  an  accredited 
college.  In  despair  at  the  material 
submitted,  the  committee  was  finally 
forced  to  select  as  '  best '  the  essay  hav- 
ing the  fewest  grammatical  errors  and 
the  smallest  number  of  misspelled 
words.  The  one  theme  which  showed 
traces  of  thought  was  positively  illiter- 
ate in  expression. 

These  deficiencies  in  you  irritate  your 
seniors,  but  the  blame  is  theirs.  Some 
day  you  will  be  upbraiding  your  in- 
structors for  withholding  the  simple 
essentials  of  education,  and  you  will 
be  training  your  own  children  differ- 
ently. It  is  not  by  preference  that  your 
vocabulary  lacks  breadth  and  your 
speech  distinction.  In  any  case,  these 
are  minor  indictments,  and,  when  all 
is  said,  we  older  ones  may  well  ask  our- 
selves whether  we  find  our  minds  such 
obedient,  soft-footed  servants  of  the 
will  as  to  make  it  clear  that  the  edu- 
cational procedure  of  our  own  early 
days  is  to  be  indorsed  without  reserve. 

Your  seniors  also  find  themselves 


146 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  RISING  GENERATION 


irritated  and  depressed  because  mod- 
ern girls  are  louder-voiced  and  more 
bouncing  than  their  predecessors,  and 
because  their  boy-associates  are  some- 
what rougher  and  more  familiar  to- 
ward them  than  used  to  be  thought 
well-bred.  But  even  these  things,  dis- 
tasteful as  they  are,  should  not  be  the 
ground  of  very  bitter  complaint.  It  re- 
quires more  serious  charges  than  these 
to  impeach  the  capacity  and  intentions 
of  those  who  are  soon  to  be  in  full 
charge  of  this  world.  Every  generation 
has  —  with  one  important  abatement 
—  the  right  to  fashion  its  own  code  of 
manners. 

The  final  right  of  each  generation  to 
its  own  code  depends  upon  the  inner 
significance  of  those  manners.  When 
they  express  such  alterations  in  the 
fibre  of  the  human  creature  as  are  de- 
trimental to  the  welfare  of  the  race, 
then,  and  perhaps  then  only,  are  our 
criticisms  completely  justified. 

From  the  generation  earlier  than  my 
own,  still  survive  gentlewomen  who 
are  like  old  lace  and  opals,  gentlemen 
all  compounded  of  consideration  and 
courtliness.  Their  graces  are  not  due 
to  their  length  of  life,  but  to  the  lights 
by  which  they  have  lived.  They  are 
adorable.  None  of  us  born  since  the 
Civil  War  approach  them  in  respect  to 
some  fine  nameless  quality  that  gives 
them  charm  and  atmosphere.  Yet, 
if  we  are  not  less  stanch  and  unself- 
ish than  they,  I  take  it  we  also  have  not 
failed  in  giving  the  world  that  nour- 
ished us  its  due. 

Is  the  quality  of  the  human  product 
really  falling  off?  That  is  the  humili- 
ating question  you  must  ask  yourselves. 
If  the  suspicion  which  runs  about  the 
world  is  true,  then,  youngsters,  as  you 
would  elegantly  phrase  it,  it  is  'up  to 
you.' 

One  of  the  advantages  of  living  long 
in  the  world  is  that  one  steadily  ac- 
quires an  increasingly  interesting  point 


of  view.  Even  in  middle  life  one  be- 
gins to  see  for  one's  self  the  evolution 
of  things.  One  gets  a  glimpse  of  the 
procession  of  events,  the  march  of  the 
generations.  The  longer  an  intelligent 
being  lives,  the  more  deeply  experi- 
ence convinces  him  that  there  is  a  pat- 
tern in  the  tapestry  of  our  lives,  indi- 
vidual as  well  as  national  and  racial, 
at  whose  scope  we  can  only  guess. 

Yet  the  things  we  actually  see  and 
can  testify  to  are  profoundly  suggest- 
ive. I  know  of  my  own  knowledge 
how  greatly  the  face  of  life  in  this 
country  has  altered  since  my  own  child- 
hood. It  is  neither  so  simple  nor  so 
fine  a  thing  as  then.  And  the  type  of 
men  of  whom  every  small  community 
then  had  at  least  half  a  dozen,  the  big- 
brained,  big-hearted, '  old  Roman '  men, 
whose  integrity  was  as  unquestioned 
as  their  ability,  is  almost  extinct.  Their 
places  are  cut  up  and  filled  by  smaller, 
less  able,  often  much  less  honest  men. 
It  is  not  that  the  big  men  have  gone  to 
the  cities  —  for  they  are  not  there;  it 
is  not  that  they  left  no  descendants  — 
for  in  more  cases  than  I  care  to  count, 
the  smaller,  less  able,  less  honest  men 
are  their  own  sons.  These  latter  fre- 
quently make  as  much  money  in  a  year 
as  their  fathers  did  in  ten,  and  show 
less  character  in  a  lifetime  than  their 
fathers  did  in  a  year. 

The  causes  of  this  are  too  compli- 
cated to  go  into  here,  but  so  far  as  you 
young  people  just  coming  on  the  stage 
are  concerned,  the  result  of  this  change 
of  type  in  American  life  and  American 
men  is  to  make  life  a  far  harder  pro- 
blem. The  world  is  itself  smaller;  it  is 
harder  for  the  individual  to  live  by  his 
own  light.  The  members  of  the  body 
politic  are  much  more  closely  knit  to- 
gether in  the  mesh  of  common  interest 
to-day  than  ever  before.  While  political 
scandals,  graft,  and  greed  have  always 
existed,  there  never  has  been  a  time  when 
low  standards  in  business  and  politics 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  RISING  GENERATION 


147 


have  so  assailed  the  honor  and  integ- 
rity of  the  people  as  a  whole,  by  tempt- 
ing them,  through-  fear  of  loss,  to  ac- 
quiesce in  the  dishonesty  of  others.  If 
better  standards  are  to  prevail,  it  is 
you  who  must  fight  their  final  battles. 
Your  wisdom,  patience,  and  moral 
earnestness  are  going  to  be  taxed  to  the 
breaking-point  before  those  battles  are 
won.  Have  you  the  muscle  for  that 
fight? 

Evidence  in  regard  to  the  falling-off 
in  the  human  product  is  necessarily 
fragmentary  and  chaotic.  Let  us  run 
over  a  few 'of  the  points  your  elders 
have  observed  and  recorded  against 
you. 

Veteran  teachers  are  saying  that 
never  in  their  experience  were  young 
people  so  thirstily  avid  of  pleasure  as 
now.  'But/  one  urges,  'it  is  the  season 
when  they  should  enjoy  themselves. 
Young  people  always  have  —  they 
always  will.'  'Yes,'  they  answer,  'that 
is  true,  but  this  is  different  from  any- 
thing we  have  ever  seen  in  the  young 
before.  They  are  so  keen  about  it  —  so 
selfish,  and  so  hard!' 

Of  your  chosen  pleasures,  some  are 
obviously  corroding  to  the  taste;  to  be 
frank,  they  are  vulgarizing.  It  is  a  mat- 
ter of  ordinary  comment  that  the  child- 
ren of  cultivated  fathers  and  mothers 
do  not,  nowadays,  grow  up  the  equals 
of  their  parents  in  refinement  and  cult- 
ivation. There  must,  then,  be  strong 
vulgarizing  elements  outside  the  home, 
as  well  as  some  weakness  within,  so  to 
counteract  and  make  of  little  worth  the 
gentler  influences  of  their  intimate  life. 
How  can  anything  avail  to  refine  child- 
ren whose  taste  in  humor  is  formed  by 
the  colored  supplements  of  the  Sunday 
paper,  as  their  taste  in  entertainment 
is  shaped  by  continuous  vaudeville 
and  the  moving-picture  shows?  These 
things  are  actually  very  large  factors 
in  children's  lives  to-day.  How  should 
they  fail  of  their  due  influence  on  plas- 


tic human  material?  Where  the  par- 
ents at  the  formative  age  saw  occa- 
sional performances  of  Booth,  Barrett, 
Modjeska,  and  'Rip  Van  Winkle,'  the 
children  go  to  vaudeville,  and  go  al- 
most constantly.  While  most  vaudeville 
performances  have  one  or  two  num- 
bers that  justify  the  proprietors'  claim 
of  harmless,  wholesome  amusement, 
the  bulk  of  the  programme  is  almost 
inevitably  drivel,  common,  stupid,  or 
inane.  It  may  not  be  actually  coarse, 
but  inanity,  stupidity,  and  common- 
ness are  even  more  potent  as  vulgar- 
izing influences  than  actual  coarseness. 
Coarseness  might  repel;  inanity  dis- 
integrates. 

'I  don't  approve,'  your  fathers  and 
mothers  say  anxiously,  'but  I  hate  to 
keep  Tom  and  Mary  at  home  when  all 
the  other  children  are  allowed  to  go.' 
These  parents  are  conscientious  and 
energetic  in  looking  after  Tom's  teeth 
and  eyes,  Mary's  hair,  tonsils,  and  nasal 
passages,  but  seem  utterly  unconscious 
that  mental  rickets  and  curvature  of 
the  soul  are  far  more  deforming  than 
crooked  teeth  and  adenoids. 

Our  ancestors  spoke  frequently  of 
fortitude.  That  virtue  was  very  real 
and  very  admirable  to  them;  we  use 
the  word  too  little;  you,  not  at  all.  The 
saving  grace  of  their  everyday  hard- 
ships has  vanished.  '  Even  in  a  palace, 
life  may  be  well  lived . '  One  wonders  how 
Marcus  Aurelius  would  have  judged 
the  moral  possibilities  of  flats  or  apart- 
ment hotels?  When  one  gets  light  by 
pushing  a  button,  heat  by  turning  a 
screw,  water  by  touching  a  faucet,  and 
food  by  going  down  in  an  elevator,  life 
is  so  detached  from  the  healthy  ex- 
ercise and  discipline  which  used  to 
accompany  the  mere  process  of  living, 
that  one  must  scramble  energetically 
to  a  higher  plane  or  drop  to  a  much 
lower  one. 

When  the  rising  generation  goes  into 
the  militia,  it  is,  old  officers  tell  us, 


148 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  RISING  GENERATION 


'soft'  and  incompetent,  unpleasantly 
affected  by  ants  and  spiders,  querulous 
as  to  tents  and  blankets,  and  generally 
as  incapable  of  adapting  itself  to  the 
details  of  military  life  as  one  would 
expect  a  flat-reared  generation  to  be. 
The  advocates  of  athletics  and  manual 
training  in  our  schools  and  colleges  are 
doing  their  utmost  to  counteract  the 
tendency  to  make  flabby,  fastidious 
bodies  which  comes  from  too-comfort- 
able living;  but  the  task  is  huge. 

Much  more  ado  is  made  over  this 
business  of  training  the  mind  and  body 
to-day  than  ever  before.  From  the 
multiplied  and  improved  machinery  of 
education,  it  would  seem  that  we  must 
be  far  in  advance  of  our  fathers.  But 
where  are  the  results  in  improved  hu- 
manity? The  plain  truth  seems  to  be 
that  the  utmost  which  can  be  done 
for  the  child  to-day  is  not  enough  to 
counterbalance  the  rapidly-growing  dis- 
advantages of  urban  life  and  modern 
conditions.  Vast  increase  in  effort  and 
in  cost  does  not  even  enable  the  race 
to  keep  up  with  itself.  Forging  ahead 
at  full  speed,  we  are  yet  dropping  woe- 
fully behind. 

Training  is  not  a  matter  of  the  mind 
and  body  only.  More  fundamental  to 
personality  than  either  is  the  educa- 
tion of  the  soul.  In  your  up-bringing 
this  has  been  profoundly  neglected  — 
and  here  is  your  cruelest  loss.  Of  the 
generation  of  your  fathers  and  mothers 
it  may  be  generally  affirmed  that  they 
received  their  early  religious  training 
under  the  old  regime.  Their  charac- 
ters were  shaped  by  the  faith  of  their 
fathers,  and  those  characters  usually 
remained  firm  and  fixed,  though  their 
minds  sometimes  became  the  sport  of 
opposing  doctrines.  They  grew  up  in 
a  world  that  was  too  hastily  becoming 
agnostic  as  a  result  of  the  dazzling  new 
discoveries  of  science.  It  was  a  shallow 
interpretation  that  claimed  science 
and  religion  as  enemies  to  the  death. 


So  much  is  clear  now.  But,  shallow  or 
not,  such  was  the  thought  of  the  seven- 
ties. The  rising  generation  of  that  day 
had  to  face  it.  A  great  many  young 
people  then  became  unwilling  martyrs 
to  what  they  believed  the  logic  of  the 
new  knowledge.  It  was  through  inabil- 
ity to  enlarge  their  ideas  of  Him,  to 
meet  the  newly-disclosed  facts  about 
His  universe,  that  they  gave  up  their 
God.  They  lost  their  faith  because  im- 
agination failed  them. 

The  clamor  and  the  shouting  of  that 
old  war  have  already  died  away;  the 
breach  between  science  anti  religion  is 
healed;  the  world  shows  more  and  more 
mysterious  as  our  knowledge  of  it  wid- 
ens, and  we  acknowledge  it  to  be  more 
inexplicable  without  a  Will  behind  its 
phenomena  than  with  one.  But  that 
period  of  storm  and  stress  had  a  prac- 
tical result;  it  is  incarnated  in  the  ris- 
ing generation. 

In  the  wrack  of  beliefs,  your  parents 
managed  to  retain  their  ingrained  prin- 
ciples of  conduct.  Not  knowing  what 
to  teach  you,  they  taught  you  nothing 
whole-heartedly.  Thus  you  have  the 
distinction  of  growing  up  with  a  spir- 
itual training  less  in  quantity  and  more 
diluted  in  quality  than  any  '  Christian ' 
generation  for  nineteen  hundred  years. 
If  you  are  agnostic-and-water,  if  you 
find  nothing  in  the  universe  more  stable 
than  your  own  wills  —  what  wonder? 
Conceived  in  uncertainty,  brought 
forth  in  misgiving  —  how  can  such  a 
generation  be  nobly  militant? 

Before  it  occurred  to  me  to  analyze 
your  deficiencies  and  your  predicament 
thus,  I  used  to  look  at  a  good  many 
members  of  the  rising  generation  and 
wonder  helplessly  what  ailed  them. 
They  were  amiable,  attractive,  lovable 
even,  but  singularly  lacking  in  force, 
personality,  and  the  power  to  endure. 
Conceptions  of  conduct  that  were  the 
very  foundations  of  existence  to  de- 
cent people  even  fifteen  years  their 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  RISING  GENERATION 


149 


seniors  were  to  them  simply  unintellig- 
ible. The  word  'unselfishness,'  for  in- 
stance, had  vanished  from  their  vocab- 
ularies. Of  altruism,  they  had  heard. 
They  thought  it  meant  giving  away 
money  if  you  had  plenty  to  spare.  They 
approved  of  altruism,  but  'self-sacri- 
fice' was  literally  as  Sanscrit  to  their 
ears.  They  demanded  ease;  they  shirk- 
ed responsibility.  They  did  not  seem 
able  to  respond  to  the  notion  of  duty 
as  human  nature  has  always  managed 
to  respond  to  it  before. 

All  this  was  not  a  matter  of  youth. 
One  may  be  undeveloped  and  yet  show 
the  more  clearly  the  stuff  of  which  one 
is  made.  It  was  a  matter  of  substance, 
of  mass.  You  cannot  carve  a  statue 
in  the  round  from  a  thin  marble  slab; 
the  useful  two-by-four  is  valueless  as 
framing-timber  for  ships;  you  cannot 
make  folks  out  of  light-weight  human 
material. 

When  these  young  persons  adopted 
a  philosophy,  it  was  naive  and  inad- 
equate. They  talked  of  themselves  as 
'socialists,'  but  their  ideas  of  social- 
ism were  vague.  To  them  it  was  just 
an  'ism'  that  was  going  to  put  the 
world  to  rights  without  bothering  them 
very  much  to  help  it  along.  They 
seemed  to  feel  that  salvation  would 
come  to  them  by  reading  Whitman  and 
G.  B.  S.,  or  even  the  mild  and  uncer- 
tain Mr.  H.  G.  Wells,  and  that  a  vague, 
general  good-will  toward  man  was  an 
ample  substitute  for  active  effort  and 
self-sacrifice  for  individuals.  Some- 
body, some  day,  was  going  to  push  a 
button,  and  presto!  life  would  be  soft 
and  comfortable  for  everybody. 

Of  socialism  in  general  I  confess  my- 
self incompetent  to  speak.  It  may,  or  it 
may  not,  be  the  solution  of  our  acutely 
pressing  social  problems.  But  if  men 
are  too  cheap,  greedy,  and  sordid  to 
carry  on  a  republic  honestly,  preserv- 
ing that  equality  of  opportunity  which 
this  country  was  founded  to  secure,  it 


must  be  men  who  need  reforming.  The 
more  ideal  the  scheme  of  government, 
the  less  chance  it  has  against  the  in- 
herent crookedness  of  human  nature. 
In  the  last  analysis,  we  are  not  ruled 
by  a  'government,'  but  by  our  own 
natures  objectified,  moulded  into  insti- 
tutions. Rotten  men  make  rotten  gov- 
ernment. If  we  are  not  improving  the 
quality  of  the  human  product,  our  so- 
cial system  is  bound  to  grow  more  cruel 
and  unjust,  whatever  its  name  or  form. 

'But  of  course  you  believe,'  said  one 
pink-cheeked  young  socialist,  expound- 
ing his  doctrine, '  that  the  world  will  be 
a  great  deal  better  when  everybody  has 
a  porcelain  bath-tub  and  goes  through 
high  school.  Why  —  why,  of  course, 
you  must  believe  that!' 

Dear  lad,  I  believe  nothing  of  the 
kind!  You  yourself  have  had  a  por- 
celain bath-tub  from  your  tenderest 
years.  You  also  went  through  high 
school.  Yet  you  are  markedly  inferior 
to  your  old  grandfather  in  everyway, — 
shallower,  feebler,  more  flippant,  less 
efficient  physically  and  even  mentally, 
though  your  work  is  with  books,  and 
his  was  with  flocks  and  herds.  Frankly, 
I  find  in  you  nothing  essential  to  a  man. 
God  knows  what  life  can  make  of  such 
as  you.  I  do  not.  Your  brand  of  social- 
ism is  made  up  of  a  warm  heart,  a  weak 
head,  and  an  unwillingness  to  assume 
responsibility  for  yourself  or  anybody 
else  — in  short,  a  desire  to  shirk.  These 
elements  are  unpleasantly  common  in 
young  socialists  of  my  acquaintance. 
I  know,  of  course,  that  a  very  passion 
of  pity,  a  Christlike  tenderness,  brings 
many  to  that  fold,  but  there  are  more 
of  another  kind.  It  was  one  of  the 
latter  who  was  horrified  by  my  sug- 
gestion that  he  might  have  to  care  for 
his  parents  in  their  old  age.  It  would 
interfere  too  much,  he  said,  with  his 
conception  of  working  out  his  own 
career! 

What  can  one  say  to  this  ?  The  words 


150 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  RISING  GENERATION 


character  and  duty  convey  absolutely 
nothing  to  young  people  of  this  type. 
They  have  not  even  a  fair  working  con- 
ception of  what  such  words  mean.  Did 
I  not  dispute  a  whole  afternoon  with 
another  young  man  about  the  neces- 
sity for  character,  only  to  learn  at  the 
end  of  it  that  he  did  n't  know  what 
character  was.  He  supposed  it  was 
'something  narrow  and  priggish  —  like 
what  deacons  used  to  be.'  And  he, 
mind  you,  was  in  his  twenties,  and 
claimed,  ore  rotunda,  to  be  a  Whitman- 
ite,  a  Shavian,  and  a  socialist.  Also,  he 
was  really  intelligent  about  almost 
everything  but  life  —  which  is  the  only 
thing  it  is  at  all  needful  to  be  intellig- 
ent about. 

The  culte  du  moi  is  one  thing  when  it 
is  representative,  when  one  rhapso- 
dizes one's  self  haughtily  as  a  unit  of 
the  democratic  mass,  as  Whitman  un«- 
doubtedly  did;  and  quite  another  when 
it  is  narrowly  personal,  a  kind  of  glori- 
fication of  the  petty,  personal'  attri- 
butes of  young  John  Smith,  used  by 
him  to  conceal  from  himself  the  de- 
sirability of  remodeling  his  own  per- 
sonality; but  that  is  what  young 
John  Smith,  who  calls  himself  a  Whit- 
manite,  is  making  of  it.  I  knew  one 
of  these  young  persons  —  I  trust  his 
attitude  is  exceptional  —  who  refused 
special  training  for  work  he  wanted  to 
do  on  the  ground  that  he  was  'repel- 
ling interference  with  his  sacred  indi- 
viduality.' 

Twenty  years  ago  there  were  faint- 
hearted disciples  of  Whitman  who  took 
him  as  an  antidote  for  congenital  unas- 
sertiveness.  His  insistence  on  the  val- 
ue of  personality  supplied  something 
needed  in  their  make-up,  and  they 
found  in  wearing  a  flannel  shirt  and 
soft  tie  a  kind  of  spiritual  gymnastic 
that  strengthened  the  flabby  muscles 
of  their  Ego.  The  young  Whitmanites 
of  to-day  have  no  flabby  muscles  in 
their  Ego. 


The  same  temperamental  qualities 
operate  when  they  name  themselves 
Shavians.  Their  philosophy  has  been 
set  forth  lucidly  in  a  recent  Atlantic 
article. :  Its  keynote  is  the  liberation  of 
the  natural  will,  with  the  important 
modifications  that  the  natural  will 
must  hold  itself  to  an  iron  responsibil- 
ity in  its  collisions  with  other  wills, 
must  not  obstruct  the  general  good  of 
society  or  the  evolution  of  the  race. 
To  the  unphilosophic  eye,  these  modi- 
fications look  suspiciously  like  duties 
—  the  old,  old  duties  to  God  and  man. 
Why  go  around  Robin  Hood's  barn  to 
arrive  at  the  point  where  our  ancestors 
set  out?  If  the  exercise  were  mentally 
strengthening,  the  detour  might  be 
justified,  but  the  evidence  of  this  is 
decidedly  incomplete. 

It  may  easily  happen  that  the  next 
twenty  years  will  prove  the  most  in- 
teresting in  the  history  of  civilization. 
Armageddon  is  always  at  hand  in  some 
fashion.  Nice  lads  with  the  blood  of 
the  founders  of  our  nation  in  your 
veins,  pecking  away  at  the  current  lit- 
erature of  socialism,  taking  out  of  it 
imperfectly  understood  apologies  for 
your  temperaments  and  calling  it  phil- 
osophy —  where  will  you  be  if  a  Great 
Day  should  really  dawn  ?  What  is  there 
in  your  way  of  thought  to  help  you 
play  the  man  in  any  crisis?  If  the  foot- 
men have  wearied  you,  how  shall  you 
run  with  the  horsemen?  In  one  way 
or  another,  every  generation  has  to 
fight  for  its  life.  When  your  turn  comes, 
you  will  be  tossed  on  the  scrap-heap, 
shoved  aside  by  boys  of  a  sterner  fibre 
and  a  less  easy  life,  boys  who  have  read 
less  and  worked  more,  boys  who  have 
thought  to  some  purpose  and  have 
been  willing  —  as  you  are  not  —  to  be 
disciplined  by  life. 
If  you  point  out  to  one  of  these  young 

1  "The  Philosophy  of  Bernard  Shaw,"  by 
ARCHIBALD  HENDERSON,  in  the  Atlantic  for 
February,  1909.  —  THE  EDITORS. 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  RISING  GENERATION 


151 


Whitmanshaws  the  fact  that  the  Ten 
Commandments  are  concrete  sugges- 
tions for  so  conducting  life  that  it  will 
interfere  as  little  as  possible  with  'the 
general  good  of  society  and  the  evolu- 
tion of  the  race,'  and  that  the  Golden 
Rule  is  a  general  principle  covering 
the  same  ground,  he  will  tell  you  that 
the  Ten  Commandments  and  the  Gold- 
en Rule  are  bad  because  they  are  pro- 
mulgated on  Authority,  and  nobody 
must  take  things  on  Authority  —  for 
Mr.  Shaw  says  so!  One  must  find  it 
all  out  for  himself.  If  you  suggest  that 
it  is  possible  to  regard  Authority  as  the 
data  collected  by  those  who  have  pre- 
ceded him  along  the  trail,  telling  him 
what  they  found  out  about  the  road, 
so  as  to  save  him  from  trouble  and  dan- 
ger; if  you  maintain  that  it  is  as  un- 
scientific to  reject  previous  discoveries 
in  ethics  as  in  engineering,  he  may  be 
silenced,  but  he  will  not  be  convinced, 
for  his  revolt  is  not  a  matter  of  logic 
but  of  feeling.  He  wants  to  do  as  he 
pleases.  He  desires  to  be  irresponsible, 
and  he  will  adopt  any  philosophy  which 
seems  to  him  to  hold  out  a  justification 
of  irresponsibility,  as  he  will  adopt  any 
theory  of  social  organization  which 
promises  to  relieve  him  of  a  man's  work 
in  the  world.  I  am  not  exaggerating 
the  shallowness  of  this  attitude. 

All  educated  young  people  are  not 
'intellectuals.'  Most  of  them  are  per- 
fectly contented  without  any  articu- 
late philosophy  as  an  apology  for  their 
inclinations.  There  is  also  a  consid- 
erable body  of  them  who  are  already 
painfully  commercialized  even  in  their 
school-days.  On  the  whole,  the  kind  of 
young  socialist  who  resents  the  idea  of 
having  to  care  for  his  parents  in  their 
helpless  age  is  less  of  a  menace  to  so- 
ciety as  now  constituted  than  the  kind 
of  young  individualist  who  boasts  how 
much  money  he  acquired  during  his 
college  course  by  making  loans  to  his 
classmates  upon  the  security  of  their 


evening-clothes  and  watches.  The  lat- 
ter, hard  as  nails  and  predatory,  has 
already  moulded  himself  into  a  dis- 
tinctly anti-social  shape;  the  former  is 
still  amorphous,  still  groping.  There  is 
yet  a  chance  that  he  may  make  a  man. 

I  am  not  a  philosopher.  I  know  only 
so  much  as  the  man  in  the  street  may 
know,  the  rough-and-ready  philosophy 
that  is  born  in  us  all.  Just  so  long  as 
any  system  of  education  or  any  phil- 
osophy produces  folks  that  are  folks, 
wisdom  is  justified  of  her  children. 
That  system  has  earned  the  right  to 
stand.  This  point  is  not  debatable. 
Even  the  new  prophets  concede  it. 
For  the  end  of  all  education,  the  busi- 
ness of  all  living,  is  to  make  men  and 
women.  All  else  is  vain  toil.  The  old 
conditions  produced  them;  the  new  do 
not. 

Certain  qualities  go  to  the  making  of 
any  human  being  whom  other  human 
beings  esteem.  Certain  ingredients  are 
as  necessary  to  a  man  as  flour  and 
yeast  to  bread,  or  iron  and  carbon  to 
steel.  You  cannot  make  them  any 
other  way.  There  is  a  combination  of 
steadiness  of  purpose,  breadth  of  mind, 
kindliness,  wholesome  common  sense, 
justice,  perhaps  a  flash  of  humor,  cer- 
tainly a  capacity  for  the  task  in  hand, 
that  produces  a  worth-while  person. 
The  combination  occurs  in  every  rank 
in  life.  You  find  it  as  often  in  the 
kitchen  as  in  the  parlor;  oftener,  per- 
haps, in  the  field  than  in  the  office. 
The  people  who  are  so  composed  have 
spiritual  length,  breadth,  thickness; 
they  are  people  of  three  dimensions. 
Everybody  feels  alike  about  them, 
even  you  youngsters.  For  this  saving 
grace  I  have  noticed  about  you  — 
you  do,  after  all,  know  whom  to  like 
when  types  are  put  before  you  in  the 
flesh.  Never  by  any  chance  do  you 
waste  your  real  admiration  on  the  one- 
dimension  people  who,  like  points, 
have  'position  but  no  magnitude,' or 


152 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  RISING  GENERATION 


on  the  two-dimension  people  who,  like 
planes,  'have  length  and  breadth  but 
no  depth.'  You  frankly  don't  care 
much  for  the  kind  of  creature  your 
own  ideas  would  shape.  You  want  peo- 
ple to  be  stanch,  patient,  able,  just  as 
much  as  if  you  were  not  repudiating 
for  yourselves  the  attitudes  which 
produce  these  things. 

Force,  personality,  the  power  to  en- 
dure: these  our  fathers  had;  these  you 
are  losing.  Yet  life  itself  demands 
them  as  much  as  it  ever  did.  For  though 
we  may  be  getting  soft  and  losing 
our  stamina  (another  word  which,  like 
fortitude,  has  gone  out  of  fashion) ,  the 
essential  elements  of  life  remain  un- 
changeable. Life  is  not,  and  is  not  meant 
to  be  a  cheap,  easy  matter,  even  for 
flat-dwellers.  It  is  a  grim,  hard,  deso- 
late piece  of  work,  shot  through  with 
all  sorts  of  exquisite,  wonderful,  com- 
pensating experiences. 

Consider  the  matter  of  your  own  ex- 
istence and  support  that  you  accept 
with  such  nonchalant  ease.  Every  child 
born  into  the  world  is  paid  for  with 
literal  blood,  sweat,  tears.  That  is  the 
fixed  price,  and  there  are  no  bargain 
sales.  Years  of  toil,  months  of  care, 
hours  of  agony,  go  to  your  birth  and 
rearing.  What  excuse  have  you,  any- 
how, for  turning  out  flimsy,  shallow, 
amusement-seeking  creatures,  when 
you  think  of  the  elements  in  your  mak- 
ing? The  price  is  paid  gladly.  That  is 
your  fathers'  and  mothers'  part.  Yours 
is,  to  be  worth  it.  You  have  your  own 
salvation  to  work  out.  It  must  be  sal- 
vation, and  it  must  be  achieved  by 
work.  That  is  the  law,  and  there  is  no 
other. 

Our  rushing,  mechanical,  agitated 
way  of  living  tends  to  hide  these  root- 
facts  from  you.  Years  ago  I  asked  a 
young  girl,  compelled  for  reasons  of 
health  to  spend  her  winters  away  from 
her  home,  how  she  filled  her  days.  'It 
takes  a  good  deal  of  time  to  find  out 


what  I  think  about  things,'  she  an- 
swered, explaining  thereby,  in  part, 
the  depth  in  her  own  character  as  well 
as  the  shallowness  in  whole  groups  of 
others.  In  simpler  days,  when  there 
was  more  work  and  less  amusement, 
there  was  more  time  for  thinking,  and 
thinking  is  creative  of  personality .  Some 
of  it  must  go  to  the  making  of  any  crea- 
ture who  counts  at  all,  as  must  also 
some  actual  work.  Also,  and  you  ought 
to  know  this  and  to  be  able  to  rejoice 
in  it,  the  other  great  creative  elements 
in  personality  are  responsibility  and 
suffering.  The  unshapen  lump  of  raw 
human  material  that  we  are  cannot 
take  on  lines  of  identity  without  the 
hammer,  the  chisel,  the  drill  —  that 
comparison  must  certainly  be  as  old  as 
the  art  of  moralizing,  but  it  has  not  lost 
its  force. 

Sometimes  you  prattle  confidently 
of  growth  by  'development,'  as  though 
that  were  an  affair  of  ease.  It  is  only 
experience,  the  reaction  of  our  activ- 
ities on  the  self,  which  develops;  and 
experience  has  immense  possibilities 
of  pain.  Have  you  forgotten  what  you 
learned  in  your  psychology  concern- 
ing the  very  kernel  of  selfhood?  'We 
measure  ourselves  by  many  standards. 
Our  strength  and  our  intelligence,  our 
wealth  and  even  our  good  luck,  are 
things  which  warm  our  heart  and  make 
us  feel  ourselves  a  match  for  life.  But 
deeper  than  all  such  things,  and  able 
to  suffice  unto  itself  without  them,  is 
the  sense  of  the  amount  of  effort  we  can 
put  forth  ...  as  if  it  were  the  sub- 
stantive thing  which  we  are,  and  those 
were  but  the  externals  which  we  carry. 
.  .  .  He  who  can  make  none  is  but 
a  shadow;  he  who  can  make  much  is  a 
hero.' 

We  are,  obviously,  here  to  be  made 
into  something  by  life.  It  seizes  and 
shapes  us.  The  process  is  sometimes 
very  pleasant,  sometimes  very  painful. 
So  be  it.  It  is  all  in  the  day's  work,  and 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  RISING  GENERATION 


153 


only  the  worthless  will  try  to  evade 
their  proper  share  of  either  pain  or 
pleasure.  To  seek  more  of  the  former 
would  be  bravado,  as  to  accept  less 
would  be  dishonor.  The  whole  matter 
is  of  such  a  simplicity  that  only  the 
suspicion  of  a  concerted,  though  un- 
conscious, attempt  of  an  entire  genera- 
tion to  get  the  pleasure  without  the 
due  pain  of  living,  would  justify  such 
a  definite  statement  of  it  here. 

The  other  day  I  beheld  a  woman 
whose  husband  earns  something  less 
than  two  hundred  dollars  a  month, 
purchasing  her  season's  wardrobe. 
Into  it  went  one  hat  at  fifty  dollars  and 
another  at  thirty  dollars.  Her  neigh- 
bors in  the  flat-building  admired  and 
envied.  One  of  the  bolder  wondered. 
'Well,  I  can't  help  it,'  said  Mrs.  Jones. 
'I  just  tell  Mr.  Jones  life  is  n't  worth 
livin'  if  I  can't  have  what  I  want.' 
This,  you  see,  was  her  way  of  'liber- 
ating the  natural  will.' 

The  truth  is  that  life  is  n't  worth 
livin'  if  you  can  have  what  you  want 
—  unless  you  happen  to  be  the  excep- 
tional person  who  wants  discipline,  re- 
sponsibility, effort,  suffering. 

From  the  thought  of  Mrs.  Jones  and 
her  hats,  I  like  to  turn  to  a  certain  vol- 
ume of  memoirs,  giving  a  picture  of 
New  England  life  in  the  first  half  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  It  is  an  in- 
comparable textbook  on  the  art  of  get- 
ting the  most  out  of  living.  It  sets 
forth  in  such  concrete,  vivid  fashion  as 
to  kindle  the  most  reluctant  imagina- 
tion, the  habits  and  virtues  of  a  plain- 
living,  high-thinking,  purposeful  day. 
The  delightful  lady  who  is  the  subject 
of  it  found  three  dresses  at  a  time  an 
ample  outfit,  and  six  days'  sewing  a 
year  sufficed  for  her  wardrobe;  but  she 
had  'a  noble  presence  and  what  would 
have  been  called  stately  manners  had 
they  not  been  so  gracious.' 1  Before  the 

1  Recollections  of  My  Mother.  By  SUSAN  I. 
LESLEY.  Boston:  Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 


age  of  twenty  she  had  read  'all  the  au- 
thors on  metaphysics  and  ethics  that 
were  then  best  known,'  and  through- 
out life  she  kept  eagerly  in  touch  with 
the  thought  of  the  day.  This  did  not 
interfere  with  her  domestic  concerns, 
as  they  did  not  narrow  her  social  life. 
If  she  arose  at  four  A.  M.  to  sweep  the 
parlors,  calling  the  domestics  and  the 
family  at  six,  it  was  that  she  might  find 
time  for  reading  during  the  morning, 
and  for  entertaining  her  friends  in  the 
evening,  as  she  habitually  did  some 
three  times  a  week.  She  managed  a 
large  house  and  a  large  family,  and  her 
wit,  cultivation,  and  energy  enriched 
life  for  everybody  who  knew  her.  She 
had  'no  higher  aim  than  to  light  and 
warm  the  neighborhood  where  God 
had  placed  her.'  She  and  her  sisters 
'had  never  dreamed  of  a  life  of  ease, 
or  of  freedom  from  care,  as  anything 
to  be  desired.  On  the  contrary,  they 
gloried  in  responsibility  .  .  .  with  all 
the  intensity  of  simple  and  healthy 
natures.' 

That  day  is  gone,  not  to  return,  but 
its  informing  spirit  can  be  recaptured 
and  applied  to  other  conditions  as  a 
solvent.  If  that  were  done,  I  think  the 
Golden  Age  might  come  again,  even 
here  and  now. 

No  generalizations  apply  to  all  of  a 
class.  Numerically,  of  course,  many  of 
the  rising  generation  are  fine  and  com- 
petent young  people,  stanch,  generous, 
right-minded,  seeking  to  give  and  to 
get  the  best  in  life  and  to  leave  the 
world  better  than  they  found  it.  I  take 
it,  any  young  person  who  reads  the  At- 
lantic will  have  chosen  this  better  part 
—  but,  suppose  you  had  n't!  Suppose 
you  discovered  yourself  to  be  one  of 
those  unfortunates  herein  described? 
Deprived  of  the  disciplinary  alphabet, 
multiplication- table,  Latin  grammar; 
dispossessed  of  the  English  Bible,  most 
stimulating  of  literary  as  well  as  of 
ethical  inheritances;  despoiled  of  your 


154 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  RISING   GENERATION 


birthright  in  the  religion  that  made 
your  ancestors;  destitute  of  incentives 
to  hardihood  and  physical  exertion; 
solicited  to  indolence  by  cheap  amuse- 
ments, to  self-conceit  by  cheap  philo- 
sophies, to  greed  by  cheap  wealth  — 
what,  then,  is  left  for  you? 

Even  if  your  predicament  were,  with- 
out relief,  dire  as  this,  you  would  at 
least  have  the  chance  to  put  up  a  won- 
derful fight.  It  would  be  so  good  a 
thing  to  win  against  those  odds  that 
one's  blood  tingles  at  the  thought.  But 
there  are  several  elements  which  alter 
the  position.  For  one,  the  lack  of  a 
definite  religious  training  is  not  irre- 
parable. 

This  is  not  a  sermon,  and  it  is  for 
others  to  tell  those  how  to  find  God 
who  have  not  yet  attained  unto  Him, 
but  it  is  certain  that  the  mature  world 
around  you  with  which  you  are  just 
coming  into  definite  relation  is  moral- 
ly very  much  alive  just  now.  That  its 
moral  awakening  is  not  exactly  on  the 
lines  of  previous  ones,  does  not  make 
it  less  authentic  or  contagious.  Unless 
you  are  prematurely  case-hardened,  it 
is  bound  to  affect  you. 

Then  —  you  are  young.  It  is  quite 
within  your  power  to  surprise  yourselves 
and  discomfit  the  middle-aged  prophets 
of  evil  who  write  you  pages  of  warn- 
ings. The  chance  of  youth  is  always 
the  very  greatest  chance  in  the  world, 
the  chance  of  the  uncharted  sea,  of  the 
undiscovered  land. 

The  idealism  of  the  young  and  their 
plasticity  in  the  hands  of  their  ideals 
have  carried  this  old  world  through  evil 
days  before  now.  It  has  always  been 
held  true  that  so  long  as  you  are  un- 
der twenty-five,  you  are  not  irrevoc- 
ably committed  to  your  own  deficien- 
cies. I  wonder  if  you  realize  that  for 
you,  first  among  the  sons  of  men,  that 


period  of  grace  has  been  indefinitely 
extended? 

The  brain-specialists  and  the  psycho- 
logists between  them  have  given  in 
the  last  ten  years  what  seems  conclus- 
ive proof  of  the  servitude  of  the  body 
to  the  Self;  they  have  shown  how,  by 
use  of  the  appropriate  mechanism  in 
our  make-up,  we  can  control  to  a  de- 
gree even  the  automatisms  of  our 
bodies;  they  have  demonstrated  the 
absolute  mastery  of  will  over  conduct. 
Those  ancient  foes,  Heredity  and  Hab- 
it, can  do  very  little  against  you,  to- 
day, that  you  are  not  in  a  position  to 
overcome.  Since  the  world  began,  no 
human  creatures  have  had  the  scien- 
tific assertion  of  this  that  you  possess. 
Many  wise  and  many  righteous  have 
longed  to  be  assured  of  these  matters, 
and  have  agonized  through  life  with- 
out that  certainty.  Saints  and  sages 
have  achieved  by  long  prayer  and  fast- 
ing the  graces  that  you,  apparently, 
may  attain  by  the  easy  process  of  a  self- 
suggestion. 

Coming  as  this  psychological  discov- 
ery does,  in  the  middle  of  an  age  of 
unparalleled  mechanical  invention  and 
discovery,  it  is  almost  —  is  it  not?  —  as 
if  the  Creator  of  men  had  said,  'It  is 
time  that  these  children  of  mine  came 
to  maturity.  I  will  give  them  at  last 
their  full  mastery  over  the  earth  and 
over  the  air  and  over  the  spirits  of 
themselves.  Let  us  see  how  they  bear 
themselves  under  these  gifts.' 

Thus,  your  responsibility  for  your- 
selves is  such  an  utter  responsibility  as 
the  race  has  never  known.  It  is  the 
ultimate  challenge  to  human  worth 
and  human  power.  You  dare  not  fail 
under  it.  I  think  the  long  generations 
of  your  fathers  hold  their  breath  to  see 
if  you  do  less  with  certainty  than  they 
have  done  with  faith. 


GERMAN  AND  BRITISH  EXPERIENCE  WITH  TRUSTS 


BY   GILBERT   HOLLAND   MONTAGUE 


LAST  June,  Congress  voted  two  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  to  prosecute  vio- 
lations of  the  Sherman  Anti-Trust  Act. 
During  the  past  year,  the  federal  gov- 
ernment has  prosecuted  actions  against 
several  great  railroad  systems,  and 
against  combinations  of  dealers  and 
manufacturers  of  beef-products,  lum- 
ber, powder,  licorice,  sugar,  oil,  tobac- 
co, fertilizer,  elevators,  salt,  groceries, 
paper,  drugs,  ice,  butter,  cotton,  and 
plumbers'  supplies.  At  present,  appeals 
are  pending  in  the  Supreme  Court  of 
the  United  States,  involving  the  fate 
of  the  Standard  Oil  Company  and  the 
American  Tobacco  Company,  and  of 
about  a  hundred  other  concerns  and 
individuals  engaged  in  the  manufacture 
and  sale  of  various  products  of  petro- 
leum and  tobacco.  Upon  the  decision 
of  the  court  in  these  cases,  as  appears 
from  a  tabulation  in  Moody's  Man- 
ual, depend  the  validity  and  corporate 
life  of  1198  'holding  companies,'  with 
8110  subsidiaries  and  $10,612,372,489 
capital.  This  conflict  between  business 
enterprise,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
law-making  and  law-enforcing  branches 
of  the  government,  on  the  other,  is 
to-day  the  most  momentous  fact  in 
American  industrial  and  political  life. 

To  a  foreigner,  unmoved  by  the  po- 
litical passions  which  this  conflict  has 
unhappily  engendered,  this  hostility 
toward  industrial  combination  is  in- 
comprehensible. In  Europe,  combina- 
tion is  generally  approved  as  a  normal 
force  in  industrial  development;  and 
instead  of  prohibiting  combination,  the 
law  —  if  legislation  is  found  necessary 


—  merely  forbids  specific  fraudulent 
and  wrongful  practices,  whether  they 
occur  in  small  businesses  or  in  the  larg- 
est combinations.  A  foreigner  cannot 
fail  to  wonder,  in  the  words  of  the  Hon- 
orable Seth  Low,  'that  a  people  who 
have  constituted  the  greatest  republic 
in  history  by  the  combination  of  many 
states  should,  even  for  a  moment,  deny 
to  its  own  commercial  agencies  the  op- 
portunity of  giving  better  service,  by 
proceeding  along  the  same  lines';  for 
in  Europe  such  development  is  heartily 
encouraged. 

In  Germany  the  trust  movement  is 
older  than  the  Empire.  Early  in  the 
sixties,  combinations  arose  among  the 
salt-producers  and  steel-rail  manufac- 
turers. After  the  industrial  crisis  of 
1873,  the  movement  toward  consolid- 
ation became  very  conspicuous. 

Until  1875,  the  states  of  Prussia  and 
Anhalt  owned  all  the  mineral  potash 
mines  in  Germany.  Private  manu- 
facturers, however,  worked  up  the  raw 
material,  and  in  1876,  after  new  mines 
had  been  opened  by  private  companies, 
their  destructive  competition  led  them 
to  make  a  temporary  agreement  upon 
prices.  In  self-protection,  the  states 
of  Prussia  and  Anhalt,  in  1879,  formed 
a  combination  which  lasted  until  1883. 
Meanwhile,  Prussia  erected  state  fac- 
tories to  manufacture  the  product  of 
her  own  mines,  in  order  that  she  might 
strengthen  her  position  to  control 
prices.  In  1883,  the  combination  was 
extended  until  1888;  and  Prussia,  by 
virtue  of  her  dominant  position  in  the 
industry,  obtained  the  right  to  veto 

155 


156     GERMAN  AND  BRITISH  EXPERIENCE  WITH  TRUSTS 


any  increase  in  the  price  of  the  product. 
This  combination,  which  has  contin- 
ued to  the  present  time,  has  been  op- 
erated with  scrupulous  regard  for  the 
public  interest.  By  the  terms  of  the 
combination  agreement,  the  admin- 
istrative powers  of  the  combination 
were  vested  in  an  executive  commit- 
tee, composed  of  the  representatives 
of  all  the  mines  and  factories.  A  spe- 
cial selling  agency,  composed  of  two 
or  three  members,  took  charge  of  all 
the  sales.  All  contracts  were  made 
through  this  agency,  and  the  filling  of 
the  contracts  was  intrusted  to  the  dif- 
ferent producers,  who  were  paid  di- 
rectly by  the  consumers.  Each  factory 
kept  an  account  of  the  sums  received, 
and  from  time  to  time  an  adjustment 
of  receipts  was  made  upon  the  basis 
fixed  by  the  combination  agreement. 
An  increase  of  production  could  be  com- 
pelled by  the  Prussian  Minister  of 
Commerce  and  Industry,  after  afford- 
ing an  opportunity  for  a  hearing  to  the 
executive  committee  of  the  combina- 
tion. In  the  first  instance,  the  execu- 
tive committee  of  the  combination 
could  fix  the  price  of  the  product.  The 
Prussian  Minister,  however,  could 
veto  any  increase  of  price;  and  after 
hearing  the  executive  committee,  he 
could  fix  exceptionally  low  prices  for 
German  farmers.  This  right  he  has 
generally  exercised  so  as  to  favor  do- 
mestic agriculture  at  the  expense  of 
foreign  trade,  and  to  reduce  the  export- 
ation of  potash.  By  the  terms  of  the 
combination  agreement,  the  mine-own- 
ers were  compelled  to  deliver  a  speci- 
fied quantity  of  raw  material  to  the 
manufacturers,  and  were  forbidden  to 
sell  outside  the  combination.  The 
manufacturers,  on  the  other  hand,  were 
required  to  observe  the  rules  of  the 
combination  regarding  prices  and  pro- 
duction. Private  concerns  in  the  com- 
bination were  compelled  to  deposit 
Prussian  securities  in  large  amount  to 


guarantee  the  faithful  performance  of 
their  agreements.  The  Prussian  mine- 
owners  and  manufacturers  could  leave 
the  combination  at  the  end  of  any  cal- 
endar year  and  thus  break  the  monopo- 
ly whenever  it  seemed  desirable.  These 
are  the  rules  under  which  the  potash 
combination  has  operated  for  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  century. 

Similar  conditions  prevail  in  the  salt 
industry.  In  1887,  three  combinations 
were  formed,  out  of  which  grew  the 
North  German  and  South  German  salt 
kartells.  Any  member  of  these  kartells 
may  leave  them  at  will;  but  the  mem- 
bers themselves  are  largely  groups  of 
plants  which  organized  to  escape  the 
demoralization  of  prices  after  salt 
ceased  to  be  a  governmental  monopoly, 
and  there  seems  little  desire  to  break 
away.  One  of  the  chief  purposes  and 
achievements  of  these  kartells  has 
been  to  extend  the  sale  of  salt  as  wide- 
ly as  possible,  and  to  keep  the  retail 
price  as  low  as  is  consistent  with  fair 
profits.  To  this  end  the  managers  have 
insisted  that  the  profits  of  producers 
and  wholesalers  be  limited  to  a  figure 
fixed  by  the  kartell. 

In  1910,  the  Reichstag  passed  a  stat- 
ute which,  in  effect,  enacted  into  law 
the  rules  of  the  potash  combination 
agreement.  This  statute  fixed  the 
amount  of  production  and  the  maxi- 
mum price  of  the  product;  provided 
that  every  two  years  the  production 
of  each  concern  must  be  redetermined, 
on  the  basis  of  the  demand  for  the  pre- 
ceding years,  and  required  that  any 
concern  producing  more  than  its  allot- 
ment must  pay  a  prohibitive  govern- 
mental charge. 

In  1881,  a  combination  was  formed 
of  the  coal-mines  of  the  Westphalian 
District.  Subsequently,  a  firm  organ- 
ization of  coke  manufacturers  was 
formed,  called  the  Westphalian  Coke 
Syndicate.  Various  local  combinations 
of  coal-dealers  proved  so  successful 


GERMAN  AND  BRITISH  EXPERIENCE  WITH  TRUSTS      157 


that,  in  1893,  the  Rhenish- Westphalian 
Coal  Syndicate  was  incorporated  for 
the  purpose  of  selling  the  coal,  coke, 
and  briquettes  produced  in  Western 
Germany.  All  the  mine-owners  agreed 
to  deliver  their  entire  output  to  the 
syndicate,  which  undertook  to  market 
the  entire  product  and  to  distribute  all 
orders  received  among  the  different 
mine-owners,  according  to  their  output. 
At  the  end  of  the  year,  a  general  reckon- 
ing was  made,  and  mine-owners  who 
had  delivered  more  than  their  required 
share  paid  over  to  the  syndicate  a  sum 
sufficient  to  make  their  profits  pro- 
portional, which  sum  was  distributed 
among  those  who  had  delivered  less 
than  their  entire  share.  For  breach  of 
this  agreement,  the  mine-owner  became 
liable  to  a  large  fine. 

The  German  iron  trade  was  organ- 
ized no  less  efficiently  than  the  coal 
trade.1  With  equal  rapidity,  combina- 

1  The  Consolidated  Pig  Iron  Syndicate, 
organized  in  1897,  had  its  head  office  in  Diissel- 
dorf,  and  combined  three  subsidiary  syndicates 
—  the  Rhenish- Westphalian  Syndicate,  formed 
in  1894,  the  Association  for  the  Sale  of  Pig  Iron 
of  the  Siegerland,  formed  in  1896,  and  the  Comp- 
toir  of  Lorraine  and  Luxemburg,  formed  in  1896. 
The  Ingot  and  Billet  Steel  Syndicate,  known  as 
the  Halbzeng-Verband,  organized  in  1897  and 
1898,  also  had  its  head  office  in  Dusseldorf,  and 
included  the  steel  works  of  the  Moselle,  the  Saar, 
the  Luxemburg,  the  Rhine,  and  Westphalia. 
In  the  same  building  with  this  syndicate  was 
the  Consolidated  Girder  Syndicate,  organized 
in  1899  and  comprising  three  subsidiary  syn- 
dicates —  the  South  German  Girder  Syndicate, 
formed  in  1884,  composed  of  the  rolling-mills 
of  the  Saar  District  and  of  Luxemburg,  the 
Girder  Syndicate  of  the  Lower  Rhine  and  West- 
phalia, whose  operations  extend  to  Northern 
Germany,  and  finally  the  Peine  works  in  Han- 
over, which  supply  Eastern  Germany.  The  Wire 
Rod  Syndicate,  formed  in  1896,  had  its  head 
office  at  Hagen,  Westphalia.  The  Plate  Syn- 
dicate, projected  in  1897  and  incorporated  in 
1898,  had  its  head  office  at  Essen-on-the-Ruhr. 
The  Drawn  Wire  Syndicate,  organized  in  1899, 
located  at  Hamm,  in  Westphalia,  and  operated 
in  Northern  and  Northwestern  Germany,  Saxony, 
Silesia,  and  South  Germany.  —  THE  AUTHOR. 


tions  were  formed  in  other  branches  of 
German  trade.  As  early  as  1880,  inter- 
national combinations  between  Ger- 
man producers  and  foreign  producers 
were  organized.  In  1897,  forty-one 
such  combinations  existed,  including 
in  their  membership  concerns  in  Eng- 
land, Austria,  and  South  America,  as 
well  as  in  Germany.  During  the  years 
from  1888  to  1901,  the  trust  movement 
in  Germany  exceeded  in  importance 
that  in  the  United  States.  In  1897, 
there  were  in  Germany  about  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  known  and  identified 
combinations  of  national  importance, 
not  including  single  concerns  which 
had  attained  trust  size,  and  local  com- 
binations and  associations  or  spec- 
ulative rings.  The  chemical  industry 
showed  eighty-two  such  combinations, 
the  iron  industry  eighty,  the  stone  and 
clay  industry  fifty-nine,  the  textile  in- 
dustry thirty-eight,  and  the  paper  in- 
dustry nineteen. 

As  regards  the  industries  concerned, 
and  the  relative  proportion  of  trade 
affected,  the  German  movement  to- 
ward consolidation  is  fairly  compar- 
able to  the  American  trust  movement. 
Both  demonstrate  the  natural  and  in- 
evitable tendency  toward  combination. 
The  Industrial  Commission  of  the 
United  States  reported  to  Congress  in 
1901  that  'in  Germany  it  is  probable 
that  the  movement  has  extended  as  far 
as  in  the  United  States;  and  that  the 
combinations  there,  speaking  gener- 
ally, exert  as  great  power  over  prices, 
over  wages,  and  in  other  directions,  as 
they  do  here.'  Speaking  of  the  Rhen- 
ish-Westphalian  Coal  Syndicate,  the 
Commission  stated  that  'that  form  of 
organization  seems,  on  the  whole,  to 
have  been  very  successful  and  to  have 
brought  about  what  is,  perhaps,  on  the 
whole,  the  largest  and  most  effective 
combination  in  Germany,  if  not,  in- 
deed, in  the  world.'  A  comparison  is 
fairly  invited,  therefore,  between  the 


158     GERMAN  AND   BRITISH   EXPERIENCE  WITH  TRUSTS 


American  attitude  toward  trusts  and 
the  treatment  of  trusts  in  Germany. 

In  response  to  an  inquiry  of  the 
American  Consul-General  at  Berlin, 
Doctor  Ernest  von  Halle,  professor  in 
the  University  of  Berlin,  who  wrote 
the  well  known  authoritative  book 
entitled  Trusts  in  the  United  States, 
declared:  — 

'I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that,  ac- 
cording to  my  opinion,  Germany 
would  be  already  in  the  midst  of  a 
dangerous  industrial  crisis  but  for  the 
modifying  and  regulating  influence  of 
our  kartells,  in  most  branches  of  pro- 
duction and  distribution.  The  coun- 
try, with  its  dense  population  and 
increasing  capital  that  seeks  employ- 
ment, could  not  stand  that  reckless 
speculation  that  would  result  from 
unrestrained  competition.  Modern  pro- 
duction, by  means  of  steam-driven 
machinery,  cannot  stand  unlimited 
competition,  which  too  often  leads  to 
the  destruction  of  the  value  of  large 
capital.  Machine  production  requires 
close  technical  regulation,  and  does  not 
admit  of  economic  anarchy.  So  the 
effect  of  kartells  seems  to  have  been  to 
initiate  a  more  harmonious  industrial 
system,  permitting  promoters  to  in- 
vest their  capital  in  many  instances 
with  ease  and  safety,  where  without 
combinations  they  might  have  been 
too  timid  to  assume  the  risks  of  com- 
petition. The  relatively  low  quota- 
tions of  German  consols  and  other 
public  securities  may  be  partly  attrib- 
uted to  the  great  number  of  safe  in- 
vestments in  kartellized  industrial 
undertakings.  .  .  .  Opposition  to 
trusts  has  nowhere  been  made  a  plank 
of  political  platforms,  or  been  used  in 
election  contests.  Among  officials, 
scientists,  and  lawyers,  kartells  are  not 
considered  unwholesome  or  objection- 
able per  se.  The  Supreme  Court  of  the 
Empire  (Reichsgericht),'m  March,  1898, 
officially  recognized  the  economic 


justification  of  combinations,  and  their 
right  to  legal  protection,  unless  they 
use  unlawful  methods  of  checking  com- 
petitors who  decline  to  join  them.' 

The  German  Government  emphatic- 
ally favors  the  trust  form  of  industry. 
In  the  Prussian  Reichstag,  in  1900,  a 
member  charged  that  the  Coal  Syndi- 
cate had  greatly  increased  the  price  of 
coal  and  coke,  and  urged  the  ministry 
to  take  action  against  the  Syndicate. 
Herr  Brefeld,  Minister  of  Trade  and 
Commerce,  replied  with  a  careful  re- 
view of  prices  and  trade  conditions, 
and  concluded  as  follows :  — 

'No  one  can  justly  make  complaints 
against  the  workings  of  the  Syndicate. 
It  has  had  the  result  of  making  the 
development  of  prices  and  wages  more 
even,  steady,  and  certain  than  it  was 
formerly.  I  am  firmly  convinced  that 
if  the  Syndicate  had  not  existed  we 
should  now  have  prices  less  satisfac- 
tory than  those  which  we  have  had, 
and  that  we  should  hereafter  have  to 
complain  of  a  depression  in  prices.' 

But  the  strangest  contrast  to  Amer- 
ican conditions  is  presented  by  the 
German  laws  and  the  decisions  of  their 
courts.  While  the  American  states 
have  been  vying  with  one  another  in 
passing  lax  corporation  laws,  Germany, 
through  strict  corporation  laws,  has 
rigorously  and  successfully  been  elim- 
inating fraudulent  corporate  methods 
and  encouraging  the  growth  of  sound 
business  enterprise.  The  Germans 
have  enacted  no  prohibitory  legisla- 
tion on  the  subject  of  trusts.  Instead 
of  hounding  industry  with  barbarous 
anti-trust  statutes,  they  have  favored 
in  the  utmost  degree  combinations 
designed  to  prevent  ruinous  competi- 
tion and  to  attain  industrial  efficiency. 
The  German  courts  have  valiantly 
assisted  the  efforts  of  the  German  law- 
makers. How  different  from  the  pro- 
crustean  laws  of  trade  which  Ameri- 
can anti-trust  legislation  compels  our 


GERMAN  AND  BRITISH  EXPERIENCE  WITH  TRUSTS      159 


courts  to  enforce,  is  the  sensible  busi- 
ness logic  of  this  opinion  of  the  Ger- 
man Reichsgericht :  — 

'When  in  a  branch  of  industry  th,e 
prices  of  a  product  fall  too  low,  and 
the  successful  conduct  of  the  industry 
is  endangered  or  becomes  impossible, 
the  crisis  which  sets  in  is  detrimental, 
not  merely  to  individuals,  but  to  soci- 
ety as  a  whole.  It  is  in  the  interests 
of  the  community  therefore  that  inor- 
dinately low  prices  should  not  exist  in 
any  industry  for  a  long  time.  The  leg- 
islatures have  often,  and  recently, 
tried  to  obtain  higher  prices  for  pro- 
ducts by  enacting  protective  tariffs. 
Clearly  it  cannot  be  considered  con- 
trary to  the  interests  of  the  commun- 
ity when  business  men  unite  with  the 
object  of  preventing  or  limiting  the 
practice  of  underselling,  and  the  fall  of 
prices.  On  the  contrary,  when  prices 
for  a  long  time  are  so  low  that  finan- 
cial ruin  threatens  the  business  men, 
their  combination  appears  to  be  not 
merely  a  legitimate  means  of  self-pre- 
servation, but  rather  a  measure  serv- 
ing the  interests  of  the  entire  com- 
munity.' 

Thus  did  the  highest  court  in  the 
German  Empire  expound  the  law  in 
consonance  with  modern  economic 
development.  The  reference  to  pro- 
tective tariffs  has  almost  an  American 
sound,  and  is  respectfully  commended 
to  the  attention  of  every  American 
Congressman. 

In  the  case  just  quoted  the  lower 
court  had  held  —  as  most  American 
courts,  under  present  laws,  would  have 
to  hold  —  that  an  agreement  whereby 
several  producers  bound  themselves  to 
sell  their  product  through  a  joint  sell- 
ing agency  was  unlawful  and  could  not 
be  enforced.  But  the  Reichsgericht 
reversed  this  decision  and  upheld  the 
agreement. 

Since  this  decision  was  rendered,  the 
Reichsgericht  has  also  upheld  the  val- 


idity of  the  agreement  upon  which  the 
great  Rhenish- Westphalian  Syndicate 
was  created. 

Turning  to  Great  Britain,  the  tend- 
ency toward  combination  appears,  in 
many  industries,  to  have  distanced 
both  Germany  and  the  United  States. 
Particularly  is  this  true  in  the  textile 
trades.  The  history  of  the  great  thread 
combination  of  J.  and  P.  Coats  is  a 
classic  in  trust  literature. 

In  1826,  James  Coats  built  at  Pais- 
ley a  small  mill  for  the  manufacture 
of  sewing-thread  which,  under  the  con- 
trol of  three  generations  of  able  busi- 
ness men,  expanded  until  it  reached 
throughout  the  world.  In  1890,  the 
business  was  turned  over  to  the  limited 
liability  company  of  J.  and  P.  Coats 
for  £5,750,000.  This  combination  ac- 
quired the  mills  at  Paisley,  and  also 
the  Conant  Thread  Company,  with 
works  at  Pawtucket,  Rhode  Island. 
In  1895,  the  combination  acquired 
Kerr  and  Company  of  Paisley,  and 
in  1896  it  purchased  Clarke  and  Com- 
pany of  Paisley,  James  Chadwick  and 
Company  of  Boulton,  founded  in  1820, 
and  Jonas  Brook  and  Company  of 
Meltham,  established  in  1810.  These 
four  great  rivals  had  for  some  time 
been  allied  through  the  Central  Thread 
Agency,  which  marketed  the  products 
of  all  its  members;  and  it  was  the  suc- 
cessful working  of  this  association  that 
led  to  their  permanent  consolidation. 
J.  and  P.  Coats  thus  controlled  sixteen 
plants,  including  mills  in  the  United 
States,  Canada,  and  Russia;  and  sixty 
branch  houses,  and  one  hundred  and 
fifty  depots;  and  employed  five  thou- 
sand working  people.  Since  then,  the 
company  has  acquired  a  coal-mine, 
and  control  over  the  supply  of  cotton 
through  the  purchase  of  an  interest 
in  the  Fine-Cotton  Spinners  and  Doub- 
lers'  Association.  Its  capital  stock  has 
been  increased  to  £12,000,000,  and 


160     GERMAN  AND  BRITISH  EXPERIENCE  WITH  TRUSTS 


throughout  this  period  its  dividends 
have  ranged  from  twenty  to  fifty  per 
cent. 

Meanwhile,  the  thread  concerns 
outside  the  Coats  combination  were 
combining.  In  1897,  fourteen  firms, 
including  companies  located  in  France 
and  Canada,  combined  to  form  the 
English  Sewing-Cotton  Company  with 
a  capitalization  of  £2,250,000,  and 
made  an  alliance  with  J.  and  P.  Coats, 
who  took  £200,000  of  the  stock.  The 
English  Sewing-Cotton  Company  next 
absorbed  the  great  Glasgow  firm  of 
R.  F.  and  J.  Alexander,  and  purchased 
L.  Ardern  of  Swetport;  and,  in  1898, 
organized  the  American  Thread  Com- 
pany, which  acquired  thirteen  Amer- 
ican firms  and  was  capitalized  for 
£3,720,000.  The  closeness  of  this  great 
combination  appears  from  the  fact  that 
the  English  Sewing-Cotton  Company 
took  a  majority  of  the  common  stock 
of  the  American  Thread  Company, 
and  J.  and  P.  Coats  took  £100,000  of 
preferred  shares;  and  when,  in  1899, 
the  English  Sewing-Cotton  Company 
increased  its  capitalization  to  £3,000,- 
000,  the  American  Thread  Company 
purchased  125,000  shares  of  the  new 
issue.  This  alliance  completely  con- 
trolled the  thread  industry,  not  only 
in  Great  Britain,  but  throughout  the 
world. 

In  1899,  the  Calico  Printers'  Associ- 
ation was  incorporated,  taking  in  fifty- 
nine  firms  and  companies,  comprising 
eighty-five  per  cent  of  the  trade  in 
Great  Britain,  with  a  capitalization 
of  £8,226,840.  In  1900,  the  Bleachers' 
Association  was  formed,  taking  in 
fifty-three  concerns  capitalized  at 
£6,820,096. 

In  1898,  the  Fine-Cotton  Spinners 
and  Doublers'  Association  was  formed 
for  the  consolidation  of  thirty-one  con- 
cerns producing  spun  Sea  Island  cot- 
ton. Subsequently,  mills  were  pur- 
chased in  France  —  a  Lille  company 


and  theDelebart  Mallet  Fils  Company, 
—  and  more  mills  and  a  colliery  in 
England.  Up  to  1905,  the  company 
comprised  upwards  of  fifty  associated 
concerns,  and  was  capitalized  for 
£7,250,000.  The  union  between  the 
Fine-Cotton  Spinners  and  Doublers' 
Association  and  J.  and  P.  Coats, 
already  referred  to,  has  effected  the 
strongest  textile  combination  in  the 
world. 

These  examples  of  combination  were 
duplicated  in  the  experience  of  the 
iron  and  steel  trade.  Beginning  in  1881, 
and  continuing  with  varying  success 
until  1887,  the  producers  of  Cleveland 
pig  iron  and  Scotch  warrants,  in  their 
local  metal  exchanges  and  at  their 
quarterly  association  meetings  in  Bir- 
mingham, combined  to  prevent  over- 
production and  ruinous  competition, 
and  to  sustain  reasonable  prices. 
Similar  combinations  existed  as  early 
as  1886  in  the  Scotch  malleable  iron 
trade.  In  1883,  the  famous  Interna- 
tional Rail  Syndicate  was  formed, 
which  included  all  but  one  of  the 
eighteen  British  steel-rail  manufactur- 
ers, all  but  two  of  the  German  manu- 
facturers, and  all  the  Belgian  manu- 
facturers. This  syndicate  dissolved  in 
1886.  Various  temporary  combina- 
tions of  British  steel-rail  manufactur- 
ers organized  and  dissolved  during  the 
next  eighteen  years.  In  1904,  to  meet 
ruinous  competition  from  Germany, 
which  was  dumping  rails  abroad  at 
thirty  shillings  less  than  the  home 
price,  an  agreement  was  made  between 
the  rail-makers  of  Great  Britain,  Ger- 
many, Belgium,  and  France,  by  which 
the  foreign  trade  was  syndicated  for 
three  years  on  the  basis  of  1,300,000 
tons  annually.  Great  Britain  obtained 
a  priority  in  the  home  market,  and 
fifty-three  per  cent  of  the  foreign 
trade;  and  the  rest  of  the  foreign  trade 
was  thus  apportioned :  twenty-eight  per 
cent  to  Germany,  seventeen  per  cent 


GERMAN  AND  BRITISH  EXPERIENCE  WITH  TRUSTS      161 


to  Belgium,  and  the  rest  to  France. 
The  United  States  Steel  Corporation 
and  several  other  American  corpora- 
tions are  understood  to  have  become 
parties  to  this  agreement,  in  1905,  and 
to  have  obtained  thereby  a  priority  in 
the  American  market. 

One  phase  of  British  industrial  com- 
bination particularly  impresses  the 
American  observer  —  the  working 
agreements  between  naturally  com- 
peting firms,  which  bring  them  into  a 
loose  but  effective  alliance.  In  Amer- 
ica, since  the  passage  of  the  Sherman 
Anti-Trust  Act,  such  agreements  and 
alliances  have  been  condemned  by  the 
courts  and  denounced  by  legislatures 
more  bitterly  than  has  the  ordinary 
single-combination  form  of  trust.  It 
was  by  breaking  up  a  similar  alliance 
in  the  Addyston  Pipe  Case,  in  1898, 
that  Judge  Taft,  while  on  the  federal 
bench,  paved  the  way  for  the  great 
trust-smashing  suits  that  have  followed. 
In  Great  Britain,  however,  this  form  of 
combination  seems  especially  favored. 
A  great  English  authority  has  declared : 
'We  may  expect,  in  no  very  remote 
future,  tojsee  the  iron  industry  govern- 
ed by  loose  federations  of  great  power, 
each  large  firm  belonging  to  a  number  of 
associations  according  to  the  variety 
of  its  products;  and  there  is  a  final  pos- 
sibility that  these  may  unite  into  a 
general  union  on  the  lines  of  German 
Stahlwerksverband. ' 

An  excellent  case  in  point  is  the 
development  of  the  historic  firm  of 
Bell  Brothers  and  their  allied  compan- 
ies. In  1844,  Bell  Brothers  began  the 
manufacture  of  Cleveland  pig  iron,  and 
during  the  succeeding  half-century 
they  acquired  collieries,  iron-mines, 
rolling-mills,  steel  plants,  and  railway 
connections,  all  of  which  were  val- 
ued at  upwards  of  £1,270,000.  Mean- 
while, their  rivals  Dorman,  Long  and 
Company  had  established  themselves 
in  the  manufacture  of  bars  and  angles, 

VOL.  107 -NO.  2 


had  purchased  the  Britannia  Works, 
and  had  entered  upon  the  manufacture 
of  girders  and  open-hearth  steel.  In 
1899,  Dorman,  Long  and  Company 
acquired  the  sheet-iron  works  of  Jones 
Brothers  and  the  steel-wire  works  of 
the  Bedson  Wire  Company.  In  1900, 
they  employed  three  thousand  men 
in  all  their  plants,  and  turned  out  three 
thousand  five  hundred  tons  of  finished 
material  weekly,  and  had  begun  a 
rolling-mill  and  steel-making.  Com- 
petition between  Bell  Brothers  and 
Dorman,  Long  and  Company  being 
threatened,  Dorman,  Long  and  Com- 
pany, in  1902,  increased  their  capital 
stock  and  acquired  a  controlling  in- 
terest in  Bell  Brothers.  In  1903,  Dor- 
man, Long  and  Company  acquired  the 
ordinary  shares  of  the  Northeastern 
Steel  Company,  capitalized  at  £800,- 
000,  and  owning  a  Bessemer  plant  and 
rolling-mills.  The  total  capital  involved 
in  all  these  transactions  amounted  to 
£3,309,549. 

These  examples  of  combination  are 
especially  helpful  to  a  rational  under- 
standing of  the  American  trust  situa- 
tion, because  they  have  all  developed 
without  the  aid  of  tariffs,  and  in  the 
face  of  unhindered  foreign  competi- 
tion, and  unaffected  by  any  legislation 
whatsoever  on  the  subject  of  combin- 
ations or  trusts.  The  justification  of 
the  trust  movement  cannot  better  be 
established  than  by  the  trust  move- 
ment in  Great  Britain. 

The  British  attitude  toward  trusts 
has  never  been  hostile.  The  Industrial 
Commission  of  the  United  States 
found  that,  aside  from  the  universal 
phenomenon  of  hostility  among  a  few 
radicals  against  every  kind  of  wealth, 
no  antipathy  existed  against  trusts, 
and  that  'the  strong  feeling  on  the 
subject,  which  has  been  manifested  for 
some  years  in  the  United  States,  seems 
to  have  found  only  a  very  faint  echo 
in  England.'  Trusts  have  never  been 


162     GERMAN  AND  BRITISH  EXPERIENCE  WITH  TRUSTS 


a  political  issue  in  Great  Britain.  On 
the  whole,  the  British  view  their  trust 
development  with  complacency  and. 
satisfaction. 

The  secret  of  this  peace  and  con- 
tentment —  so  different  from  the  polit- 
ical and  industrial  turmoil  in  which 
the  anti-trust  crusade  has  plunged  our 
own  country  —  is  not  hard  to  find. 
While  Congress  and  the  various  state 
legislatures  were  enacting  the  most 
stringent  legislation  to  repress  the  trust 
movement,  the  English  were  recogniz- 
ing and  accepting  the  economic  neces- 
sity of  combination. 

The  divergence  of  the  policies  of 
England  and  the  United  States  is 
striking.  Prior  to  the  early  eighties, 
neither  country  had  passed  any  laws 
on  the  subject,  and  by  the  unwritten 
law  of  the  courts  of  both  countries, 
restraints  of  trade  which  were  general 
or  unreasonable  were  invalid.  In  the 
United  States,  this  doctrine  was  sub- 
sequently pushed  to  the  extreme,  and 
enacted  by  Congress  and  by  the  legis- 
latures of  three  fourths  of  the  states 
into  drastic  statutes,  prohibiting  not 
merely  unreasonable  restraints  of  trade, 
but  also  every  kind  of  restraint  of  trade, 
large  or  small,  particular  or  general, 
whether  by  combination  or  otherwise. 

In  England,  a  diametrically  opposite 
course  was  pursued.  No  new  laws  were 
enacted  or  even  agitated,  and  the  un- 
written law  of  the  courts  was  actu- 
ally relaxed,  in  deference  to  the  eco- 
nomic changes  of  the  time.  In  1894, 
four  years  after  Congress  enacted  the 
Sherman  Anti-Trust  Act,  while  Amer- 
ican legislatures  were  passing  anti- 
trust laws  with  enormous  penalties, 
the  House  of  Lords,  sitting  as  the  high- 
est Court  of  Great  Britain,  escaped  the 
incongruities  which  have  embarrassed 
law  and  business  in  the  United  States, 
and  announced  the  new  and  broad- 
ened view  which  ever  since  has  har- 
monized English  law  with  English 


business.  The  occasion  of  this  pro- 
nouncement by  the  House  of  Lords 
was  an  action  to  test  the  validity  of  the 
contract  by  which  Nordenfelt,  the  fam- 
ous manufacturer  of  guns  and  ammu- 
nition, sold  his  entire  plant,  patents, 
business  and  good-will,  to  the  Maxim- 
Nordenfelt  Company.  The  transaction 
was  alleged  to  be  in  restraint  of  trade, 
and  therefore  void.  The  House  of 
Lords  held  that  it  was  valid,  and  Lord 
Morris  stated  the  new  doctrine  as 
follows:  — 

'The  weight  of  authority  up  to  the 
present  time  is  with  the  proposition 
that  general  restraints  of  trade  are 
necessarily  void.  It  appears,  however, 
to  me,  that  the  time  for  a  new  depart- 
ure has  arrived,  and  that  it  should  be 
now  authoritatively  decided  that  there 
should  be  no  difference  in  the  legal 
considerations  which  would  invalidate 
an  agreement  whether  in  general  or 
partial  restraint  of  trading.  These 
considerations,  I  consider,  are  whether 
the  restraint  is  reasonable  and  is  not 
against  the  public  interest.  In  olden 
times  all  restraints  of  trading  were 
considered  prima  facie  void.  An  excep- 
tion was  introduced  when  the  agree- 
ment to  restrain  from  trading  was  only 
from  trading  in  a  particular  place  and 
upon  reasonable  consideration,  leaving 
still  invalid  agreements  to  restrain  from 
trading  at  all.  Such  a  general  restraint 
was  in  the  then  state  of  things  con- 
sidered to  be  of  no  benefit  even  to  the 
covenantee  himself;  but  we  have  now 
reached  a  period  when  it  may  be  said 
that  science  and  invention  have  almost 
annihilated  both  time  and  space.  Con- 
sequently there  should  no  longer  exist 
any  cast-iron  rule  making  void  any 
agreement  not  to  carry  on  a  trade  any- 
where. The  generality  of  time  or  space 
must  always  be  a  most  important  fac- 
tor in  the  consideration  of  reasonable- 
ness, though  not  per  se  a  decisive  test.' 

Thus  was  removed,  decisively  and 


GERMAN  AND  BRITISH  EXPERIENCE  WITH  TRUSTS     163 


forever,  from  the  British  industrial 
world,  the  cloud  that  has  been  gather- 
ing and  ominously  hanging  over  the 
American  industrial  world. 

The  results  of  the  trust  policy  of 
Germany  and  England  —  if  let-alone 
treatment  may  be  called  a  policy  — 
are  everywhere  conceded  to  be  fortun- 
ate. The*  Industrial  Commission  of 
the  United  States  reported:  'There  is, 
relatively  speaking,  little  objection  to 
combinations  in  Europe,  and  in  some 
countries  the  governments  and  the 
people  seem  to  believe  that  they  are 
needed  to  meet  modern  industrial  con- 
ditions. .  .  .  There  seems  to  be  no 
inclination  toward  the  passage  of  laws 
which  shall  attempt  to  kill  the  com- 
binations. That  is  believed  to  be  im- 
possible and  unwise.' 

Simple  specific  statutes,  directed 
merely  against  the  plain  evils  of  cor- 
porate management  and  business  com- 
petition, and  not  affecting  the  legiti- 
mate and  normal  forms  of  industrial 
growth,  have  accomplished  these  re- 
sults. The  possibility  of  political  cor- 
ruption by  corporations  scarcely  exists 
in  Great  Britain.  The  Standing  Orders 
of  both  Houses  of  Parliament  require 
that  private  bills  —  that  is,  bills  which 
grant  any  corporate  privileges  or  affect 
any  private  rights — must  undergo  a 
quasi  judicial  procedure.  Thus,  all 
bills  that  confer  any  powers  on  rail- 
ways, tramways,  electric-lighting,  gas 
or  water  companies,  must  be  introduc- 
ed on  petition,  instead  of  on  motion. 
Notice  of  such  bills  must  be  given  by 
advertisement  to  all  persons  interested, 
three  months  before  the  meeting  of 
Parliament,  and  copies  of  the  bills 
must  be  deposited  in  the  Private  Bill 
Office  of  the  House  of  Commons,  where 
memorials  from  opponents  may  also 
be  filed.  Only  after  these  requirements 
have  been  fulfilled  is  the  petition  pre- 
sented to  the  House.  After  the  second 
reading  of  the  bill,  it  is  referred  to  a 


committee,  which  grants  hearings  to 
the  promoters  and  the  opponents,  and 
takes  testimony  under  oath  regarding 
every  clause  of  the  bill,  and  finally 
reports  the  bill  back  to  the  House  with 
its  opinion,  where  its  future  progress 
is  like  that  of  any  public  bill.  Every 
private  bill  must  be  in  charge  of  a  par- 
liamentary agent,  who  is  required  to 
register  his  name  with  the  proper  par- 
liamentary official  and  to  give  a  bond 
in  a  considerable  sum  to  secure  his 
obedience  to  the  Standing  Orders.  No 
statement  regarding  any  private  bill 
can  be  circulated  in  the  House,  unless 
signed  by  a  registered  parliamentary 
agent,  who  is  held  personally  respons- 
ible for  its  accuracy.  Under  this  pro- 
cedure, Parliament  is  as  immune  from 
corporate  corruption  as  are  the  courts. 
By  further  providing  that  candidates 
for  office  cannot  exceed  a  fixed  scale  of 
lawful  expenditure,  and  by  requiring 
an  exceedingly  exhaustive  account  of 
contributions  and  expenditures,  polit- 
ical corruption  by  corporations  is  well- 
nigh  completely  prevented. 

Coercion,  force,  and  fraud  are  the 
particular  methods  by  which  monopol- 
ists try  to  effect  their  purposes.  These 
methods  are  as  truly  anarchistic  in 
the  realm  of  business  as  assassination 
is  in  the  field  of  politics.  Each  of 
them,  unless  specifically  forbidden  and 
punished,  destroys  every  condition  of 
healthy  competition.  Each  is  some- 
times resorted  to  by  obscure  and  un- 
successful competitors,  as  well  as  by 
occasional  conspicuous  and  successful 
concerns.  In  Great  Britain,  as  well  as 
in  Germany,  these  practices  are  pun- 
ished by  simple,  specific  statutes. 
Whether  the  offender  be  great  or  small, 
he  is  governed  by  the  same  law. 

Strict  corporation  laws,  in  compari- 
son with  which  ours  grow  pale,  compel 
fair  dealing  with  investors,  and  pub- 
licity to  stockholders  and  the  state. 


164 


CODDLING  THE  CRIMINAL 


These  obvious  remedies,  which  pre- 
vent specific  fraudulent  and  wrongful 
practices,  whether  they  occur  in  the 
smallest  concerns  or  in  the  largest 
trusts,  have  proved,  in  Germany  and 
England,  a  complete  solution  of  the 
trust  problem. 

In  the  United  States,  trust  evils  have 
been  increased  and  intensified  by  fool- 
ish statutes,  which  prohibit  every  form 
of  combination.  As  President  Roose- 
velt said  of  the  Sherman  Anti-Trust 
Act :  '  It  is  a  public  evil  to  have  on  the 
statute-books  a  law  incapable  of  full 
enforcement,  because  both  judges  and 


juries  realize  that  its  full  enforcement 
would  destroy  the  business  of  the 
country;  for  the  result  is  to  make  de- 
cent men  violators  of  the  law  against 
their  will,  and  to  put  a  premium  on  the 
behavior  of  the  willful  wrongdoers.' 
Until  American  anti-trust  legislation 
ceases  to  prohibit  all  combination  in 
restraint  of  trade,  and  seekf  merely  to 
prevent  specific  wrongful  practices, 
which  through  fraud,  coercion,  or  force 
violate  legitimate  business  competi- 
tion, the  trust  problem  of  America 
must  continue  to  embroil  politics  and 
business. 


CODDLING  THE   CRIMINAL 


BY   CHARLES   C.   NOTT,    JR. 


LET  us  suppose  that  to  a  man  hesi- 
tating on  the  verge  of  committing  an 
embezzlement,  the  following  statement 
should  be  made  as  to  the  certainty  or 
uncertainty  of  punishment  following 
upon  the  commission  of  that  crime:  — 

'  If  you  commit  this  crime,  you  may 
or  may  not  be  found  out.  That  will  de- 
pend largely  upon  you.  If  you  are  found 
out  you  will  be  taken  into  custody  (if 
caught) ,  and  later,  if  sufficient  evidence 
against  you  is  obtained,  you  will  be  put 
to  trial.  In  this  legal  encounter  your 
adversary  will,  figuratively  speaking, 
have  one  hand  strapped  behind  his  back 
and  will  be  governed  by  Marquis  of 
Queensberry  rules.  You  will  have  both 
hands  free  and  will  not  be  governed  by 
any  rules,  but  may  strike  below  the  belt 
or  kick  or  trip.  Should  you  win,  you 
will  be  free,  and  no  appeal  will  lie  from 
any  decision  by  the  judge  in  your  favor. 


Should  you  lose,  you  may  or  may  not 
be  sentenced.  If  you  are,  you  may  take 
an  appeal.  Upon  this  appeal,  no  con- 
duct of  yours  or  of  your  attorney 
during  the  trial  is  brought  up  for  re- 
view, but  any  infraction  of  the  law  of  evi- 
dence, unfavorable  to  you,  by  the  judge 
or  district  attorney,  will  set  aside  the 
result  of  the  trial,  and  give  you  another 
chance.  If  the  conviction  should  be 
affirmed  and  you  can  then  be  found, 
you  will  have  to  go  to  prison,  but  in  all 
probability  need  not  stay  there  long  if 
you  behave  yourself  while  there.' 

To  most  people  this  would  savor 
more  of  an  invitation  to  commit  crime 
than  of  a  warning  against  so  doing;  yet 
as  a  matter  of  fact  it  very  fairly  states 
the  chances. 

The  fact  is  that  our  administration 
of  the  criminal  law  has  as  nearly  reached 
perfection  in  guarding  the  innocent  (and 


CODDLING  THE  CRIMINAL 


165 


guilty)  from  conviction  as  is  possible 
for  any  human  institution;  but  in  secur- 
ing the  safety  and  order  of  the  com- 
munity by  the  conviction  of  the  guilty 
it  is  woefully  inadequate. 

While  figures  are  but  dry  mental  food, 
the  following  will  illustrate  very  well 
the  safeguards  which  the  law  throws 
around  persons  accused  of  crime.  In 
the  year  1909,  6401  cases  of  felony  were 
disposed  of  in  the  county  of  New  York. 
Let  us  see  what  the  chances  were  that 
out  of  this  large  number  an  injustice 
could  have  been  done  as  against  a  de- 
fendant —  not  as  against  the  state.  The 
grand  jury  in  that  year  dismissed  1342 
cases,  leaving  5059,  no  defendant  as  yet 
having  been  wronged.  Of  these  5059 
cases  the  district  attorney  recommend- 
ed the  discharge  of  defendant,  or  dis- 
missal of  the  indictment,  in  928  cases, 
leaving  4131  cases,  and  no  defendant 
wronged  as  yet.  Of  these4131  cases,  481 
were  disposed  of  in  various  ways  (such 
as  bail  forfeitures,  discharges  on  writs  of 
habeas  corpus,  etc.)  favorable  to  defend- 
ants, leaving  3650  cases,  and  no  defend- 
ant wronged  as  yet.  In  2602  of  these  3650 
cases,  the  defendants  pleaded  guilty, 
leaving  1048  cases,  and  still  no  possibil- 
ity of  injustice  to  a  defendant.  In  585 
out  of  these  1048  cases,  acquittals,  either 
by  direction  of  the  court  or  by  verdict, 
resulted,  leaving  only  463  cases  out  of 
6401,  in  which  any  mistake  against 
a  defendant  could  have  been  commit- 
ted. These  463  cases,  winnowed  out 
of  6401,  were  invariably  presented  to 
juries  under  instructions  by  the  court 
that  twelve  men  would  have  to  be  con- 
vinced as  one  man,  beyond  a  reasonable 
doubt,  of  the  defendant's  guilt  before 
convicting;  and  in  each  of  these  463 
cases,  twelve  men  were  so  convinced, 
and  returned  a  verdict  of  guilty.  The 
law  still  further  safeguarded  the  rights 
of  these  defendants.  While  the  state 
was  allowed  no  appeal  in  any  of  the 
585  cases  in  which  it  was  unsuccessful, 


each  defendant  convicted  had  an  ab- 
solute right  of  appeal,  and  104  appeals 
were  taken  during  the  year,  resulting 
in  eleven  reversals  of  convictions,  and 
leaving  452  cases,  in  the  final  result,  in 
which  there  could  have  been  any  chance 
of  injustice  to  a  defendant.  Of  these 
452  defendants  many  received  sus- 
pended sentences,  and  to  the  remainder 
an  application  for  executive  clemency, 
or  action  in  case  of  injustice,  is  always 
open. 

When  we  come,  however,  to  consider 
the  rights  of  the  state  and  the  punish- 
ment of  the  guilty,  the  above  figures  are 
not  calculated  to  inspire  confidence  in 
the  effectiveness  of  the  criminal  law. 

The  appalling  amount  of  crime  in  the 
United  States,  as  compared  with  many 
other  civilized  countries,  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  it  is  known  generally  that 
the  punishment  for  crime  is  uncertain 
and  far  from  severe.  The  uncertainty  of 
punishment  is  largely  due  to  the  exten- 
sion in  our  criminal  jurisprudence  of 
two  principles  of  the  common  law  which 
were  originally  just  and  reasonable,  but 
the  present  application  of  which  is  both 
unjust  and  unreasonable.  This  change 
is  due  to  the  fact  that  under  the  com- 
mon law  an  accused  was  deprived  of 
many  rights  which  he  now  possesses, 
and  was  subjected  to  many  burdens  and 
risks  of  which  he  is  now  relieved.  But, 
although  the  reason  and  necessity  for 
the  two  principles  referred  to  have  long 
since  ceased  to  exist,  the  principles  are 
not  only  retained,  but  have  been  stretch- 
ed and  expanded  to  the  infinite  impair- 
ment of  the  efficiency  and  justice  of  our 
criminal  law.  The  two  principles  are: 
that  no  man  shall  be  twice  put  in  jeop- 
ardy of  life  or  limb' for  the  same  offense; 
and  that  no  man  shall  be  compelled  to 
give  evidence  against  himself. 

Under  the  common  law  as  it  existed 
long  after  these  principles  originated, 
every  felony  was  a  capital  offense,  and 
every  misdemeanor  was  punished  with 


166 


CODDLING  THE  CRIMINAL 


branding,  mutilation,  or  transporta- 
tion. There  were  no  prisons  except 
those  for  detention  for  trial.  After  con- 
viction the  defendant  was  hanged,  or 
his  ears  were  cropped,  or  he  was  trans- 
ported to  the  colonies.  At  his  trial  he 
was  not  entitled  to  counsel.  He  could 
not  take  the  stand  and  testify  in  his  own 
behalf,  even  if  there  were  no  witnesses 
available  to  him.  If  convicted  he  was 
allowed  no  appeal. 

This  being  the  state  of  the  law,  the 
justice  of  the  two  principles  referred  to 
is  obvious.  Should  a  man  be  acquitted 
after  having  run  the  risk  of  death 
through  such  an  ordeal,  common  hu- 
manity required  that  he  should  not 
again  be  subjected  to  it,  nor  have  a  new 
trial  granted  against  him  after  an  ac- 
quittal when  he  could  not  obtain  one 
for  himself  after  a  conviction.  And  it 
was  manifestly  unfair  to  compel  a  man, 
who  could  not  testify  in  his  own  be- 
half, to  give  evidence  against  himself. 

But  the  original  situation  no  longer 
exists.  Capital  punishment  is  abolished 
in  most  states,  save  in  cases  of  murder 
in  its  first  degree,  and  mutilation  and 
transportation  no  longer  exist  as  pun- 
ishment for  crimes.  The  accused  is  en- 
titled to  the  ad  vice  and  services  of  coun- 
sel. He  may  take  the  stand  in  his  own 
behalf.  The  right  of  appeal  is  granted 
him,  while  denied  to  the  state. 

Taking  up  now  the  consideration  of 
the  present  interpretation  of  the  prin- 
ciple forbidding  a  second  'jeopardy  of 
life  or  limb,'  and  remembering  that  at 
the  common  law  neither  side  could  ap- 
peal, it  is  obvious  that  the  rule  was  in- 
tended to  prevent  a  defendant's  being 
arbitrarily  re-tried  after  an  acquittal — 
a  purpose  with  which  no  one  can  find 
fault;  and  it  is  no  less  obvious  that  the 
rule  never  contemplated  that  a  re-trial 
should  be  granted  to  a  defendant  after 
the  reversal  on  appeal  of  a  conviction, 
but  should  be  denied  to  the  state  after 


a  reversal  of  an  acquittal  on  appeal.  In 
other  words,  the  common  law  said  to 
the  state,  'As  neither  side  can  appeal, 
a  verdict  either  way  shall  settle  the  liti- 
gation, and  you  shall  not  continue  try- 
ing a  defendant  over  and  over  again  un- 
til you  obtain  a  favorable  verdict.'  It 
did  not  say,  'A  re-trial  after  a  reversal 
of  an  acquittal  is  duly  had  in  an  appel- 
late court  constitutes  the  forbidden 
second  jeopardy.' 

The  fact  that  a  defendant  can  appeal 
from  a  conviction,  and  can  review  on 
appeal  all  errors  committed  by  the  trial 
judge  or  any  misconduct  on  the  part 
of  the  district  attorney,  while  the  state 
can  take  no  appeal  from  an  acquittal, 
no  matter  how  glaring  may  be  the  errors 
of  the  trial  judge  or  the  misconduct  of 
the  defendant's  attorney,  has  an  enor- 
mous practical  effect  on  the  conduct 
of  the  trial ;  none  the  less  so  for  all  that 
it  is  not  commonly  understood  or  ap- 
preciated. 

When  a  judge  who  is  timid  as  to  his 
*  record '  of  cases  appealed  has  only  to 
rule  consistently  against  the  prosecu- 
tion to  avoid  any  reversible  error,  the 
temptation  is  so  strong  as  to  be  resisted 
by  but  few.  There  are  some  judges  who 
rule  on  a  question  of  law  purely  as  such 
in  a  criminal  as  in  a  civil  case;  and 
some  who  even  hold  that  as  the  state 
is  remediless  if  an  error  of  law  be  made, 
while  the  defendant  is  not,  the  state 
should  have  the  benefit  of  a  doubt  on 
the  law,  even  as  the  defendant  has  the 
benefit  of  a  doubt  on  the  facts;  but  the 
number  of  such  judges  is  all  too  small. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  great  num- 
ber of  judges  take  refuge  in  the  help- 
lessness of  the  prosecution  when  any 
question  that  strikes  them  as  at  all 
doubtful  arises;  and  some  judges  take 
advantage  of  the  situation  to  act  as 
if  the  prosecution  had  no  rights  at  all 
that  the  judge  is  bound  to  respect, 
and  as  if  it  were  for  the  judge  to  de- 
cide whether  he  would  be  bound  by 


CODDLING  THE  CRIMINAL 


167 


any  law  of  evidence  whatever.  Thus 
recently  a  judge  in  New  York  County, 
when  the  prosecutor  handed  up  're- 
quests to  charge  the  jury,'  informed 
him  that  the  district  attorney  had  no 
right  to  request  the  court  to  charge 
anything,  and  refused  to  receive  them. 
Another  judge  in  the  same  county  re- 
cently, in  reply  to  a  perfectly  proper 
objection  made  by  a  prosecutor  to  a 
speech  the  defendant  was  making  from 
the  witness-chair,  remarked  that  the 
district  attorney  had  no  right  to  ob- 
ject, that  this  man  was  the  defendant 
and  could  say  anything  he  wanted  to; 
while  another  stated  that  he  knew  cer- 
tain evidence  offered  by  the  defendant 
was  incompetent,  but  that  he  (the 
judge)  would '  suspend  the  rules  of  evi- 
dence' —  in  so  far  only  as  they  applied 
in  favor  of  the  prosecution,  of  course. 
Indeed  the  trial  of  a  criminal  case  often 
degenerates  into  a  proceeding  which 
cannot  be  dignified  by  the  name  of  a 
trial  in  a  court  of  law,  but  which 
amounts  simply  to  a  hearing  conduct- 
ed arbitrarily  in  defiance  of  all  rules  of 
law,  and  in  accordance  with  the  whims 
of  a  judge  who  fcas  taken  an  oath  of 
office  to  do  justice  'according  to  law,' 
and  not  according  to  his  own  whims. 

It  is  a  safe  assertion  that,  under  our 
present  system,  fully  seventy-five  per 
cent  of  judgments  of  acquittal  could  be 
reversed  on  appeal  for  errors  committed 
against  the  prosecution.  If  the  state 
could  take  an  appeal,  this  percentage 
would  at  once  drop  enormously,  even 
if  the  right  to  appeal  were  but  seldom 
resorted  to,  and  such  arbitrary  acts 
as  those  just  cited  would  practically 
cease. 

If  the  principle,  as  it  was  originally 
intended  to  be  applied,  were  reason- 
able and  just,  namely,  that  a  defendant 
(who,  if  convicted,  had  no  right  of  ap- 
peal) should  not  arbitrarily  be  put  on 
trial  again,  if  acquitted;  and  if  the  pre- 
sent extension  of  the  principle  be  unrea- 


sonable and  unjust;  namely,  that  a  con- 
victed defendant  can  appeal  and  secure 
a  new  trial,  but  that  the  state  is  pre- 
cluded from  so  doing  in  all  cases  where 
acquittal  results;  it  may  properly  be 
asked:  What  objection  can  there  be 
to  (placing  parties  litigant  upon  an  even 
footing  to  the  extent  of  allowing  an  ap- 
peal by  the  state,  with  a  re-trial  where 
a  judgment  of  acquittal  is  reversed  for 
errors  of  law? 

It  may  be  urged  that  an  impecunious 
defendant  would  be  unable  to  bear  the 
expense  of  an  appeal  and  would  have 
to  let  it  go  by  default.  But  the  court 
could  always  assign  counsel  to  defend 
upon  appeal,  as  the  courts  now  do  to 
defend  upon  trial.  The  state,  being  the 
appellant,  would  be  obliged  to  incur 
the  expense  of  preparing  and  printing 
the  record  on  appeal;  and  the  state, 
having  taken  the  appeal,  should  bear 
the  expense  of  the  printing  of  the  de- 
fendant's brief,  the  only  expense  to  be 
incurred  by  the  defendant. 

Should  the  objection  be  taken  that 
defendants,  having  been  necessarily  lib- 
erated upon  acquittal,  would  rarely  be 
apprehended  again  upon  a  subsequent 
reversal  of  an  acquittal,  the  answer  is 
that  the  object  of  the  change  is  to  se- 
cure fair  trials  by  giving  both  sides 
equal  rights,  and  it  is  of  small  import- 
ance whether  any  particular  defendant 
escapes  or  not.  If  the  state  were  given 
the  right  to  appeal,  the  character  of 
criminal  trials  would  so  improve  that 
the  right  would  only  have  to  be  availed 
of  in  comparatively  few  instances. 

When  we  turn  to  the  second  prin- 
ciple of  the  common  law,  that  no  man 
shall  be  compelled  to  give  testimony 
against  himself,  the  same  condition  of 
things  confronts  us,  —  a  principle  just 
and  reasonable  in  its  original  applica- 
tion, warped  and  stretched  out  of  all 
reason  and  justice. 

This  principle  was  originally  intend- 


168 


CODDLING  THE  CRIMINAL 


ed  to  prevent  the  use  of  the  rack  and 
thumb-screw  to  wring  a  true  confes- 
sion from  a  guilty  man,  or  a  false  con- 
fession from  an  innocent  man.  The  fact 
that  a  defendant  was  precluded  from 
testifying  in  his  own  favor  also  en- 
hanced the  justice  of  the  rule.  But  why 
should  the  rule  be  stretched  further  than 
to  the  prevention  of  confessions  by  force 
or  improper  means  of  any  sort?  The 
extent  to  which  it  is  stretched  is  well 
illustrated  by  the  present  law,  which 
forbids  all  reference  by  the  prosecution 
to  the  failure  of  the  defendant  to  take 
the  stand,  and  entitles  the  defendant  to 
have  the  jury  charged  that  no  infer- 
ence can  be  drawn  against  him  because 
of  such  failure.  This  is  done  on  the 
theory  that  if  the  failure  of  a  defendant 
to  take  the  stand  could  be  used  against 
him,  he  would  be  compelled  to  testify 
and  give  evidence  against  himself.  What 
objection  is  there  in  reason  to  calling, 
through  a  magistrate,  upon  a  defendant 
immediately  upon  his  arraignment,  to 
state  his  explanation,  upon  pain  of  be- 
ing precluded  from  testifying  upon  the 
trial,  if  he  refuse  to  give  such  explana- 
tion when  required  by  the  magistrate? 

It  cannot  be  too  firmly  kept  in  mind 
that  the  present  practice  is  solely  for  the 
benefit  of  the  guilty.  The  innocent  man 
is  always  eager  to  give  his  explanation 
and  does  so  at  the  first  opportunity, 
and  it  is  always  to  his  interest  so  to  do. 
But  the  guilty  is  now  enabled  by  the 
law  to  remain  mute,  to  learn  the  evi- 
dence against  him,  to  concoct  his  de- 
fense pending  trial,  and  to  come  into 
court  fully  acquainted  with  the  case 
against  him,  while  the  district  attorney 
only  knows  that  the  defendant  has  pro- 
nounced the  two  words  'not  guilty,' 
under  which  he  may  prove  an  alibi,  self- 
defense,  insanity,  or  any  other  defense 
applicable  to  the  case. 

It  requires  no  argument  to  show  that 
no  system  could  be  better  adapted  than 
this  to  encourage  and  promote  con- 


cocted defenses,  while  giving  nothing  of 
any  practical  advantage  to  the  defendant 
with  an  honest  defense.  Moreover,  if  a 
public  and  orderly  inquiry  into  the 
defense  were  held  before  the  commit- 
ting magistrate,  the  abuses  in  obtaining 
information  from  defendants,  known 
as  the  '  third  degree '  system,  and  pop- 
ularly supposed  to  be  very  prevalent, 
would  at  once  disappear.  The  prisoner 
on  arraignment  before  the  magistrate 
would  be  informed  of  his  right  to  coun- 
sel, that  whatever  he  might  say  would 
be  used  against  him,  and  that,  should 
he  decline  to  answer  the  questions  put 
to  him,  he  would  not  be  allowed  there- 
after to  testify  in  his  own  behalf  when 
put  on  trial.  Such  a  procedure  no  more 
compels  a  man  to  testify  against  him- 
self than  does  now  the  fear  that  a  fail- 
ure on  his  part  to  take  the  stand  may 
result  unfavorably.  It  merely  calls  upon 
a  defendant  to  make  an  earlier  choice 
whether  to  testify  or  not,  and  calls  upon 
him  to  make  that  choice  before  he  has 
had  the  chance  (in  criminal  vernacular) 
to  '  frame  up '  a  defense. 

A  somewhat  similar  proceeding  has 
long  been  one  of  tMfe  most  important 
and  distinctive  features  of  the  admin- 
istration of  the  criminal  law  in  France. 
There  the  accused  is  at  once  brought 
before  the  juge  d' instruction,  who  ex- 
amines him  at  length,  remanding  him 
from  time  to  time  in  order  to  afford 
opportunity  for  verifying  his  state- 
ments. In  case  of  refusal  by  a  defend- 
ant to  answer,  the  judge  has  a  wide 
discretion  in  detaining  him  and  en- 
deavoring to  break  down  his  silence. 
It  would  certainly  be  inadvisable  to  im- 
port into  our  criminal  procedure  this 
power  of  detention  in  a  committing 
magistrate;  but,  in  the  method  ad- 
vocated above,  the  magistrate  would 
have  no  such  power,  being  obliged,  upon 
the  defendant's  refusal  to  answer,  either 
to  discharge  him  or  hold  him  for  the 
grand  jury  as  the  case  might  require. 


CODDLING  THE  CRIMINAL 


169 


To  those  so  fortunate  as  never  to 
have  had  any  actual  experience  in  the 
administration  of  criminal  law,  all  of 
these  proposed  changes  may  appear 
theoretical  and  abstract.  But  they  who 
have  taken  part  in  criminal  trials  and 
are  familiar  with  the  practical  work- 
ings of  our  system,  will  appreciate  the 
enormous  practical  difference  that 
would  be  wrought  by  such  changes. 
To-day  we  have  a  practice  under  which 
an  accused  is  made  acquainted  with 
the  case  against  him,  even  to  being 
furnished  with  the  names  of  the  wit- 
nesses who  have  testified  against  him 
before  the  grand  jury;  the  accused 
stands  mute  save  for  his  plea  of  'not 
guilty,'  and  comes  into  court  with  a  de- 
fense unknown  to  the  prosecutor,  and 
with  witnesses  whose  names  are  not 
known  to  the  district  attorney  until 
they  are  called  to  the  stand,  when,  of 
course,  it  is  too  late  (in  the  ordinary 
criminal  trial)  to  investigate  them.  The 
defense  knows  that  it  has  everything 
to  gain,  and  nothing  to  lose,  by  getting 
into  the  case  anything  and  everything 
favorable  to  the  defendant,  whether 
competent  or  not,  and  by  trying  to 
keep  out  everything  unfavorable  to 
him,  no  matter  how  material,  relevant, 
and  competent;  the  defendant's  coun- 
sel knows  that  no  misconduct  on  his 
own  part  will  be  subjected  to  judicial 
review  and  criticism,  and  a  large  pro- 


portion of  the  criminal  bar  customarily 
resort  to  methods  in  the  preparation 
of  their  defenses  and  the  trial  of  their 
cases  which  would  not  be  tolerated  on 
the  part  of  the  district  attorney. 

All  of  this  state  of  affairs  would  be 
practically  reformed  by  two  changes  in 
the  law :  the  first  granting  a  right  of 
appeal  to  the  state,  to  review  all  errors 
of  law  committed  upon  the  trial;  and 
the  second  providing  for  an  examina- 
tion of  the  defendant  by  the  commit- 
ting magistrate,  and  forbidding  the 
defendant  to  take  the  stand  upon  his 
trial  in  case  of  his  refusal  to  answer. 
We  should  then  have  both  sides  com- 
ing into  court  apprized  respectively  of 
the  cause  of  action  and  the  defense,  as 
has  been  the  practice  from  time  im- 
memorial in  civil  cases;  we  should  find 
the  number  of  perjured  defenses  de- 
creasing and  the  number  of  honest 
pleas  of  guilty  increasing;  we  should 
have  trials  conducted  with  fairness  to 
both  sides,  and  due  regard  for  the  law 
of  evidence;  we  should  have  the  de- 
fendants' attorneys  subjected  to  that 
wholesome  regard  for  the  consequences 
of  evil  and  unprofessional  conduct  that 
now  exists  only  upon  the  part  of  their 
opponents;  in  short,  we  should  have  a 
marked  improvement  hi  both  the  ef- 
fectiveness of  the  criminal  law  and  the 
moral  tone  of  the  courts  and  criminal 
bar. 


MY   FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE   SIERRA 


BY  JOHN  MUIR 


June  18,  1869.  —  Another  inspiring 
morning;  nothing  better  in  any  world 
can  be  conceived.  No  description  of 
Heaven  that  I  have  ever  heard  or  read 
seems  half  so  fine.  At  noon  the  clouds 
occupied  about  .05  of  the  sky,  white, 
filmy  touches  drawn  delicately  on  the 
azure.  The  high  ridges  and  hilltops 
beyond  the  woolly  locusts  are  now  gay 
with  monardella,  clarkia,  coreopsis,  and 
tall  tufted  grasses,  some  of  them  tall 
enough  to  wave  like  pines.  The  lupines, 
of  which  there  are  many  ill-defined 
species,  are  now  mostly  out  of  flower; 
and  many  of  the  composite  are  begin- 
ning to  fade,  their  radiant  corollas  van- 
ishing in  fluffy  pappus  like  stars  in 
mist. 

June  20.  —  Some  of  the  silly  sheep 
got  caught  fast  in  a  tangle  of  chaparral 
this  morning,  like  flies  in  a  spider's  web, 
and  had  to  be  helped  out.  Carlo  found 
them  and  tried  to  drive  them  from  the 
trap  by  the  easiest  way.  How  far  above 
sheep  are  intelligent  dogs!  No  friend 
and  helper  can  be  more  affectionate  and 
constant  than  Carlo.  The  noble  St. 
Bernard  is  an  honor  to  his  race. 

The  air  is  distinctly  fragrant  with 
balsam  and  resin  and  mint,  —  every 
breath  of  it  a  gift  we  may  well  thank 
God  for.  Who  could  ever  guess  that  so 
rough  a  wilderness  should  yet  be  so 
fine,  so  full  of  good  things.  One  seems 
to  be  in  a  majestic  domed  pavilion  in 
which  a  grand  play  is  being  acted  with 
scenery  and  music  and  incense,  —  all 

1  An  earlier  portion  of  this  journal  was  pub- 
lished in  the  January  Atlantic.  —  THE  EDITORS. 
170 


the  furniture  and  action  so  interesting 
we  are  in  no  danger  of  being  called  on 
to  endure  one  dull  moment.  God  him- 
self seems  to  be  always  doing  his  best 
here,  working  like  a  man  in  a  glow  of 
enthusiasm. 

June  23.  —  Oh,  these  vast  calm 
measureless  mountain  days,  inciting  at 
once  to  work  and  rest.  Days  in  whose 
light  everything  seems  equally  divine, 
opening  a  thousand  windows  to  show 
us  God.  Never  more,  however  weary, 
should  one  faint  by  the  way  who  gains 
the  blessings  of  one  mountain  day; 
whatever  his  fate,  long  life,  short  life, 
stormy  or  calm,  he  is  rich  forever. 

June  24.  —  Our  regular  allowance  of 
clouds  and  thunder.  Shepherd  Billy 
is  in  a  peck  of  trouble  about  the  sheep; 
he  declares  that  they  are  possessed 
with  more  of  the  evil  one  than  any  other 
flock  from  the  beginning  of  the  inven- 
tion of  mutton  and  wool  to  the  last 
batch  of  it.  No  matter  how  many  are 
missing,  he  will  not,  he  says,  go  a  step 
to  seek  them,  because,  as  he  reasons, 
while  getting  back  one  wanderer  he 
would  probably  lose  ten.  Therefore 
runaway  hunting  must  be  Carlo's  and 
mine. 

Billy's  little  dog  Jack  is  also  giv- 
ing trouble  by  leaving  camp  every 
night  to  visit  his  neighbors  up  the 
mountain  at  Brown's  Flat.  He  is  a 
common-looking  cur  of  no  particular 
breed,  but  tremendously  enterprising 
in  love  and  war.  He  has  cut  all  the 
ropes  and  leather  straps  he  has  been 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER   IN  THE  SIERRA 


171 


tied  with,  until  his  master  in  despera- 
tion, after  climbing  the  brushy  moun- 
tain again  and  again  to  drag  him  back, 
fastened  him  with  a  pole  attached  to 
his  collar  under  his  chin  at  one  end, 
and  to  a  stout  sapling  at  the  other.  But 
the  pole  gave  good  leverage,  and  by 
constant  twisting  during  the  night,  the 
fastening  at  the  sapling  end  was  chafed 
off,  and  he  set  out  on  his  usual  journey, 
dragging  the  pole  through  the  brush, 
and  reached  the  Indian  settlement  in 
safety.  His  master  followed,  and  mak- 
ing no  allowance,  gave  him  a  beating, 
and  swore  in  bad  terms  that  next  even- 
ing he  would  'fix  that  infatuated  pup' 
by  anchoring  him  unmercifully  to  the 
heavy  cast-iron  lid  of  our  Dutch  oven, 
weighing  about  as  much  as  the  dog. 
It  was  linked  directly  to  his  collar  close 
up  under  the  chin,  so  that  the  poor  fel- 
low seemed  unable  to  stir.  He  stood 
quite  discouraged  until  after  dark,  un- 
able to  look  about  him,  or  even  to  lie 
down  unless  he  stretched  himself  out 
with  his  front  feet  across  the  lid,  and 
his  head  close  down  between  his  paws. 
Before  morning,  however,  Jack  was 
heard  far  up  the  height  howling  Ex- 
celsior, cast-iron  anchor  to  the  con- 
trary notwithstanding.  He  must  have 
walked,  or  rather  climbed,  erect  on  his 
hind  legs,  clasping  the  heavy  lid  like  a 
shield  against  his  breast,  a  formidable 
iron-clad  condition  in  which  to  meet 
his  rivals.  Next  night  dog,  pot-lid,  and 
all  were  tied  up  in  an  old  bean-sack, 
and  thus  at  last  angry  Billy  gained  the 
victory. 

Just  before  leaving  home,  Jack  was 
bitten  in  the  lower  jaw  by  a  rattle- 
snake, and  for  a  week  or  so  his  head 
and  neck  were  swelled  to  more  than 
double  the  normal  size;  nevertheless 
he  ran  about  as  brisk  and  lively  as  ever, 
and  is  now  completely  recovered.  The 
only  treatment  he  got  was  fresh  milk, 
—  a  gallon  or  two  at  a  time  forcibly 
poured  down  his  sore,  poisoned  throat. 


June  30.  —  Half  cloudy,  half  sunny, 
clouds  lustrous  white.  The  tall  pines 
crowded  along  the  top  of  the  Pilot 
Peak  Ridge  look  like  six-inch  miniatures 
exquisitely  outlined  on  the  satiny  sky. 
Average  cloudiness  for  the  day  about 
.25.  No  rain.  And  so  this  memorable 
month  ends,  a  stream  of  beauty  un- 
measured, no  more  to  be  sectioned  off 
by  almanac  arithmetic  than  sun-radi- 
ance or  the  currents  of  seas  and  rivers, 
—  a  peaceful,  joyful  stream  of  beauty. 
Every  morning,  rising  from  the  death 
of  sleep,  the  happy  plants  and  all  our 
fellow  animal  creatures  great  and  small, 
and  even  the  rocks,  seemed  to  be  shout- 
ing, 'Awake,  awake,  rejoice,  rejoice, 
come  love  us  and  join  in  our  song. 
Come!  Come!'  Looking  back  through 
the  stillness  and  romantic  enchanting 
beauty  and  peace  of  the  camp  grove, 
this  June  seems  the  greatest  of  all  the 
months  of  my  life,  the  most  truly,  di- 
vinely free,  boundless  like  eternity,  im- 
mortal. Everything  in  it  seems  equally 
divine  —  one  smooth  pure  wild  glow  of 
Heaven's  love,  never  to  be  blotted  or 
blurred  by  anything  past  or  to  come. 

July  1.  —  Summer  is  ripe.  Flocks 
of  seeds  are  already  out  of  their  cups 
and  pods  seeking  their  predestined 
places.  Some  will  strike  root  and  grow 
up  beside  their  parents,  others  flying 
on  the  wings  of  the  wind  far  from  them, 
among  strangers.  Most  of  the  young 
birds  are  full  feathered  and  out  of  their 
nests,  though  still  looked  after  by  both 
father  and  mother,  protected  and  fed 
and  to  some  extent  educated.  How 
beautiful  the  home-life  of  birds.  No 
wonder  we  all  love  them. 

I  like  to  watch  the  squirrels.  There 
are  two  species  here,  the  large  Califor- 
nia gray  and  the  Douglas.  The  latter 
is  the  brightest  of  all  the  squirrels  I 
have  ever  seen,  a  hot  spark  of  life,  mak- 
ing every  tree  tingle  with  his  prickly 
toes,  a  condensed  nugget  of  fresh  moun- 


172 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


tain  vigor  and  valor,  as  free  from  dis- 
ease as  a  sunbeam.  One  cannot  think 
of  such  an  animal  ever  being  weary  or 
sick.  He  seems  to  think  the  mountains 
belong  to  him,  and  at  first  tried  to  drive 
away  the  whole  flock  of  sheep  as  well 
as  the  shepherd  and  dogs.  How  he 
scolds,  and  what  faces  he  makes,  all 
eyes,  teeth,  and  whiskers!  If  not  so 
comically  small  he  would  indeed  be  a 
dreadful  fellow.  I  would  like  to  know 
more  about  his  bringing  up,  his  life  in 
the  home  knot-hole,  as  well  as  in  the 
tree-tops,  throughout  all  the  seasons. 
Strange  that  I  have  not  yet  found  a 
nest  full  of  young  ones.  The  Douglas  is 
nearly  allied  to  the  red  squirrel  of  the 
Atlantic  slope,  and  may  have  been  dis- 
tributed to  this  side  of  the  continent 
by  way  of  the  great  unbroken  forests 
of  the  north. 

The  California  gray  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful,  and,  next  to  the  Doug- 
las, the  most  interesting  of  our  hairy 
neighbors.  Compared  with  Douglas  he 
is  twice  as  large,  but  far  less  lively  and 
influential  as  a  worker  in  the  woods,  and 
he  manages  to  make  his  way  through 
leaves  and  branches  with  less  stir  than 
his  small  brother.  I  have  never  heard 
him  bark  at  anything  except  our  dogs. 
In  search  of  food  he  glides  silently  from 
branch  to  branch,  examining  last  year's 
cones  to  see  if  some  few  seeds  may  not 
be  left  between  the  scales,  or  gleans 
fallen  ones  among  the  leaves  on  the 
ground,  since  none  of  the  present  sea- 
son's crop  is  yet  available.  His  tail 
floats  now  behind  him,  now  above  him, 
level  or  gracefully  curled  like  a  wisp  of 
cirrus  cloud,  every  hair  in  its  place, 
clean  and  shining  and  radiant  as  thistle- 
down in  spite  of  rough,  gummy  work. 
His  whole  body  seems  about  as  unsub- 
stantial as  his  tail. 

The  little  Douglases  fiery,  peppery, 
full  of  brag  and  fight  and  show,  with 
movements  so  quick  and  keen  they 
almost  sting  the  onlooker;  and  the 


harlequin  gyrating  show  he  makes  of 
himself  turns  one  giddy  to  see.  The 
gray  is  shy,  and  oftentimes  stealthy 
in  his  movements,  as  if  half  expect- 
ing an  enemy  in  every  tree  and  bush, 
and  back  of  every  log,  wishing  only  to 
be  let  alone  apparently,  and  manifest- 
ing no  desire  to  be  seen  or  admired  or 
feared.  The  Indians  hunt  this  species 
for  food,  a  good  cause  for  caution,  not 
to  mention  other  enemies,  —  hawks, 
snakes,  wildcats.  In  woods  where  food 
is  abundant  they  wear  paths  through 
sheltering  thickets  and  over  prostrate 
trees  to  some  favorite  pool  where  in  hot 
and  dry  weather  they  drink  at  nearly 
the  same  hour  every  day.  These  pools 
are  said  to  be  narrowly  watched,  espe- 
cially by  the  boys,  who  lie  in  ambush 
with  bow  and  arrow,  and  kill  without 
noise.  But,  in  spite  of  enemies,  squir- 
rels are  happy  fellows,  forest  favorites, 
types  of  tireless  life.  Of  all  Nature's 
wild  beasts,  they  seem  to  me  the  wild- 
est. May  we  come  to  know  each  other 
better. 

The  chaparral-covered  hill-slope  to 
the  south  of  the  camp,  besides  furnish- 
ing nesting-places  for  countless  merry 
birds,  is  the  home  and  hiding-place  of 
the  curious  wood-rat  (Neotoma) ,  a  hand- 
some, interesting  animal,  always  at- 
tracting attention  wherever  seen.  It  is 
more  like  a  squirrel  than  a  rat,  is  much 
larger,  has  delicate,  thick,  soft  fur  of  a 
bluish  slate  color,  white  on  the  belly; 
ears  large,  thin,  and  translucent;  eyes 
soft,  full,  and  liquid;  claws  slender, 
sharp  as  needles;  and  as  his  limbs  are 
strong,  he  can  climb  about  as  well  as 
a  squirrel. 

No  rat  or  squirrel  has  so  innocent 
a  look,  is  so  easily  approached,  or  ex- 
presses such  confidence  in  one's  good 
intentions.  He  seems  too  fine  for  the 
thorny  thickets  he  inhabits,  and  his 
hut  also  is  as  unlike  himself  as  may 
be,  though  softly  furnished  inside.  No 
other  animal  inhabitant  of  these  moun- 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


173 


tains  builds  houses  so  large  and  strik- 
ing in  appearance.  The  traveler  corn- 
ing suddenly  upon  a  group  of  them  for 
the  first  time  will  not  be  likely  to  for- 
get them.  They  are  built  of  all  kinds  of 
sticks,  old  rotten  pieces  picked  up  any- 
where, and  green  prickly  twigs  bitten 
from  the  nearest  bushes,  the  whole 
mixed  with  miscellaneous  odds  and 
ends  of  everything  movable,  such  as 
bits  of  cloddy  earth,  stones,  bones,  deer- 
horn,  etc.,  piled  up  in  a  conical  mass  as 
if  it  were  got  ready  for  burning. 

Some  of  these  curious  cabins  are  six 
feet  high  and  as  wide  at  the  base,  and  a 
dozen  or  more  of  them  are  occasionally 
grouped  together,  less  perhaps  for  the 
sake  of  society  than  for  advantages  of 
food  and  shelter.  Coming  through  the 
dense  shaggy  thickets  of  some  lonely 
hillside,  the  solitary  explorer  happening 
into  one  of  these  strange  villages  is 
startled  at  the  sight,  and  may  fancy 
himself  in  an  Indian  settlement,  and 
begin  to  wonder  what  kind  of  reception 
he  is  likely  to  get.  But  no  savage  face 
will  he  see,  perhaps  not  a  single  inhab- 
itant, or  at  most  two  or  three  seated 
on  top  of  their  wigwams,  looking  at  the 
stranger  with  the  mildest  of  wild  eyes, 
and  allowing  a  near  approach.  In  the 
centre  of  the  rough  spiky  hut  a  soft 
nest  is  made  of  the  inner  fibres  of  bark 
chewed  to  tow,  and  lined  with  feathers 
and  the  down  of  various  seeds  such  as 
willow  and  milkweed.  The  delicate 
creature  in  its  prickly,  thick-walled 
home  suggests  a  tender  flower  in  a 
thorny  involucre.  Some  of  the  nests  are 
built  in  trees  thirty  or  forty  feet  from 
the  ground,  and  even  in  garrets,  as  if 
seeking  the  company  and  protection  of 
man,  like  swallows  and  linnets,  though 
accustomed  to  the  wildest  solitude. 

Among  housekeepers  Neotoma  has 
the  reputation  of  a  thief,  because  he 
carries  away  everything  transportable 
to  his  queer  hut,  —  knives,  forks,  tin 
cups,  combs,  nails,  spectacles,  etc.,  — 


merely  however  to  strengthen  his  forti- 
fications, I  guess.  His  food  at  home, 
as  far  as  I  have  learned,  is  nearly  the 
same  as  that  of  the  squirrels,  —  nuts, 
berries,  seeds,  and  sometimes  the  bark 
and  tender  shoots  of  the  various  spe- 
cies of  ceanothus. 

July  2.  —  Warm,  sunny  day,  thrill- 
ing plant  and  animals  and  rocks  alike, 
making  sap  and  blood  flow  fast,  and 
making  every  particle  of  the  crystal 
mountains  throb  and  swirl  and  dance 
in  glad  accord  like  star-dust.  No  dull- 
ness anywhere  visible  or  thinkable. 
No  stagnation,  no  death.  Everything 
kept  in  joyful  rhythmic  motion  in  the 
pulses  of  Nature's  big  heart. 

Pearl  cumuli  over  the  higher  moun- 
tains, —  clouds,  not  with  a  silver  lining, 
but  all  silver.  The  brightest,  crispest, 
rockiest-looking  clouds,  most  varied  in 
features  and  keenest  in  outline,  I  ever 
saw  at  any  time  of  year  in  any  country. 
The  daily  building  and  unbuilding  of 
these  snowy  cloud-ranges  —  the  high- 
est Sierra  —  is  a  prime  marvel  to  me, 
and  I  gaze  at  the  stupendous  white 
domes,  miles  high,  with  ever  fresh  ad- 
miration. But  in  the  midst  of  these 
sky  and  mountain  affairs  a  change  of 
diet  is  pulling  us  down.  We  have  been 
out  of  bread  a  few  days,  and  begin  to 
miss  it  more  than  seems  reasonable,  for 
we  have  plenty  of  meat  and  sugar  and 
tea.  Strange  we  should  feel  food-poor 
in  so  rich  a  wilderness.  The  Indians 
put  us  to  shame,  so  do  the  squirrels, 
— starchy  roots  and  seeds  and  bark  in 
abundance,  yet  the  failure  of  the  meal- 
sack  disturbs  our  bodily  balance  and 
threatens  our  best  enjoyments. 

July  4.  —  The  air  beyond  the  flock 
range,  full  of  trre  essences  of  the  woods, 
is  growing  sweeter  and  more  fragrant 
from  day  to  day,  like  ripening  fruit. 

Mr.  Delaney  is  expected  to  arrive 
soon  from  the  lowlands  with  a  new 


174 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


stock  of  provisions,  and  as  the  flock  is 
to  be  moved  to  fresh  pastures  we  shall 
all  be  well  fed.  In  the  mean  time  our 
stock  of  beans  as  well  as  flour  has  failed; 
everything  but  mutton,  sugar,  and  tea. 
The  shepherd  is  somewhat  demoral- 
ized and  seems  to  care  but  little  what 
becomes  of  his  flock.  He  says  that  since 
the  boss  has  failed  to  feed  him  he  is  not 
rightly  bound  to  feed  the  sheep,  and 
swears  that  no  decent  white  man  can 
climb  these  steep  mountains  on  mut- 
ton alone.  'It's  not  fittin'  grub  for  a 
white  man  really  white.  For  dogs  and 
coyotes  and  Indians  it's  different. 
Good  grub,  good  sheep.  That 's  what  I 
say.'  Such  was  Billy's  Fourth  of  July 
oration. 

July  5.  —  The  clouds  of  noon  on  the 
high  Sierra  seem  yet  more  marvelously, 
indescribably  beautiful  from  day  to  day 
as  one  becomes  more  wakeful  to  see 
them.  The  smoke  of  the  gunpowder 
burned  yesterday  on  the  lowlands,  and 
the  eloquence  of  the  orators  has  prob- 
ably settled  or  been  blown  away  by 
this  time.  Here  every  day  is  a  holiday, 
a  jubilee  ever  sounding  with  serene  en- 
thusiasm, without  wear  or  waste  or 
cloying  weariness.  Everything  rejoic- 
ing. Not  a  single  cell  or  crystal  unvis- 
ited  or  forgotten. 

July  6.  —  Mr.  Delaney  has  not  ar- 
rived, and  the  bread  famine  is  sore.  We 
must  eat  mutton  a  while  longer,  though 
it  seems  hard  to  get  accustomed  to  it. 
I  have  heard  of  Texas  pioneers  living 
without  bread  or  anything  made  from 
the  cereals  for  months  without  suffer- 
ing, using  the  breast-meat  of  wild  tur- 
keys for  bread.  Of  this  kind  they  had 
plenty  in  the  good  old  days  when  life, 
though  considered  less  safe,  was  fussed 
over  the  less.  The  trappers  and  fur- 
traders  of  early  days  in  the  Rocky 
Mountain  regions  lived  on  bison  and 
beaver  meat  for  months.  Salmon-eaters 


too  there  are  among  both  Indians  and 
whites  who  seem  to  suffer  little  or  not 
at  all  from  the  want  of  bread.  Just  at 
this  moment  mutton  seems  the  least 
desirable  of  food,  though  of  good  qual- 
ity. We  pick  out  the  leanest  bits,  and 
down  it  goes  against  heavy  disgust, 
causing  nausea  and  an  effort  to  reject 
the  offensive  stuff.  Tea  makes  matters 
worse,  if  possible.  The  stomach  begins 
to  assert  itself  as  an  independent  crea- 
ture with  a  will  of  its  own.  We  should 
boil  lupine  leaves,  clover,  starchy  peti- 
oles, and  saxifrage  root-stocks  like  the 
Indians.  We  try  to  ignore  our  gastric 
troubles,  rise  and  gaze  about  us,  turn 
our  eyes  to  the  mountains,  and  climb 
doggedly  up  through  brush  and  rocks 
into  the  heart  of  the  scenery.  A  stifled 
calm  comes  on,  and  the  day's  duties 
and  even  enjoyments  are  languidly  got 
through  with.  We  chew  a  few  leaves 
of  ceanothus  by  way  of  luncheon,  and 
smell  or  chew  the  spicy  monardella  for 
the  dull  headache  and  stomach-ache 
that  now  lightens,  now  comes  muffling 
down  upon  us  and  into  us  like  fog. 
At  night  more  mutton,  flesh  to  flesh, 
down  with  it,  not  too  much,  and  there 
are  the  stars  shining  through  the  cedar 
plumes  and  branches  above  our  beds. 

July  7.  —  Rather  weak  and  sickish 
this  morning,  and  all  about  a  piece  of 
bread.  Can  scarce  command  attention 
to  my  best  studies,  as  if  one  could  n't 
take  a  few  days'  saunter  in  the  Godful 
woods  without  maintaining  a  base  on 
a  wheat-field  and  grist-mill.  Like  caged 
parrots  we  want  a  cracker,  any  of  the 
hundred  kinds,  —  the  remainder  bis- 
cuit of  a  voyage  round  the  world  would 
answer  well  enough,  nor  would  the 
wholesomeness  of  saleratus  biscuit  be 
questioned.  Bread  without  flesh  is  a 
good  diet,  as  on  many  botanical  excur- 
sions I  have  proved.  Tea  also  may  eas- 
ily be  ignored.  Just  bread  and  water 
and  delightful  toil  is  all  I  need,  —  not 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


175 


unreasonably  much,  yet  one  ought  to 
be  trained  and  tempered  to  enjoy  life  in 
these  brave  wilds  in  full  independence 
of  any  particular  kind  of  nourishment. 
That  this  may  be  accomplished  is  man- 
ifest, so  far  as  bodily  welfare  is  concern- 
ed, in  the  lives  of  people  of  other  climes. 
The  Eskimo,  for  example,  gets  a  living 
far  north  of  the  wheat-line,  from  oily 
seals  and  whales.  Meat,  berries,  bitter 
weeds,  and  blubber,  or  only  the  last,  for 
months  at  a  time;  and  yet  these  people 
all  around  the  frozen  shores  of  our  con- 
tinent are  said  to  be  hearty,  jolly,  stout, 
and  brave.  We  hear  too  of  fish-eaters, 
carnivorous  as  spiders,  yet  well  enough 
so  far  as  stomachs  are  concerned,  while 
we  are  so  ridiculously  helpless,  making 
wry  faces  over  our  fare,  looking  sheep- 
ish in  digestive  distress  amid  rumbling, 
grumbling  sounds  that  might  well  pass 
for  smothered  ba-as.  We  have  a  large 
supply  of  sugar,  and  this  evening  it 
occurred  to  me  that  these  belligerent 
stomachs  might  possibly,  like  complain- 
ing children,  be  coaxed  with  candy.  Ac- 
cordingly the  frying-pan  was  cleansed 
and  a  lot  of  sugar  cooked  in  it  to  a  sort 
of  wax,  but  this  stuff  only  made  mat- 
ters worse. 

Man  seems  to  be  the  only  animal 
whose  food  soils  him,  making  much 
washing  necessary,  and  shield-like  bibs 
and  napkins.  Moles  living  in  the  earth 
and  eating  slimy  worms  are  yet  as  clean 
as  seals  or  fishes,  whose  lives  are  one 
perpetual  wash.  And,  as  we  have  seen, 
the  squirrels  in  these  resiny  woods  keep 
themselves  clean  in  some  mysterious 
way;  not  a  hair  is  sticky,  though  they 
handle  the  gummy  cones,  and  glide 
about  apparently  without  care.  The 
birds  too  are  clean,  though  they  seem  to 
make  a  good  deal  of  fuss  washing  and 
cleaning  their  feathers.  Certain  flies 
and  ants  I  see  are  in  a  fix,  entangled 
and  sealed  up  in  the  sugar-wax  we  threw 
away,  like  some  of  their  ancestors  in 
amber. 


Our  stomachs,  like  tired  muscles, 
are  sore  with  long  squirming.  Once  I 
was  very  hungry  in  the  Bonaventure 
graveyard  near  Savannah,  Georgia, 
having  fasted  for  several  days;  then 
the  empty  stomach  seemed  to  chafe 
in  much  the  same  way  as  now,  and  a 
somewhat  similar  tenderness  and  ach- 
ing was  produced,  hard  to  bear,  though 
the  pain  was  not  acute.  We  dream  of 
bread,  a  sure  sign  we  need  it.  Like  the 
Indians,  we  ought  to  know  how  to  get 
the  starch  out  of  fern  and  saxifrage 
stalks,  lily-bulbs,  pine-bark,  etc.  Our 
education  has  been  sadly  neglected  for 
many  generations.  Wild  rice  would  be 
good.  I  noticed  a  species  of  leersia  in 
wet  meadow  edges,  but  the  seeds  are 
small.  Acorns  are  not  ripe,  nor  pine 
nuts,  nor  filberts.  The  inner  bark  of 
pine  or  spruce  might  be  tried.  Drank 
tea  until  half  intoxicated.  Man  seems 
to  crave  a  stimulant  when  anything 
extraordinary  is  going  on,  and  this  is 
the  only  one  I  use.  Billy  chews  great 
quantities  of  tobacco,  which  I  suppose 
helps  to  stupefy  and  moderate  his 
misery.  We  look  and  listen  for  the  Don 
every  hour.  How  beautiful  upon  the 
mountains  his  big  feet  would  be! 

In  the  warm  hospitable  Sierra,  shep- 
herds and  mountain-men  in  general,  so 
far  as  I  have  seen,  are  easily  satisfied  as 
to  food-supplies  and  bedding.  Most  of 
them  are  heartily  content  to  'rough  it,' 
ignoring  Nature's  fineness  as  bother- 
some or  unmanly.  The  shepherd's  bed 
is  often  only  the  bare  ground  and  a  pair 
of  blankets,  with  a  stone,  a  piece  of 
wood,  or  a  pack-saddle  for  a  pillow.  In 
choosing  the  spot,  he  shows  less,  care 
than  the  dogs,  for  they  usually  deliber- 
ate before  making  up  their  minds  in  so 
important  an  affair,  going  from  place 
to  place,  scraping  away  loose  sticks  and 
pebbles  and  trying  for  comfort  by  mak- 
ing many  changes,  while  the  shepherd 
casts  himself  down  anywhere,  seem- 
ingly the  least  skilled  of  all  rest-seekers. 


176 


MY  FIRST   SUMMER  IN  THE   SIERRA 


His  food,  too,  even  when  he  has  all 
he  wants,  is  usually  far  from  delicate, 
either  in  kind  or  cooking.  Beans,  bread 
of  any  sort,  bacon,  mutton,  dried 
peaches,  and  sometimes  potatoes  and 
onions,  make  up  his  bill-of-fare,  the 
two  latter  articles  being  regarded  as 
luxuries  on  account  of  their  weight  as 
compared  with  the  nourishment  they 
contain;  a  half-sack  or  so  of  each  may 
be  put  into  the  pack  in  setting  out  from 
the  home  ranch,  and  in  a  few  days  they 
are  done.  Beans  are  the  main  stand-by, 
portable,  wholesome,  and  capable  of 
going  far,  besides  being  easily  cooked, 
although  curiously  enough  a  great  deal 
of  mystery  is  supposed  to  lie  about  the 
bean-pot. 

No  two  cooks  quite  agree  on  the 
methods  of  making  beans  do  their  best, 
and  when,  after  petting  and  coaxing 
and  nursing  the  savory  mess,  —  well 
oiled  and  mellowed  with  bacon  boiled 
into  the  heart  of  it,  —  the  proud  cook 
will  ask,  after  dishing  out  a  quart  or 
two  for  trial, '  Well,  how  do  you  like  my 
beans?'  as  if  by  no  possibility  could 
they  be  like  any  other  beans  cooked  in 
the  same  way,  but  must  needs  possess 
some  special  virtue  of  which  he  alone 
is  master.  Molasses,  sugar,  or  pepper 
may  be  used  to  give  desired  flavors; 
or  the  first  water  may  be  poured  off 
and  a  spoonful  or  two  of  ashes  or  soda 
added  to  dissolve  or  soften  the  skins 
more  fully,  according  to  various  tastes 
and  notions.  But,  like  casks  of  wine,  no 
two  potfuls  are  exactly  alike  to  every 
palate.  Some  are  supposed  to  be  spoiled 
by  the  moon,  by  some  unlucky  day,  the 
beans  having  been  grown  on  soil  not 
suitable;  or  the  whole  year  may  be  to 
blame  as  not  favorable  for  beans,  and 
so  forth. 

Coffee  too  has  its  marvels  in  the  camp 
kitchen,  but  not  so  many,  and  not  so 
inscrutable  as  those  that  beset  the  bean- 
pot.  A  low  complacent  grunt  follows 
a  mouthful  drawn  in  with  a  gurgle,  and 


the  remark  cast  forth  aimlessly, '  That 's 
good  coffee.'  Then  another  gurgling 
sip  and  repetition  of  the  judgment. 
*  Yes,  sir,  that  is  good  coffee.'  As  to  tea, 
there  are  but  two  kinds,  weak  and 
strong,  the  stronger  the  better.  The 
only  remark  heard  is, '  That  tea 's  weak, ' 
otherwise  it  is  good  enough  and  not 
worth  mentioning.  If  it  has  been  boiled 
an  hour  or  two  or  smoked  on  a  pitchy 
fire,  no  matter,  —  who  cares  for  a  little 
tannin  or  creosote?  they  make  the  black 
beverage  all  the  stronger  and  more  at- 
tractive to  tobacco-tanned  palates. 

At  last  Don  Delaney  comes  down  the 
long  glen,  —  hunger  vanishes,  we  turn 
our  eyes  to  the  mountains,  and  to-mor- 
row we  go  climbing  toward  cloudland. 

Never  while  anything  is  left  of  me 
shall  this  first  camp  be  forgotten.  It 
has  fairly  grown  into  me.  Not  merely 
as  memory-pictures,  but  as  part  and 
parcel  of  mind  and  body  alike.  The 
deep  hopper-like  hollow,  with  its  ma- 
jestic trees  through  which  all  the  won- 
derful nights  the  stars  poured  their 
beauty.  The  flowery  wildness  of  the 
high  steep  slope  toward  Brown's  Flat, 
and  its  bloom-fragrance  descending 
at  the  close  of  the  still  days.  The 
embowered  river-reaches  with  their 
multitude  of  voices  making  melody,  the 
stately  flow  and  rush  and  glad  exulting 
onsweeping  currents  caressing  the  dip- 
ping sedge-leaves  and  bushes  and  mossy 
stones,  swirling  in  pools,  dividing 
against  little  flowery  islands,  breaking 
gray  and  white  here  and  there,  ever  re- 
joicing, yet  with  deep  solemn  under- 
tones recalling  the  ocean,  —  the  brave 
little  bird  ever  beside  them,  singing 
with  sweet  human  tones  among  the 
waltzing  foam-bells,  and  like  a  blessed 
evangel  explaining  Gocl's  love. 

And  the  Pilot  Peak  Ridge,  its  long 
withdrawing  slopes  gracefully  modeled 
and  braided,  reaching  from  climate  to 
climate,  feathered  with  trees  that  are 
the  kings  of  their  race,their  ranks  nobly 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


marshaled  to  view,  spire  above  spire, 
crown  above  crown,  waving  their  long, 
leafy  arms,  tossing  their  cones  like  ring- 
ing bells,  —  blessed  sun-fed  mountain- 
eers rejoicing  in  their  strength,  every 
tree  tuneful,  a  harp  for  the  winds  and 
the  sun.  The  hazel  and  buckthorn  pas- 
tures of  the  deer,  the  sunbeaten  brows 
purple  and  yellow  with  mint  and  golden- 
rods,  carpeted  with  chamcebatia,  hum- 
ming with  bees.  And  the  dawns  and 
sunrises  and  sundowns  of  these  moun- 
tain days,  —  the  rose  light  creeping 
higher  among  the  stars,  changing  to 
daffodil  yellow,  the  level  beams  burst- 
ing forth,  streaming  across  the  ridges, 
touching  pine  after  pine,  awakening 
and  warming  all  the  mighty  host  to  do 
gladly  their  shining  day's  work.  The 
great  sun-gold  noons,  the  alabaster 
cloud-mountains,  the  landscape  beam- 
ing with  consciousness  like  the  face  of 
a  god;  and  the  sunsets,  when  the  trees 
stood  hushed  awaiting  their  good-night 
blessings.  Divine,  enduring,  unwast- 
able  wealth. 

July  8. — Now  away  we  go  toward  the 
topmost  mountains.  Many  still,  small 
voices,  as  well  as  the  noon  thunder, 
are  calling,  'Come  higher.'  Farewell, 
blessed  dell,  woods,  gardens,  streams, 
birds,  squirrels,  lizards,  and  a  thousand 
others.  Farewell.  Farewell. 

Up  through  the  woods  the  hoofed 
locusts  streamed  beneath  a  cloud  of 
brown  dust.  Scarcely  were  they  driven 
a  hundred  yards  from  the  old  corral  ere 
they  seemed  to  know  that  at  last  they 
were  going  to  new  pastures,  and  rushed 
wildly  ahead,  crowding  through  gaps 
in  the  brush,  jumping,  tumbling  like 
exulting,  hurrahing  flood-waters  escap- 
ing through  a  broken  dam.  A  man  on 
each  flank  kept  shouting  advice  to  the 
leaders,  who  in  their  famishing  con- 
dition were  behaving  like  Gadarene 
swine;  two  other  drivers  were  busy  with 
stragglers,  helping  them  out  of  brush- 

VOL.  107 -NO.  2 


tangles;  the  Indian,  calm,  alert,  silently 
watched  for  wanderers  likely  to  be 
overlooked;  the  two  dogs  ran  here  and 
there,  at  a  loss  to  know  what  was  best 
to  be  done,  while  the  Don,  soon  far  in 
the  rear,  was  trying  to  keep  in  sight 
of  his  troublesome  wealth. 

As  soon  as  the  boundary  of  the  old 
eaten-out  range  was  passed,  the  hungry 
horde  suddenly  became  calm,  like  a 
mountain  stream  in  a  meadow.  Thence- 
forward they  were  allowed  to  eat  their 
way  as  slowly  as  they  wished,  care 
being  taken  only  to  keep  them  headed 
toward  the  summit  of  the  Merced  and 
Tuolumne  divide.  Soon  the  two  thou- 
sand flattened  paunches  were  bulged 
out  with  sweet-pea  vines  and  grass,  and 
the  gaunt,  desperate  creatures,  more 
like  wolves  than  sheep,  became  bland 
and  governable,  while  the  howling  driv- 
ers changed  to  gentle  shepherds,  and 
sauntered  in  peace. 

I  miss  my  river  songs  to-night.  Here 
Hazel  Creek  at  its  topmost  springs  has 
a  voice  like  a  bird.  The  wind-tones  in 
the  great  trees  overhead  are  strangely 
impressive,  all  the  more  because  not  a 
leaf  stirs  below  them.  But  it  grows 
late,  and  I  must  to  bed.  The  camp  is 
silent;  everybody  asleep.  It  seems  ex- 
travagant to  spend  hours  so  precious 
in  sleep.  '  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep.* 
Pity  the  poor  beloved  needs  it,  weak, 
weary,  forespent;  oh,  the  pity  of  it,  to 
sleep  in  the  midst  of  eternal,  beautiful 
motion  instead  of  gazing  forever,  like 
the  stars. 

July  9.  —  Exhilarated  with  the 
mountain  air,  I  feel  like  shouting  this 
morning  with  excess  of  wild  animal  joy. 
The  Indian  lay  down  away  from  the  fire 
last  night,  without  blankets,  having 
nothing  on,  by  way  of  clothing,  but  a 
pair  of  blue  overalls  and  a  calico  shirt 
wet  with  sweat.  The  night  air  is  chilly 
at  this  elevation,  and  we  gave  him  some 
horse-blankets,  but  he  did  n't  seem  to 


178 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


care  for  them.  A  fine  thing  to  be  inde- 
pendent of  clothing  where  it  is  so  hard 
to  carry.  When  food  is  scarce  he  can 
live  on  whatever  comes  in  his  way,  — 
a  few  berries,  roots,  bird-eggs,  grass- 
hoppers, black  ants,  fat  wasp  or  bum- 
blebee larvae,  without  feeling  that  he 
is  doing  anything  worth  mention,  so  I 
have  been  told. 

We  passed  a  number  of  charming 
garden-like  meadows  lying  on  top  of 
the  divide  or  hanging  like  ribbons  down 
its  sides,  imbedded  in  the  glorious  for- 
est. Some  are  taken  up  chiefly  with  the 
tall  white-flowered  Veratrum  Calif orni- 
cwra,  with  boat-shaped  leave's  about  a 
foot  long,  eight  or  ten  inches  wide,  and 
veined  like  those  of  cypripedium,  —  a 
robust,  hearty,  liliaceous  plant,  fond  of 
water  and  determined  to  be  seen.  Col- 
umbine and  larkspur  grow  on  the  dryer 
edges  of  the  meadows,  with  a  tall  hand- 
some lupine  standing  waist-deep  in  long 
grasses  and  sedges.  Castilleias,  too,  of 
several  species  make  a  bright  show 
with  beds  of  violets  at  their  feet.  But 
the  glory  of  these  forest  meadows  is  a 
lily  (L.  parvum).  The  tallest  is  from 
seven  to  eight  feet  high  with  magni- 
ficent racemes  of  ten  to  twenty  or  more 
small  orange-colored  flowers,  while  it 
stands  out  free  in  open  ground,  with 
just  enough  grass  and  other  compan- 
ion plants  about  it  to  fringe  its  feet, 
and  show  it  off  to  best  advantage. 
This  is  a  grand  addition  to  my  lily 
acquaintances,  —  a  true  mountaineer, 
reaching  prime  vigor  and  beauty  at  a 
height  of  seven  thousand  feet  or  there- 
abouts. It  varies,  I-  find,  very  much 
in  size  even  in  the  same  meadow,  not 
only  with  the  soil,  but  with  age.  I  saw 
a  specimen  that  had  only  one  flower, 
and  another  within  a  stone's  throw  had 
twenty-five. 

And  to  think  that  the  sheep  should 
be  allowed  in  these  lily-meadows!  after 
how  many  centuries  of  Nature's  care 
planting  and  watering  them,  tucking 


the  bulbs  in  snugly  below  winter  frost, 
shading  the  tender  shoots  with  clouds 
drawn  above  them  like  curtains,  pouring 
refreshing  rain,  making  them  perfect  in 
beauty,  and  keeping  them  safe  by  a 
thousand  miracles;  yet,  strange  to  say, 
allowing  the  trampling  of  devastating 
sheep.  One  might  reasonably  look  for 
a  wall  of  fire  to  fence  such  gardens.  So 
extravagant  is  Nature  with  her  choicest 
treasures,  spending  plant-beauty  as 
she  spends  sunshine,  pouring  it  forth 
into  land  and  sea,  garden  and  desert. 
And  so  the  beauty  of  lilies  falls  on 
angels  and  men,  bears  and  squirrels, 
wolves  and  sheep,  birds  and  bees,  but 
so  far  as  I  have  seen,  man  alone,  and 
the  animals  he  tames,  destroy  these 
gardens.  Awkward,  lumbering  bears, 
the  Don  tells  me,  love  to  wallow  in  them 
in  hot  weather,  and  deer  with  their 
sharp  feet  cross  them  again  and  again, 
sauntering  and  feeding,  yet  never  a  lily 
have  I  seen  spoiled  by  them.  Rather, 
like  gardeners,  they  seem  to  cultivate 
them,  pressing  and  dibbling  as  required. 
Anyhow,  not  a  leaf  Or  a  petal  seems 
misplaced. 

The  trees  round  about  them  seem  as 
perfect  in  beauty  and  form  as  the  lilies, 
their  boughs  whorled  like  lily  leaves  in 
exact  order.  This  evening,  as  usual,  the 
glow  of  our  camp-fire  is  working  en- 
chantment on  everything  within  reach 
of  its  rays.  Lying  beneath  the  firs,  it  is 
glorious  to  see  them  dipping  their  spires 
in  the  starry  sky,  the  sky  like  one  vast 
lily  meadow  in  bloom!  How  can  I  close 
my  eyes  on  so  precious  a  night! 

Have  greatly  enjoyed  all  this  huge 
day,  sauntering  and  seeing,  steeping 
in  the  mountain  influences,  sketching, 
noting,  pressing  flowers,  drinking  ozone 
and  tamarac  water.  Found  the  white 
fragrant  Washington  lily,  the  finest  of 
all  the  Sierra  lilies.  Its  bulbs  are  buried 
in  shaggy  chaparral  tangles,  I  suppose 
for  safety  from  pawing  bears;  and  its 
magnificent  panicles  sway  and  rock 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


179 


over  the  top  of  the  rough  snow-pressed 
bushes,  while  big,  bold,  blunt-nosed 
bees  drone  and  mumble  in  its  polleny 
bells.  A  lovely  flower  worth  going  hun- 
gry and  footsore  endless  miles  to  see. 
The  whole  world  seems  richer  now  that 
I  have  found  this  plant  in  so  noble  a 
landscape. 

A  log  house  serves  to  mark  a  claim 
to  the  tamarac  meadow,  which  may 
become  valuable  as  a  station  in  case 
travel  to  Yosemite  should  greatly  in- 
crease. Belated  parties  occasionally 
stop  here.  A  white  man  with  an  Indian 
woman  is  holding  possession  of  the 
place. 

Sauntered  up  the  meadow  about  sun- 
down, out  of  sight  of  camp  and  sheep 
and  all  human  mark,  into  the  deep 
peace  of  the  solemn  old  woods,  every- 
thing glowing  with  Heaven's  unquench- 
able enthusiasm. 

July  12.  —  The  Don  has  returned, 
and  again  we  go  on  pilgrimage.  '  Look- 
ing over  the  Yosemite  Creek  country,' 
he  said,  '  from  the  tops  of  the  hills  you 
see  nothing  but  rocks  and  patches  of 
trees;  but  when  you  go  down  into  the 
rocky  desert  you  find  no  end  of  small 
grassy  banks  and  meadows,  and  so  the 
country  is  not  half  so  lean  as  it  looks.' 
There  we'll  go  and  stay  until  the  snow 
is  melted  from  the  upper  country. 

I  was  glad  to  hear  that  the  high  snow 
made  a  stay  in  the  Yosemite  region 
necessary,  for  I  am  anxious  to  see  as 
much  of  it  as  possible.  What  fine  times 
I  shall  have  sketching,  studying  plants 
and  rocks,  and  scrambling  about  the 
brink  of  the  great  valley  alone,  out  of 
sight  and  sound  of  camp! 

We  saw  another  party  of  Yosemite 
tourists  to-day.  Somehow  most  of  these 
travelers  seem  to  care  but  little  for 
the  glorious  objects  about  them,  though 
enough  to  spend  time  and  money 
and  endure  long  rides  to  see  the  fam- 
ous valley.  And  when  they  are  fairly 


within  the  mighty  walls  of  the  temple 
and  hear  the  psalms  of  the  falls,  they 
will  forget  themselves  and  become  de- 
vout. Blessed  indeed  should  be  every 
pilgrim  in  these  holy  mountains. 

The  Mono  Trail  crosses  the  range 
by  the  Bloody  Canon  Pass  to  gold- 
mines near  the  north  end  of  Mono 
Lake.  These  mines  were  reported  to  be 
rich  when  first  discovered,  and  a  grand 
rush  took  place,  making  a  trail  neces- 
sary. A  few  small  bridges  were  built 
over  streams  where  fording  was  not 
practicable  on  account  of  the  softness 
of  the  bottom,  sections  of  fallen  trees 
cut  out,  and  lanes  made  through  thick- 
ets wide  enough  to  allow  the  passage  of 
bulky  packs;  but  over  the  greater  part 
of  the  way  scarce  a  stone  or  shovelful 
of  earth  has  been  moved. 

The  woods  we  passed  through  are 
composed  almost  wholly  of  Abies  mag- 
nified, the  companion  species,  concolor, 
being  mostly  left  behind  on  account 
of  altitude,  while  the  increasing  eleva- 
tion seems  grateful  to  the  charming 
magnified.  No  words  can  do  anything 
like  justice  to  this  noble  tree.  At  one 
place  many  had  fallen  during  some 
heavy  windstorm,  owing  to  the  loose 
sandy  character  of  the  soil,  which  of- 
fered no  secure  anchorage.  The  soil  is 
mostly  decomposed  and  disintegrated 
moraine  material. 

July  14.  —  How  deathlike  is  sleep  in 
this  mountain  air,  and  quick  the  awak- 
ening into  newness  of  life!  A  calm 
dawn,  yellow  and  purple,  then  floods 
of  sun-gold,  making  everything  tingle 
and  glow. 

In  an  hour  or  two  we  came  to  Yosem- 
ite Creek,  the  stream  that  makes  the 
greatest  of  all  the  Yosemite  falls.  It 
is  about  forty  feet  wide  at  the  Mono 
Trail  crossing,  and  now  about  four  feet 
in  average  depth,  flowing  about  three 
miles  an  hour.  The  distance  to  the  verge 
of  the  Yosemite  wall,  where  it  makes 


180 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


its  tremendous  plunge,  is  only  about 
two  miles.  Calm,  beautiful,  and  nearly 
silent,  it  glides  with  stately  gestures,  a 
dense  growth  of  the  slender  two-leaved 
pine  along  its  banks,  and  a  fringe  of 
willow,  purple  spirea,  sedges,  daisies, 
lilies,  and  columbines.  Some  of  the 
sedges  and  willow  boughs  dip  into  the 
current,  and  just  outside  of  the  close 
ranks  of  trees  there  is  a  sunny  flat  of 
washed  gravelly  sand  which  seems  to 
have  been  deposited  by  some  ancient 
flood.  It  is  covered  with  millions  of 
erethrea,  eriogonum,  and  oxytheca, 
with  more  flowers  than  leaves,  form- 
ing an  even  growth  slightly  dimpled 
and  ruffled  here  and  there  by  rosettes 
of  spraguea  umbellata. 

Back  of  this  flowery  strip  is  a  wavy 
up-sloping  plain  of  solid  granite,  so 
smoothly  ice-polished  in  many  places 
that  it  glistens  in  the  sun  like  glass. 
In  shallow  hollows  there  are  patches 
of  trees,  mostly  the  rough  form  of 
the  two-leaved  pine,  rather  scrawny- 
looking  where  there  is  little  or  no  soil. 
Also  a  few  junipers  (J.  occidentalis'), 
short  and  stout,  with  bright  cinnamon- 
colored  bark  and  gray  foliage,  standing 
alone  mostly,  on  the  sun-beaten  pave- 
ment, safe  from  fire,  clinging  by  slight 
joints — a  sturdy  storm-enduring  moun- 
taineer of  a  tree,  living  on  sunshine 
and  snow,  maintaining  tough  health 
on  this  diet  for  perhaps  more  than  a 
thousand  years. 

Up  toward  the  head  of  the  basin  I 
see  groups  of  domes  rising  above  the 
wave-like  ridges,  and  some  picturesque 
castellated  masses,  and  dark  strips  and 
patches  of  silver  fir,  indicating  de- 
posits of  fertile  soil.  Would  that  I  could 
command  the  time  to  study  them. 
What  rich  excursions  one  could  make 
in  this  well-defined  basin.  Its  glacial 
inscriptions  and  sculptures,  how  mar- 
velous they  seem,  how  noble  the  studies 
they  offer!  I  tremble  with  excitement 
in  the  dawn  of  these  glorious  mountain 


sublimities,  but  I  can  only  gaze  and 
wonder,  and,  like  a  child,  gather  here 
and  there  a  lily,  half-hoping  I  may  be 
able  to  study  and  learn  in  years  to 
come. 

The  drivers  and  dogs  had  a  lively,  la- 
borious time  getting  the  sheep  over  the 
creek,  the  second  large  stream  thus  far 
that  they  have  been  compelled  to  cross 
without  a  bridge;  the  first  being  the 
North  Fork  of  the  Merced  near  Bower 
Cave.  Men  and  dogs  shouting  and 
barking  drove  the  timid,  water-fearing 
creatures  in  a  close  crowd  against  the 
bank,  but  not  one  of  the  flock  would 
launch  away.  While  thus  jammed,  the 
Don  and  the  shepherd  rushed  through 
the  frightened  crowd  to  stampede  those 
in  front,  but  this  would  only  cause  a 
break  backward,  and  away  they  would 
scamper  through  the  stream-bank  trees 
and  scatter  over  the  rocky  pavement. 
Then  with  the  aid  of  the  dogs  the  run- 
aways would  again  be  gathered  and 
made  to  face  the  stream,  and  again  the 
compacted  mass  would  break  away, 
amid  wild  shouting  and  barking  that 
might  well  have  disturbed  the  stream 
itself  and  marred  the  music  of  its  falls, 
to  which  visitors  no  doubt  from  all 
quarters  of  the  globe  were  listening. 

'Hold  them  there!  Now  hold  them 
there!'  shouted  the  Don;  'the  front 
ranks  will  soon  tire  of  the  pressure,  and 
be  glad  to  take  to  the  water,  then  all 
will  jump  in  and  cross  in  a  hurry.'  But 
they  did  nothing  of  the  kind;  they  only 
avoided  the  pressure  by  breaking  back 
in  scores  and  hundreds  leaving  the 
beauty  of  the  banks  sadly  trampled. 

If  only  one  could  begot  to  cross  over, 
all  would  make  haste  to  follow;  but 
that  one  could  not  be  found.  A  lamb 
was  caught,  carried  across,  and  tied  to 
a  bush  on  the  opposite  bank,  where 
it  cried  piteously  for  its  mother.  But 
though  greatly  concerned,  the  mother 
only  called  it  back.  That  play  on  ma- 
ternal affection  failed,  and  we  began  to 


181 


fear  that  we  should  be  forced  to  make 
a  long  roundabout  drive  and  cross  the 
widespread  tributaries  of  the  creek  in 
succession.  This  would  require  several 
days,  but  it  had  its  advantages,  for  I 
was  eager  to  see  the  sources  of  so  fam- 
ous a  stream.  Don  Quixote,  however, 
determined  that  they  must  ford  just 
here,  and  immediately  began  a  sort  of 
siege  by  cutting  down  slender  pines  on 
the  bank  and  building  a  corral  barely 
large  enough  to  hold  the  flock  when  well 
pressed  together.  And  as  the  stream 
would  form  one  side  of  the  corral  he  be- 
lieved that  they  could  easily  be  forced 
into  the  water. 

In  a  few  hours  the  inclosure  was 
completed,  and  the  silly  animals  were 
driven  in  and  rammed  hard  against 
the  brink  of  the  ford.  Then  the  Don, 
forcing  a  way  through  the  compacted 
mass,  pitched  a  few  of  the  terrified 
unfortunates  into  the  stream  by  main 
strength;  but  instead  of  crossing  over, 
they  swam  about  close  to  the  bank, 
making  desperate  attempts  to  get 
back  into  the  flock.  Then  a  dozen  or 
more  were  shoved  off,  and  the  Don, 
tall  like  a  crane  and  a  good  natural 
wader,  jumped  in  after  them,-  seized  a 
struggling  wether,  and  dragged  it  to  the 
opposite  shore.  But  no  sooner  did  he 
let  it  go  than  it  jumped  into  the  stream 
and  swam  back  to  its  frightened  com- 
panions in  the  corral,  thus  manifesting 
sheep-nature  as  unchangeable  as  grav- 
itation. 

Pan  with  his  pipes  would  have  had 
no  better  luck,  I  fear.  We  were  now 
pretty  well  baffled.  The  silly  crea- 
tures would  suffer  any  sort  of  death 
rather  than  cross  that  stream.  Calling 
a  council,  the  dripping  Don  declared 
that  starvation  was  now  the  only  likely 
scheme  to  try,  and  that  we  might  as 
well  camp  here  in  comfort  and  let  the 


besieged  flock  grow  hungry  and  cool, 
and  come  to  their  senses,  if  they  had 
any. 

In  a  few  minutes  after  being  thus  let 
alone,  an  adventurer  in  the  foremost 
rank  plunged  in  and  swam  bravely  to 
the  farther  shore.  Then  suddenly  all 
rushed  in  pell-mell  together,  trampling 
one  another  under  water,  while  we  vain- 
ly tried  to  hold  them  back.  The  Don 
jumped  into  the  thickest  of  the  gasping, 
gurgling,  drowning  mass,  and  shoved 
them  right  and  left  as  if  each  sheep 
was  a  piece  of  floating  timber.  The 
current  also  served  to  drift  them  apart; 
a  long  bent  column  was  soon  formed, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  all  were  over  and 
began  baaing  and  feeding  as  if  nothing 
out  of  the  common  had  happened. 
That  none  were  drowned  seems  won- 
derful. I  fully  expected  that  hundreds 
would  gain  the  romantic  fate  of  being 
swept  into  Yosemite  over  the  highest 
waterfall  in  the  world. 

As  the  day  was  far  spent,  we  camped 
a  little  way  back  from  the  ford,  and  let 
the  dripping  flock  scatter  and  feed  un- 
til sundown.  The  wool  is  dry  now,  and 
calm,  cud-chewing  peace  has  fallen  on 
all  the  comfortable  band,  leaving  no 
trace  of  the  watery  battle.  I  have  seen 
fish  driven  out  of  the  water  with  less 
ado  than  was  made  in  driving  these  ani- 
mals into  it.  Sheep  brain  must  surely 
be  poor  stuff.  Compare  to-day's  ex- 
hibition with  the  performances  of  deer 
swimming  quietly  across  broad  and 
rapid  rivers,  and  from  island  to  island 
in  seas  and  lakes;  or  with  dogs,  or  even 
with  the  squirrels  that,  as  the  story 
goes,  cross  the  Mississippi  River  on 
selected  chips,  with  tails  for  sails  com- 
fortably trimmed  to  the  breeze.  A 
sheep  can  hardly  be  called  an  animal; 
an  entire  flock  is  required  to  make  one 
foolish  individual. 


(To  be  continued.) 


THE  FIELD  OF  SCARLET   TREASURE 


IT  is  Tilly  Clapsaddle  who  always 
finds  out  first. 

She,  on  a  certain  day  in  early  June, 
appears  at  our  front  gate.  She  presses 
against  the  pickets  a  dark-skinned, 
wide-mouthed,  slightly  cross-eyed  face. 

We  cordially  greet  her. 

'Hullo,  Tilly.' 

'Got  any  sassafras  root,  Tilly?' 

'Can't  you  come  in  and  help  us  play 
Indians  ? ' 

For  answer,  Tilly's  rough  hand 
reaches  over  the  pickets.  It  holds  a 
small  cluster  of  something  scarlet  and 
green  and  white,  something  that  shakes 
with  little  trembling  balls.  It  is  a  bunch 
of  wild  strawberries. 

'Fer  yer  ma,'  explains  Tilly.  'Ast 
her,  kin  yer  come  wid  me  up  back  er 
my  house  a-berryin'.  The  fields  is  red 
with  'em.' 

Down  drops  Blue  Overalls  from  the 
apple  tree.  Up  springs  Red  Hat  from 
the  sand-heap.  Sunbonnet  leaps  sharp- 
ly as  an  arrow  from  the  swing. 
•  These  three  individuals,  with  no 
word  to  Tilly  Clapsaddle,  make  a  bee- 
line  around  the  house  to  the  breakfast- 
room  door. 

'  Tilly 's  here — she  wants  to  know — ' 

'Tilly  Clapsaddle  says,  can  we  — ' 

' Tilly  Clapsaddle— ' 

But  the  bunch  of  scarlet  and  white 
and  green  pendants,  handed  up  to  the 
Highest  Authority,  is  better  than  kingly 
seal  or  papal  bulla.  It  is  better  even 
than  the  mighty  name  of  Tilly  Clap- 
saddle.  The  Highest  Authority  accepts 
it.  She  holds  it  a  minute  to  her  smiling 
face,  then  in  exquisite  homage  tucks  it . 

182 


in  her  belt.  She  smiles  on  us,  tying  the 
necktie  of  one,  smoothing  from  his  hot 
forehead  the  hair  of  another,  settling 
the  sunbonnet  of  a  third.  At  last  she 
says,  — 

'I  see  no  objection.' 

We  catch  up  three  little  baskets.  We 
hasten  back  to  Tilly.  We  find  her 
leisurely  waiting,  twisting  knobs  of 
amber-colored  gum  from  the  trunks 
of  our  cherry  trees. 

'She  says  we  can  go  if  you'll  take 
care  of  us,  Tilly.' 

'She  says  —  don't  let  us  get  our  feet 
wet.' 

'She  says  we  can  stay  until  dinner- 
time, or  until  your  mother  calls  you 
in.' 

'My  mother  won't  never  call  me  in,' 
swaggers  Tilly  Clapsaddle.  '  She  leaves 
me  come.when  I  like,  she  leaves  me  do 
all  what  I  like  —  except  who  I  play 
with;  she  won't  leave  me  play  with  no- 
body that  ain't  reefined.' 

We  stand  proudly  and  confidently 
before  our  visitor,  suggesting,  '  We  are 
refined,  Tilly.' 

'I  bet  yer,'  responds  Tilly  Clapsad- 
dle. She  claws  off  a  last  globule  of 
resin-colored  gum,  adding,  'My  maw 
says  yer  are.  She  says  you  'm  the  ree- 
finedest,  and  the  high-toned'st  and  the 
greatest  -  hands-for-queer  -  talk  -  young- 
ones  she  ever  see.' 

We  are  reassured,  complimented, 
awaiting  Tilly's  pleasure.  This  flatter- 
ing person,  having  stowed  in  her  apron 
pocket  quite  a  lavish  store  of  gum,  now 
opens  the  gate,  marshals  us  through  it, 
and  locking  us  together  by  a  perfected 


THE  FIELD  OF  SCARLET  TREASURE 


183 


system  of  hand-holding,  —  in  which 
the  weaker  and  more  uncertain  of  step 
is  placed  in  the  centre,  and  the  valiant 
and  more  experienced  on  the  two  ends, 
—  off  we  start  down  the  shady  side- 
walk. 

As  we  clatter  along,  Sunbonnet,  for 
some  occult  reason  known  only  to  her- 
self, objects  to  walking  on  the  outside, 
near  the  gutter.  Sunbonnet  makes  out- 
cry of  dissatisfaction. 

We  all  stop.  Sunbonnet  explains. 
Tilly,  reviewing  the  situation,  casts 
about  for  a  remedy.  She  tries  mental 
healing,  giving  forth  this  adage,  — 

'Walk  outside 
Ye  '11  come  home  a  bride.' 

It  is  enough.  We  are,  male  and  fe- 
male, henceforth  eager  to  walk  on  the 
outside  and  come  home  brides;  but 
Sunbonnet,  with  calm  superiority,  now 
holds  tenaciously  to  the  position  near 
the  gutter.  Tilly's  ruse  succeeds. 

Another  time  the  flying  wedge  of 
walkers  comes  to  a  halt  because  of  the 
protests  of  Sunbonnet  and  Blue  Over- 
alls against  Red  Hat,  who,  as  he  pro- 
ceeds, tries  to  step  on  every  crack 
where  the  pavements  join.  This  irregu- 
larity of  the  unit  results  in  the  halting 
and  undecided  march  of  the  aggregate. 
There  is  mutual  criticism.  Again  Tilly 
makes  investigation.  Finally  she  re- 
marks, — 

*  Step  on  a  crack 
Yer  break  yer  mother's  back.' 

Once  more,  peace.  Red  Hat,  not 
wishing  to  be  weighted  down  with  this 
crime,  desists.  We  proceed  in  more  or- 
derly fashion. 

Soon  we  get  away  from  village  pave- 
ments. We  go  adventuring  up  a  side 
street,  turn  into  a  lane,  and  skip  across 
a  field.  We  come  to  a  little  gladed  hol- 
low. Here  we  scramble  down  a  red  clay 
bank,  cross,  by  a  single  risky  plank,  a 
brown  brook,  and  are  beginning  to  toil 
up  the  clay  bank  on  the  other  side, 
when  Red  Hat  pauses. 


'Gee!'  breathes  Red  Hat  ecstatical- 
ly; 'gee!'  He  looks  longingly  at  the 
water.  He  casts  an  appreciative  eye  at 
a  hollow  tree,  at  patches  of  eddy  foam, 
the  green  walls  of  birch,  maple,  and 
alder,  the  curious  netted  effect  of  the 
sun  on  gravelly  ripples.  Red  Hat  sniffs 
the  air,  he  pricks  up  his  ears,  he  plants 
his  feet. 

'Come  on!'  orders  Tilly  Clapsaddle. 

'I  won't,'  says  Red  Hat  decidedly. 
'You  can  go  on  ^without  me.  I  —  I'm 
going  to  stay  here.  I  like  it.  I  'm  going 
to  build  a  tent  out  of  branches  and  be 
AH  Baba  and  the  Forty  Thieves.  It's 
like  pirates  here,  there's  a  hollow  tree 
and  everythin'  —  Oooh!  look  at  those 
smarty  skippers  walking  up  hill  on  the 
water.  I  'm  going  to  see  if  I  can't  drown 
'em.  Say,  Tilly,  I  bet  there's  all  sorts 
of  queer  things  round  here.' 

We  gaze  at  Red  Hat  in  dismay.  Til- 
ly Clapsaddle  is  stern;  she  deals  firmly 
with  the  deserter. 

'Guy!'  ejaculates  Tilly  Clapsaddle. 
We  have  been  instructed  to  the  effect 
that  it  is  a  pity  such  a  nice,  bright  girl 
as  Tilly  should  say  'Guy,'  which  is  not 
a  word  used  by  ladies.  Yet  we  are 
thrilled  when  she  says  it  now.  She 
jerks  off  a  small  birch  twig,  strips  it  of 
its  leaves,  and  chews  sagely  on  its  bark, 
remarking,  'Guy!  I  wouldn't  stay 
here  —  not  if  I  wuz  to  git  a  dimond 
ring  and  a  silk  dress  for  it.' 

What?  She  would  n't?  We  stare  at 
her  in  wide-eyed  wonder.  Tilly  Clap- 
saddle,  daughter  of  valorous  Clapsad- 
dles,  who  would,  no  doubt,  be  extreme- 
ly fascinating  in  a  silk  dress  and  a  dia- 
mond ring,  —  Tilly  would  n't  stay 
here?  —  why  not? 

We  gaze  vaguely  into  the  shadows 
around  us.  We  peer  up  and  down  the 
bosky  brook.  We  start  at  the  sight  of 
old  blackened  stumps,  at  the  haughty 
flare  of  skunk-cabbages,  at  objects  that 
take  on  menacing  shapes,  at  mysteri- 
ous signs  and  wavings  over  our  heads. 


THE  FIELD  OF  SCARLET  TREASURE 


We  become  suddenly  afraid  of  the 
water  voices,  of  the  cynical  teasing  buzz 
of  brook  midges.  When,  for  a  moment, 
the  sun  goes  behind  a  cloud  and  the 
hollow  darkens,  our  hearts  beat  wildly, 
and  we  move  closer  together. 

'Why  wouldn't  you  —  Tilly?'  we 
inquire. 

'On  'count  snakes,'  explains  the  suc- 
cinct Tilly.  She  points  to  walls  of 
crumbling  rock,  to  nooks  and  crannies, 
suggesting  the  cool  sunless  apartments 
of  reptiles,  continuing,  'Copperheads. 
They  'm  thick  as  frogs,  here.  My  paw, 
he 's  killed  more  snakes  'an  he  ever  seen 
dollars,  but  he  ain't  never  killed  no 
.copperheads.  Nobody  can't  kill  none, 
that's  why  there's  so  many.  There's 
more  this  side  the  brook,'  indicating 
where  we  stand,  'than  there  is  yander, 
acrost  the  brook,  bekuz  copperheads 
ain't  like  black  snakes,  they  won't  go 
acrost  water.  Black  snakes  will  swim 
acrost  the  'Lantic  Ocean,  once  they  set 
their  minds  to  it.' 

Though  impressed  with  this  idea  of 
the  mental  control  of  black  snakes,  we 
revert  to  the  more  conservative  cop- 
perheads. 'Why  can't  your  father  kill 
them?'  inquires  Red  Hat. 

'  Guy ! '  says  the  explosive  Tilly,  *  they 
got  gold  dollars  on  their  heads.  That 
gives  'em  a  charm  like.  If  yer  could 
once  git  near  enough  to  knock  the  gold 
dollars  off,  yer  could  git  'em  easy 
enough.  They'd  be  tame  as  jumpin'- 
ropes.  But  a  good  many  has  tried  it. 
My  paw,  he 's  —  now  —  pegged  rocks 
at  'em,  rocks  enough  to  sink  a  ship,  but 
he  ain't  never  dared  git  near  enough 
one  to  knock  its  gold  dollar  off.' 

We  are  awed;  speechless.  In  view 
of  the  failure  of  Mr.  Clapsaddle  to  deci- 
mate the  copperheads,  we  feel  that  the 
ravine  is  for  us  spoiled.  Even  for  Red 
Hat.  Red  Hat  feels  that  snake  propin- 
quity would  destroy  the  perfect  peace 
of  Ali  Baba  and  the  Forty  Thieves.  He, 
like  us,  is  ready  to  move  on.  We  wait 


only  for  Tilly  Clapsaddle,  now  flat  on 
her  stomach,  sucking  up  between  her 
closed  teeth  long  horse-like  drinks  of 
brook  water.  She  rises,  snub-nose 
dripping. 

'I  wuz  that  dry,'  she  excuses  herself 
impressively.  'Did  yer  see  how  I  done 
it?  I  allus  shuts  my  teeth  like  that,  to 
keep  from  swallerin'  pond-eggs.  I  dast 
drink  brook  water,  bekuz  I  'm  thirteen, 
but  you  nee'nter.' 

'Why  not,  Tilly?'  we  demur. 

We  are  immediately  seized  with  a 
thirst  that  beggars  description.  We  de- 
vise original  means  of  getting  at  the 
water.  We  would  enjoy  drawing  it  to 
our  eager  mouths  through  hollow  stalks, 
dipping  it  up  in  leaf-cups  and  empty 
tin  cans.  We  tell  our  guide  this. 

'Well,  did  I  say  yer  could  n't?'  re- 
marks Tilly  Clapsaddle  with  cold  re- 
serve. '  I  don't  say  yer  kin't  —  I  only 
say  yer  nee'nter.  Yer  got  as  good  right 
as  I  have,  only  yer  liable  to  swaller 
baby  snakes.  A  good  many  has  swal- 
lered  their  first  snakes  with  drinkin' 
brook  water.  Lizards,  too.  My  mo- 
ther's cousin  —  she  —  now  — ' 

As  we  toil  up  the  clay  hill,  and  out 
of  the  shadowy  hollow,  we  hear  all 
there  :s  to  hear  about  Tilly  Clapsaddle's 
mother's  cousin.  And  it  is  a  poignant 
tale,  reeking  with  mortification  and 
despair.  Every  dusty  chicken  we  pass, 
pausing  in  its  nervous  search  for  the 
Ultimate  Bug,  bows  its  head  and  gives 
a  low,  confirming  cluck;  every  cow, 
glaring,  sighs  heavy  acknowledgment 
of  its  truth. 

Oh,  Tilly  Clapsaddle's  mother's 
cousin  —  what  a  noble,  free,  confident 
character!  Unconsciously,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  glad  abandon  and  natural 
thirst,  drinking  what  was  apparently 
innocuous  brook-water,  swallowing,  all 
unknowingly,  one  or  two  baby  snakes 
— or  was  it  pond-eggs,  cousin? — and 
thereafter  suffering  incredible  torment. 
Oh,  Tilly  Clapsaddle's  mother's  cousin, 


THE  FIELD  OF  SCARLET  TREASURE 


185 


thou  art  all  heroine,  martyr,  and  we 
drink  to  thy  memory  —  but  not  —  for- 
give the  painful  precaution  —  not  hi 
brook  water! 

By  this  tune  we  feel  that  we  are  far 
away  from  home,  really  embarked  on 
the  sunny  ways  that  lead  to  the  Field 
of  Scarlet  Treasure.  The  mystery  of 
novel  things  comes  to  our  sense,  hints 
of  the  foreign,  the  unexplained.  We 
walk  away  from  the  familiar.  We  walk 
toward  the  unfamiliar.  We,  with  our 
little  baskets  and  our  eager  chatter, 
had,  before,  barely  realized  this,  but 
now  it  is  revealed  to  us  by  our  ap- 
proach to  what  Tilly  calls  the  'woods,' 

—  a  bit  of  timber,  dusking  both  sides 
of  the  country  highway. 

To  us,  as  we  pass  down  the  cool  bit 
of  road,  where  the  shadows  steal  from 
either  side,  and  sniff  the  pungent  smell 
of  wild  growths,  the  'woods'  mean 
the  best  tunes  we  have  ever  had  or  are 
likely  to  have.  They  are  the  nadir  of 
our  dreams.  They  are  the  possible  that 
holds  our  impossible.  But,  though  they 
are  potentially  the  picnic  and  frolic 
of  our  lives,  they  are  also  potential- 
ly its  shadow  and  nemesis.  Though 
they  hold  Golden  Hair's  house,  so  do 
they  also  the  Three  Bears.  They  shel- 
ter the  fairies,  but  they  also  shelter  gob- 
lins. They  harbor  Red  Riding  Hood, 
but  —  alack  —  they  also  harbor  the 
Wolf! 

Now,  in  the  cool  bit  of  road,  passing 
between  the  two  dark  walls  of  wood- 
land, we  gaze  into  the  shifting  gleam 
and  dimness,  speak  in  low  voices,  and 
are  sobered. 

Red  Hat:  It  —  it  looks  dark  —  in 
there! 

Blue  Overalls:  It  looks  like  old  men 
with  beards. 

Sunbonnet:  It  looks  like  camels,  and 
elephants,  and  things  growling! 

Tilly  Clapsaddle:  It  looks  like — now 

—  like  the  cemet'ry  —  'n  them  rocks 
is  dead  people. 


Tilly,  it  appears,  is  sensitive.  Some- 
thing has  got  on  her  nerves.  She  is 
gloomy.  She  has  moments  of  thrilling 
indecision.  Sometimes  she  starts,  snorts, 
and  looks  vaguely  around.  Once  she 
jumps  and  squawks,  'What's  that?' 
We  stare  at  her  open-mouthed.  The 
goose-flesh  pops  out  on  our  skins. 

Tilly  has  long  since  completed  her 
ballad  of  the  mother's  cousin.  She  has 
been  having  her  lyric  moments  over 
water-cresses  and  artichokes,  and  the 
shiny  leaves  she  calls  'bread  and  but- 
ter.' Now,  the  effect  of  the  'woods' 
upon  her,  she  grows  epic.  Suddenly 
she  stops  short,  gives  a  gasp,  chortles, 
' Cheese  it!'  seizes  our  hands,  links  us 
anew,  and  orders  hoarsely,  'Run,  — 
run  like  the  doosed  I ' 

We  obey.  Perhaps  no  one  ever  knows 
what  running  is,  unless  he  has  run  as 
we  do  now,  from  an  absolutely  un- 
named, unformed,  unseen  fear.  The 
highway  dust  rises  in  snarls  that  seem 
to  trip  our  flying  feet.  The  daisies, 
their  wide  eyes  staring  in  horror,  flash 
by.  Grasses,  birds,  stand  helpless,  look- 
ing on,  and  Tilly  Clapsaddle  with  arm- 
bruising  clutch,  gasps,  '  He's  a-chasin' 
us!  He's  a-chasin'  us!  Run,  —  run  like 
the  doosed!' 

After  what  seems  years  of  stumbling 
flight,  we  reach  a  turn  in  the  road,  the 
turn  that  takes  us  out  of  the  wooded 
belt.  The  safe  blue  sky,  the  mild  ma- 
ternal fields,  cheer  us.  We  all  stop, 
while  Tilly,  with  expressions  of  doubt 
and  fear,  looks  over  her  shoulder.  We 
dare  now  question  her. 

'What  was  it,  Tilly?'  we  implore. 

'Guy!'  snorts  Tilly  Clapsaddle.  She 
plucks  a  feathery  grass,  conveys  it  to 
her  mouth,  and  chews  recklessly.  We 
all  do  likewise.  'Guy!'  says  theatric 
Tilly.  'Did  yer  see  that  ole  tramp,  set- 
tin'  there  in  the  woods,  hollerin'  at  us? ' 

No,  Tilly.  No,  resourceful  one,  we 
had  not  seen.  Tell  us,  pray,  more  of 
this  old  tramp. 


186 


THE  FIELD  OF  SCARLET  TREASURE 


'Here  he  was,  down  behind  a  rock, 
lookin'  at  us,  like  this,'  —  Miss  Clap- 
saddle,  crouching,  her  sunbonnet  on 
one  ear,  gives  us  swift  portrayal  of  the 
'old  tramp's'  fiendish  leer.  She  also 
illustrates  his  slightly  lame  gait  as  he 
emerges  from  the  wood,  and,  as  she 
says,  'chases'  us. 

'Did  n't  yer  see  him,  behind  that  big 
rock?' 

Red  Hat  rises  to  the  challenge.  He 
also  accepts  the  vernacular. 

'/  seen  him,'  says  Red  Hat. 

We  others  are  not  to  be  outdone. 
'We  seen  him,'  we  say.  In  joyful  ac- 
ceptance of  Tilly's  suggestion,  we  insist 
upon  it.  '  We  seen  him  —  we  seen  his 
white  vest,  in  the  bushes.' 

'Huh,'  corrects  Tilly  Clapsaddle. 
'Huh,  tramps  don't  wear  no  white 
vests.'  She  goes  on  to  explain  how  a 
tramp  never  dresses  like  a  dude.  She 
hints  that  it  may  have  been  a  white 
chicken  we  'seen,'  a  white  chicken  that 
the  tramp  had  stolen. 

We  stand,  looking  back,  conjectur- 
ing. Our  hearts  are  pounding.  We  are 
nearly  suffocated  with  the  sense  of  dan- 
ger. And  yet,  curiously  enough,  each 
one  of  us  is  perfectly  aware  of  the  truth. 
In  spite  of  the  Homeric  Tilly's  very 
evident  excitement,  we  know  that  she 
saw  no  tramp.  She  knows  we  know 
it.  We  all  know  —  and  yet  —  that 
strange  foreboding  look  of  the '  woods ' ; 
the  'dead'  rocks!  the  unsolved  tangle 
and  confusion  and  hidden  motives  of 
vines,  the  apparent  movelessness  of 
things  that  one  distinctly  saw  move. 
—  Ahem  —  well  —  if  a  tramp  had  not 
chased  us,  something  had,  and  so  we 
congratulate  each  other,  we  have  done 
well  to  run ! 

By  this  time  we  reach  the  lonely 
notch,  where,  in  a  rock-strewn  clear- 
ing, stands  Tilly's  house,  gray,  ram- 
shackle. We,  of  all  things  interested  in 
the  dwelling  that  shelters  our  comrade, 
are  agog.  Tilly,  however,  shows  no 


pride,  until,  as  we  approach  nearer,  and 
hear  proceeding  from  a  dilapidated 
lean-to,  a  curious  syncopation  of  grunts, 
she  remarks,  — 

'Them's  the  pigs.' 

We  are  alert  with  interest.  We  con- 
centrate on  the  dilapidated  lean-to. 
We  can  see,  inserted  in  a  broad  crack 
of  the  pen,  four  odd-looking  things, 
sliding  back  and  forth.  Nearer  examin- 
ations prove  them  to  be  restless  pink 
snouts. 

We  shout  with  joy.  We  run  forward 
delightedly.  At  the  same  moment  some- 
thing comes  strongly,  repellently,  to 
our  own  sophisticated  noses,  and  we 
pause. 

*Ugh,  Tilly,  —  what  a  horrid  smell!' 

'Pooh!'  says  the  experienced  Tilly, 
'that  ain't  nothing.  You  can't  have 
pigs  without  that.' 

Red  Hat  contradicts.  'I  could,'  he 
asserts.  'I  would  have  nice,  clean  pigs. 
Ugh  —  ugh!  that  awful  smell  makes 
me  sick!' 

'Ah!'  says  Tilly  — 'that's  you. 
Them's  pigs.  Anything  that  don't 
smell  bad  makes  a  pig  sick.' 

Red  Hat  is  silenced.  We  ponder. 
Oh,  strange  world  —  where  an  odor  so 
painful  to  us  should  make  four  pigs 
so  happy! 

In  the  centre  of  Tilly's  'yard'  is  a 
thorn-bush.  The  thorn-bush  is  bare  of 
leaves,  it  boasts  no  flowers  of  its  own. 
But  it  has,  instead,  a  mock  efflores- 
cence, a  burgeoning  of  inverted  egg- 
shells, stuck  here  and  there,  blooming 
palely  upon  the  arid  branches.  We 
three  behold  it  with  approval,  we  are 
deeply  impressed.  Heavens!  This  egg 
tree  is  wonderful!  We  commend  the 
ethereal  conception,  the  divine  affla- 
tus of  Clapsaddle  temperament,  that 
should  conceive  and  portray  a  tree 
blossoming  eggs.  We  lean  against  the 
broken  fence,  where  the  component 
parts  of  the  Clapsaddle  wash  are  hung, 
to  look  through  the  knot-holes  and  ex- 


THE  FIELD  OF  SCARLET  TREASURE 


187 


patiate.  We  compliment  Tilly  upon 
the  egg  tree.  But  our  friend,  for  some 
reason,  scorns  this  praise.  She  appears 
anxious,  restive,  intent  upon  getting  by 
her  residence  without  being  observed 
from  within. 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  ramshackle 
house  swings  open.  A  gaunt  woman 
appears.  It  is  Mrs.  Clapsaddle.  We, 
who  never  before  have  seen  Mrs.  Clap- 
saddle  without  her  bonnet  and  shawl, 
apply  stealthy  eyes  to  our  respective 
knot-holes,  interested  to  study  her  in 
this  new  phase.  She  is  at  present  wear- 
ing a  greasy  black-and-white  wrapper, 
her  hair  is  in  a  rough  braid,  and  she  has 
a  piece  of  red  flannel  around  her  throat. 
We  find  her  enchanting. 

Mrs.  Clapsaddle  does  not  at  first  see 
us,  who  are  not  tall  enough  to  do  more 
than  reach  to  the  knot-holes.  But  she 
has  spied  the  admirable  Tilly,  who, 
with  the  swiftness  characteristic  of  her, 
immediately  ducks.  Tilly  flings  her- 
self down  by  the  base-board  of  the 
fence.  She  concentrates  a  defiant  eye 
on  a  knot-hole.  'Lay  low,'  she  mutters 
to  us.  'Lay  low!' 

'I  seen  you,  you  young  goat,'  calls 
Mrs.  Clapsaddle  feelingly.  '  Where  you 
bin,  you  pig-nut?  Come  in  here  and 
I'll  skin  you  alive.' 

Tilly  ignores  the  maternal  invita- 
tion. She  presses  her  face  in  dock  and 
plantain  leaves.  'Lay  low  —  lay  low,' 
she  thrillingly  adjures  us. 

But  we  three  do  not '  lay  low.'  How 
can  we,  when  we  are  consumed  with 
interest  and  curiosity  at  beholding 
Mrs.  Clapsaddle  for  the  first  time,  as 
it  were,  unveiled?  She,  according  to 
our  traditions,  is  a  person  of  enormous 
sagacity  and  cleverness.  She,  mysteri- 
ous woman,  is  of  the  train  of  circum- 
stance conjoining  the  stork,  the  doctor, 
the  new  baby,  and  a  visit  to  grand- 
mother's. She,  sublime  artist,  puts 
up  currant-jelly,  makes  crullers.  She 
evolves  from  the  fruit  of  gayly  wound 


rag-balls,  the  brilliant  distillation 
known  as  rag-carpet.  And  now  we  know 
her,  modest  female,  for  the  designer,  the 
achiever,  the  owner,  of  the  succulent 
egg  tree.  We  have  no  thought  but  joy- 
ously to  greet  her. 

'How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Clapsaddle!' 

'Good-morning,  Mrs.  Clapsaddle!' 

'How  is  the  baby  calf,  Mrs.  Clap- 
saddle?' 

The  courtesy,  the  cordial  unrestraint 
of  these  salutations,  seem  for  the  mo- 
ment to  jar  upon  the  lady's  ear.  She 
has  in  her  hand  a  small  switch.  At 
the  sound  of  our  voices  she  drops  it. 
She  calls  up  a  twist  of  countenance  in- 
tended for  benevolence,  and  advances 
toward  the  fence.  We  clamber  up  to 
smile  and  bow. 

'Lord  save  us  —  if  it  ain't  the  little 
Martins!  How's  yer  maw,  children? 
So  yer  going  strawberryin' ?  Takkare 
yer  don't  git  a  sunstroke.  My!  Sissy, 
yer  growin',  ain't  yer?  Land  of  Go- 
shen,  bub,  where 'd  yer  git  them  eyes? 
Ain't  yer  got  no  tongue,  sonny?' 

Oh,  Mrs.  Clapsaddle!  Et  tu,  Clap- 
saddle!  'Diamond,  Diamond,  you  lit- 
tle know '  —  etc.  What  is  the  matter 
with  grown-ups,  anyway?  Qui  FIT? 
In  that  one  short  speech,  this  lady, 
otherwise  admirable,  breaks  every  rule 
known  to  our  etiquette.  To  call  the 
Highest  Authority  our  'maw'  is  to  us 
hideous.  '  Sissy '  —  vile  familiarity  of 
commoners.  '  Bub  '  —  low  patronage 
not  to  be  defined.  But  hold!  A  truce! 
Mrs.  Clapsaddle,  we  will  bear  this! 
You  own  the  egg  bush,  you  are  the 
mother  of  Tilly! 

This  latter  fact  Our  Lady  of  the 
Wrapper  appears  to  remember.  She 
peers  over  the  fence  at  her  offspring, 
lying  recumbent  on  the  ground,  still 
obstinately  'laying  low.'  Tilly's  black 
eyes  meet  her  mother's  in  sour  undisci- 
pline;  she  appears,  by  her  silent  brac- 
ing, to  anticipate  retribution.  But  Mrs. 
Clapsaddle,  mindful  of  our  observa- 


188 


THE  FIELD  OF  SCARLET  TREASURE 


tion,  vouchsafes  only  languid  and  '  ree- 
fined'  reproof. 

'Well,  Tully  deer,'  with  indulgent 
tolerance,  'ain't  yer  got  no  manners? 
Sugar,  —  don't  yer  want  to  give  'em 
all  a  piece?' 

The  erstwhile  apprehensive  'goat' 
and  'pig-nut,'  but  now  enormously  re- 
lieved 'sugar,'  scrambles  to  her  feet 
and  over  the  fence.  She  gives  a  wild 
whoop  and  runs  into  the  ramshackle 
house.  When,  later,  she  emerges,  she 
bears  triumphantly  three  '  pieces.'  She 
hands  us  each  one,  her  mother  nodding 
approval. 

Ye  gods!  These  things  are  all  on 
the  scale  of  the  egg  bush.  We  are 
struck  speechless  with  the  luxury  of 
the  entertainment.  At  home,  we,  born 
of  the  simple  life,  are  permitted  only 
butter  on  our  bread.  Tilly,  Princess  of 
the  Egg  Bush,  is  accustomed,  so  we 
know  by  what  we  now  devour,  to  bread 
and  butter,  and  sugar  I 

As  we  take  leave  of  Mrs.  Clapsaddle 
and  climb  up  the  stony  lane  leading  to 
the  Field  of  Scarlet  Treasure,  we  medi- 
tate on  these  things.  We  meditate  so 
hard  that  when  we  reach  the  hilltop, 
and  prepare  to  crawl  under  the  lane- 
bars  into  the  field  itself,  it  is  without  a 
thrill.  It  is  the  entrance  to  Paradise. 
We  are  casually  aware  that  we  are  at 
last  where  we  would  be,  —  but  we  are 
calm  about  it.  There  is  a  moment's 
pause,  the  call  of  a  crow,  the  bumble 
of  a  bee  in  a  buttercup,  the  sight  of 
daisies  and  grasses  blowing  in  the  wind. 
Calm,  aqueous  flood  of  sky  and  air,  the 
sweet  friendly  presence  of  gentle  trees, 
nothing  else  —  until  —  all  of  a  sudden 
—  we  see  red  —  ! 

It  is  a  teasing  thing  now,  trying  to 
catch  and  hold  the  spell,  the  old  charm 
of  the  Field  of  Scarlet  Treasure.  One 
wonders  as  one  stands  at  the  bars  to- 
day, what  was  so  free  and  adventur- 
ous about  it.  One's  heart  aches  to  get 
the  old  feel  of  it  as  it  was,  a  place  for- 


eign, bewitched,  pregnant  with  mean- 
ing and  opportunity.  One  cannot  help 
letting  one's  eye  rove  wistfully  over  it 
as  one  murmurs,  '  Is  this  really  all  there 
was?  An  old  field,  an  old,  unused  field, 
with  an  oak  tree  and  a  few  maples  and 
some  rocks  and  grasses  and  flowers?' 

Not  that  it  has  lost  a  bit  of  its 
beauty.  The  birds  still  flash  through 
the  oak  tree  branched  like  the  seven- 
branched  candlestick.  The  blue  bal- 
dacchino  of  the  sky  still  spreads  over 
the  high  altars  of  rock,  and  the  scarlet 
berries  hang  like  rosaries  in  the  chapels 
of  tall  grass.  Only  —  something  has 
gone.  Red  Hat  says  so;  Red  Hat  owns 
a  hundred  strawberry  fields  now.  Blue 
Overalls  agrees  with  me;  Blue  Overalls 
is  quite  a  personage  these  days.  And 
these  gentlemen  explain  that  it  is  not 
because  one's  mind  has  grown  so  very 
far  away  from  the  old  things,  nor  that 
the  place  itself  has  become  so  famil- 
iar; they  hold  that  it  is  simply  because 
we  now  view  the  whole  world  as  through 
a  glass,  darkly.  We  have  no  longer  Tilly 
Clapsaddle  to  interpret  things  for  us. 

Tilly  Clapsaddle!  One  of  us  sits  at 
tables  where  the  salt,  above  or  below, 
as  the  case  may  be,  has  lost  its  savor. 
Tilly  Clapsaddle!  One  of  us  smokes 
his  cigar  with  the  magnates  and  pre- 
sidents of  the  material  world,  and  says 
it  profiteth  him  nothing.  Tilly  Clap- 
saddle!  One  of  us  has  voyaged  and  ad- 
ventured, and  found  nothing  so  strange 
and  free  and  wild  and  splendid  as  you. 
Wherever  you  are,  Tilly  Clapsaddle, 
whatever  you  do,  take  it  from  us: 
there  never  was,  there  never  will  be,  a 
comrade  like  unto  you. 

Our  ardent  leader,  standing  hatless, 
her  unbraided  hair  blowing  in  her  eyes, 
now  points  out  ecstatically  the  far-off 
corner  of  the  field  where  the  berries 
grow  thickest.  She  prepares  for  the 
charge.  She  stoops,  drags  up  the  gar- 
ters over  her  brown  knees.  She  throws 
her  old  hat  recklessly  by,  she  grabs  her 


THE  FIELD  OF  SCARLET  TREASURE 


189 


basket  in  firm  hold,  darting  off  on  the 
morning  wind,  crying  the  challenge:  — 

'Last  one  down  the  hill  knows  what 
he  is!' 

'Last  one  down  the  hill  knows  what  he 
is.'  Keats's  band  of  revelers,  coming 
over  the  pale  blue  hills,  were  but  shad- 
ows of  it. 

'Last  one  down  the  hill  knows  what 
he  is.'  Comus  and  his  rollicking  crew 
were  a  mere  Sunday-school  class  hi 
their  appreciation  of  it. 

'Last  one  down  the  hill  knows  what 
he  is.'  Bacchus  and  his  followers  — 
well,  they,  perhaps,  had  dim  glimmer- 
ings. They  knew  the  feeling. 

Galumphing  drunkenly  over  stock 
and  stone,  tripping  over  blackberry 
vines,  dashing  over  hummock  and  tufty 
ant-hill,  until — oh,  Tilly!  — oh,  Heav- 
en !  —  the  strawberries !  We  fall  on 
our  knees.  We  grunt  and  sigh  for  joy. 
We  are,  as  our  guide,  philosopher,  and 
friend  says,  surrounded  by  'crowds  and 
crowds  of  'em.' 

Now  Tilly,  the  regent,  allots  us  our 
little  strawberry  fiefs,  where  we  may 
pick  without  infringing  upon  her  straw- 
berry marches.  Now  she  advises  us  to 
line  our  baskets  with  grapevine  leaves, 
to  fasten  other  leaves  upon  our  hatless 
heads.  From  time  to  time  she  calls 
warnings:  — 

'Look  out  fer  poison  ivy!' 

'  Handle  that  hop-toad  and  you  Ul  git 
warts!' 

'  Don't  look  at  a  crow  too  long,  he  '11 
pick  yer  eyes  out! ' 

'  Cheese  it ! — that 's  a  stingin'  spider !' 

'Don't  eat  none  of  them  blue  berries, 
they'm  deadly  night-shade!' 

One  can  hear  those  warnings  now.  One 
can  hear,  following  close  upon  them, 
the  bloodcurdling  histories  of  differ- 
ent members  of  the  House  of  Clapsad- 
dle,  who,  failing  to  heed  like  warnings, 
thereby,  man  and  woman,  suffered  lin- 
gering tortures,  which  invariably  ended 
in  death  and  affecting  last  words. 


'So  then,  my  pa's  brother,  my  Uncle 
Dave  —  he,  now  —  he  gives  three 
grunts  and  he  says  to  my  Aunt  Maidy 
—  he  says,  now  — he  says  —  "Where's 
the  rest  of  them  night-shade  berries  I 
had  for  me  supper?"  He  says,  "Don't 
leave  the  young  ones  eat  none,"  he 
says  —  and  then,  he  —  now  —  gives 
three  more  grunts,  and  then  he  dies!' 

Glad  calls  float  up  and  down  the 
sunny  strawberry  slope. 

'How  many  you  got?' 

'I  only  got  my  basket  half-full.  How 
many've  you  got?' 

'  I  have  n't  many  yet.  I  've  only  been 
finding  teeny-weeny  ones,  that  are  n't 
any  good  except  to  eat  right  away.' 

So  we,  enjoying  the  social  side  of 
berrying,  exchanging  our  wonderful 
experiences,  digress.  Tilly,  on  the 
other  hand,  picks  fast  and  furiously. 
When  at  last  her  basket  is  full  of  ber- 
ries, she  withdraws.  She  wanders  to 
where  a  young  maple  tree,  green,  and 
shaped  like  a  canopy,  is  set  like  a  tent 
in  the  broad  sunny  field.  Sitting  in  its 
shade,  she  begins  swiftly  and  technical- 
ly to  hull  her  berries.  We  appreciate 
the  charm  of  thus  withdrawing  from 
the  heat  to  this  convent  of  the  maple 
tree.  We  envy  her  her  air  of  privacy. 
We  ourselves  have  not  many  berries, 
but  such  as  they  are,  we  feel  they  should 
be  hulled  at  once.  We  join  Tilly  under 
the  little  green  tent-tree.  With  expres- 
sions of  fatigue  we  drop  down  on  the 
grass  beside  her.  She  eyes  our  baskets. 

'Huh!'  says  Tilly  pityingly.  'Huh, 
yer  ain't  got  many.  I  tell  yer  what, 
say  you  don't  pick  no  more?  It  makes 
yer  sweat  so.  What  say  we  play  house 
with  your'n,  and  we  take  mine  home 
to  yer  maw  so  she  won't  jaw?' 

It  is  only  for  a  moment  that  we  are 
confused  by  Tilly's  allusion  to  the 
Highest  Authority  as  a  person  who 
could  or  would  'jaw.'  Next  minute  we 
are  exulting  over  the  idea  of  'playing 
house.'  The  full  basket,  with  its  cover- 


190 


THE  FIELD  OF  SCARLET  TREASURE 


ing  of  fresh  grapevine  leaves  is  set  care- 
fully aside  in  the  shade;  we  gleefully 
enter  upon  the  most  rapturous  of  pas- 
times —  playing  house. 

Playing  house! — who  has  n't  played 
it?  Will  the  children  of  the  next  gen- 
eration play  it?  If  they  have  the  in- 
stinct, will  they  have  the  fields?  Oh, 
children  of  the  next  generation,  if  you 
do  have  a  field  or  two,  will  you  care  to 
go  and  find  it  with  its  hidden  Scarlet 
Treasure?  Will  you  know  the  joy  of 
picking  out  a  flat  rock,  topped  like  a 
table,  and  spreading  it  over  with  rich 
patterns  of  tulip-tree  leaves  and  bits  of 
fuzzy  moss  ?  Will  you  search  the  woods 
for  little  acorn  cups  and  saucers,  and 
birch-bark  plates  and  dishes?  Will  you 
add,  for  the  sake  of  the  general  scheme 
of  decoration,  your  hoarded  bits  of 
blue  and  red  glass,  your  much-prized 
'lucky  stones,'  your  tinfoil  and  mica 
and  quartz?  Oh,  children  of  the  fut- 
ure, God  help  you !  God  see  to  it,  that 
some  time  in  your  lives  you  get  the 
chance  to  play  'house,'  in  the  fields, 
under  the  open  sky! 

At  last  the  berries  from  our  three 
baskets,  rather  smashed,  few  in  num- 
ber, but  very  red  and  of  tempting  per- 
fume, are  counted  out  in  equal  divi- 
sion on  four  green  leaves.  These  pre- 
parations made,  and  the  feast  spread 
before  us  in  the  wilderness,  we  stand 
aside  to  view  it.  Our  table  looks  to  us 
barbaric  in  splendor,  the  entertainment 
luxurious.  Like  the  Romans  of  old,  we 
recline  around  our  board  on  grassy 
beds  of  pleasance  and  ease.  We  eat. 
We  converse.  We  sing.  And  while, 
afar  off,  we  see  spread  of  cloud  and  tree, 
the  miraculous  marquetry  of  light  and 
shadow,  the  melting  picture  of  green 
field  and  gray  boulder  and  golden  coun- 
try road,  we  give  ear  to  the  unweary- 
ing minstrelsy,  the  thrilling  harp  of 
Tilly  Clapsaddle. 

The  morning,  like  a  bright  skein, 
rolls  up  on  the  ball  of  Time.  We,  like 


happy  little  animals,  lie  close  to  the 
earth,  dreaming,  kicking  up  our  short 
legs,  and  licking  our  scarlet  fingers.  It, 
therefore,  is  with  the  most  avid  sur- 
prise, the  keenest  regret,  that  we  at 
last  hear  a  voice,  a  very  boomerang  of 
echo,  swinging  up  the  pasture. 

'Tulleeee—Tulleeeee!' 

We  turn  inquiring  eyes  upon  our 
leader.  , 

'Dinner-time,'  says  Tilly  curtly. 

<  rp     11  19 

'Yeeeee-s'm,'  responds  Tilly.  She 
answers  in  apparent  willingness,  but  in 
undertones  she  disrespectfully  mocks 
the  voice,  muttering  naughtily,  'Yer 
red-headed  sinner,  come  down  to  yer 
dinner!'  a  snatch  whose  vulgarity  we 
vaguely  feel  but  which  we  cannot  help 
regarding  as  spicy  repartee. 

Tilly  reluctantly  rises.  She  drags 
futilely  at  her  stockings.  *Come  on,' 
she  says  shortly. 

We  admiringly  follow  her. 

It  is  a  quicker,  less  exuberant  party 
that  comes  out  on  the  highroad  in  front 
of  Tilly's  house.  We  are  all  tired.  We 
have  pains  in  our  stomachs.  We  do  not 
guess  that  these  pains  are  merely  hun- 
ger, we  feel  that  they  may  be  some 
fatal,  mortal  qualm,  such  as  those  ex- 
perienced by  defunct  Clapsaddles.  As 
we  somewhat  forlornly  clamber  over 
the  stone  wall  and  stumble  into  the 
dusty  road  by  Tilly's  house,  she  faces 
us.  Some  thought  seems  hidden  in  her 
mind;  she  fixes  us  with  a  look  some- 
what colder  than  her  former  patroniz- 
ing gaze,  and  she  ruthlessly  inquires,  — 

'  Is  youse  scared  of  goin '  home  alone  ? ' 

'Scared '  of  it?  Scared  of  going  home 
alone?'  We  pause,  considerably  taken 
aback.  Oh,  Tilly,  —  oh  faithless  one, 
—  to  foregather  with  us  all  morning 
long,  on  unwritten  terms  of  fidelity, 
then  thus  to  desert,  to  plant  the  knife 
in  our  bosoms! 

We  halt,  undecided.  We  read  each 
others'  faces.  We  are  scared  of  going 


THE  FIELD  OF  SCARLET  TREASURE 


191 


home  alone.  We  admit  it.  Blue  Over- 
alls is  so  scared  that  the  tears  come 
into  his  eyes  and  he  kicks  doggedly  at 
the  dust,  saying  nothing.  Sunbonnet, 
sitting  dejectedly  by  the  wayside,  looks 
at  the  sun  through  her  empty  basket, 
and  is  speechlessly  scared.  Red  Hat, 
however,  chokes  down  the  lump  in  his 
throat  and  bravely  answers,  — 

'Naw, —  we  ain't  afraid.  I  ain't 
afraid.  Gee  —  I'm  going  on  eight.  I 
go  everywhere  alone,  to  New  York  and 
the  post-office  and  —  and  church,  and 
everything.  If  —  if  I  saw  a  lion,  or  a 
tramp,  coming,  I'd  just  —  I'd  just — ' 
Red  Hat's  voice  trails  away  into  un- 
certainty. 

But  Tilly,  Machiavellian,  seizes  on 
the  principal  statement. 

'All  right,'  she  says  nonchalantly. 
'I'll  leave  youse  go  alone,  then.  Youse 
hurry,  and  git  home  in  time  for  dinner, 
or  yer  ma  '11  blame  me.'  She  then  seizes 
on  the  only  basket  of  berries.  'What 
say/  says  the  unfathomable  Tilly, 
'what  say  I  keep  this  'ere  basket  of 
berries,  so  yer  maw  won't  be  pestered 
with  'em?  They'd  be  so  much  trash 
to  her.' 

We  look  desperately  at  one  another, 
we  who  are  not  versed  in  the  ways  of 
the  world.  We  cannot  grasp  the  situa- 
tion. We  had  gleefully  supposed  this 
basket,  brimming  with  red  fruit,  to  be 
our  trove  of  the  Field  of  Scarlet  Treas- 
ure. We  are  about  to  burst  into  lament- 
ation, when  Red  Hat  speaks  again, — 

'All  right,'  says  Red  Hat  carelessly. 
'They  are  trash,  ain't  they?  They're 
all  melted  with  the  sun.  They  look 
nasty  as  anything.  We  don't  want  'em. 
We'  —  Red  Hat  draws  himself  up  — 
'we  get  candy  and  cake  and  lemonade 
at  every  meal — we  would  n't  have  room 
for  strawberries!' 

We  part  from  Tilly.  Need  I  say,  in 


silent,  inarticulate  sorrow?  Our  guide, 
bearing  the  full  basket,  —  which  we 
now  believe  she  retained  solely  as  pro- 
pitiation to  her  uncertain  parent,  — 
disappears  in  the  ramshackle  house. 
We  three,  defenseless  and  alone,  our 
empty  baskets  cumbering  us,  start 
fearfully  down  the  road. 

We  keep  up  a  semblance  of  cheer, 
though  our  throats  are  dry  with  ap- 
prehension. We  keep  frightened  eyes  J 
on  the  lookout  for  those  two  walls  of 
'woods,'  wherein  lives  and  moves  and 
has  its  being  —  nameless  dread.  We 
scuttle  rapidly  along,  shoes  white  with 
dust,  hearts  wildly  beating. 

Oh,  who  is  this  we  see  afar  off,  com- 
ing slowly  toward  us,  waving  a  hand- 
kerchief, with  clear  voice  calling? 

'It's  —  it's  a  gypsy!'  gasps  Blue 
Overalls.  'It's  an  Indian,  I  see  his 
tomahawk  —  it 's  a  —  a  tiger,  I  see  his 
tail.'  Blue  Overalls  stops  short  in  the 
road,  grasping  his  little  stained  basket, 
ready  to  fly. 

'May  —  maybe,  it's  Pocohontas,' 
suggests  Red  Hat  hopefully;  'she  — 
she  was  a  good  Indian,  you  know.'  He 
hesitates,  shading  his  eyes  with  berry- 
red  fingers,  almost  sobbing  with  dis- 
torted fears.  —  'She's  calling  to  us.' 

We  all  stop,  petrified. 

'It's  —  it's  a  lady  —  she's  got  a 
parasol  —  she  looks  as  if  she  was  laugh- 
ing —  she  called  my  name!  —  why  — 
it's  —  it's  —  ' 

There  is  a  prolonged  and  delighted 
screech.  Three  figures  break  into  a 
run.  Three  pairs  of  arms  wave,  three 
voices  shout  acclamation.  And  when 
at  last  the  Highest  Authority  turns 
back  with  us  for  home,  she  is  listening 
to  the  Chant  of  the  Field  of  Scarlet 
Treasure,  of  bread  and  butter  and  sugar, 
of  the  —  yes  —  the  incomparable  vir- 
tues of  Tilly  Clapsaddle! 


LEE   AND   THE   CONFEDERATE  GOVERNMENT 


BY   GAMALIEL   BRADFORD,    JR. 


VIRGINIA  seceded  on  the  seventeenth 
of  April,  1861,  one  day  previous  to 
Lee's  critical  interviews  with  Blair  and 
Scott.  On  the  twenty-third  of  April, 
Lee  was  invited  to  appear  before  the 
state  convention  and  was  offered  the 
position  of  commander-in-chief  of  the 
Virginia  forces.  He  accepted  in  a  sim- 
ple and  dignified  speech,  saying,  with 
a  sincerity  which  is  beyond  question, 
'I  would  have  much  preferred  that 
your  choice  had  fallen  upon  an  abler 
man.' 

The  newly-appointed  general  at 
once  made  ready  to  organize  the  state 
troops  and  prepare  for  a  vigorous  de- 
fense against  invasion.  But  things 
moved  rapidly,  and  on  the  twenty-fifth 
of  April  Virginia  joined  the  Confed- 
eracy. What  Lee  thought  of  this  step, 
and  what  his  opinions  at  this  time  were 
in  regard  to  the  organization  and 
future  policy  of  the  Confederate  Gov- 
ernment, is  in  no  way  revealed  to  us. 
But  Alexander  H.  Stephens,  the  Con- 
federate Vice-President  and  commis- 
sioner to  secure  Virginia's  adhesion, 
has  given  a  most  striking  picture  of 
Lee's  perfect  willingness  to  sacrifice 
his  own  position  and  prospects  to  the 
best  interests  of  his  state. 

Stephens  had  an  interview  with  Lee. 
'  General  Lee  heard  me  quietly,  under- 
stood the  situation  at  once,  and  saw 
that  he  alone  stood  between  the  Con- 
federacy and  his  State.  The  members 
of  the  convention  had  seen  at  once 
that  Lee  was  left  out  of  the  proposed 
compact  that  was  to  make  Virginia  one 
of  the  Confederate  States,  and  I  knew 

192 


that  one  word,  or  even  a  look  of  dis- 
satisfaction, from  him  would  terminate 
the  negotiations  with  which  I  was 
intrusted.  .  .  .  General  Lee  did  not 
hesitate  for  one  moment  ...  he  de- 
clared that  no  personal  ambition  or 
emolument  should  be  considered  or 
stand  in  the  way.  .  .  .  Nominally 
General  Lee  lost  nothing;  but  practi- 
cally, for  the  time  being,  he  lost  every- 
thing. The  Government  moved  to 
Richmond,  and  Mr.  Davis  directed 
General  Lee  to  retain  his  command  of 
the  Virginia  troops,  which  was  really 
to  make  him  recruiting  and  drill  in- 
spector/ In  this  way  Lee  worked  in 
more  or  less  subordinate  or  inconspic- 
uous positions  during  the  whole  first 
year  of  the  war;  and  it  was  not  till  the 
spring  of  1862,  by  the  wounding  of 
Johnston,  .that  he  was  given  a  fair 
chance  to  display  his  military  ability. 

We  have  seen  that  one  of  the  most 
striking  elements  in  Lee's  attitude 
toward  Davis  was  the  instinct  of  sub- 
ordination, of  subjection  of  military 
to  civil  authority.  The  same  thing 
appears  everywhere  in  the  general's 
broader  relation  to  the  Confederate 
Government  as  a  whole.  Politics  were 
not  his  business.  Even  policy  was  not 
his  business.  Let  others  plan  and  or- 
der, he  would  execute. 

Wellington  said  to  Greville  that  while 
'unquestionably  Napoleon  was  the 
greatest  military  genius  that  ever  exist- 
ed, ...  he  had  advantages  which  no 
other  man  ever  possessed  in  the  unlim- 
ited means  at  his  command  and  his 
absolute  power  and  irresponsibility.' 


193 


Turning  from  Napoleon's  dispatches 
to  Lee's,  one  is  instantly  struck  with 
the  difference  in  this  regard.  Napoleon 
says,  Go  here,  do  this,  let  these  troops 
be  on  this  spot  at  that  date.  They  are 
there.  It  is  done.  Lee  suggests  cau- 
tiously, insinuates  courteously.  But  his 
greatest  art  is  to  keep  still.  It  is  very 
rare  that  he  goes  so  far  as  the  reported 
humorous  saying,  '  that  he  had  a  crick 
in  his  neck  from  looking  over  his  shoul- 
der toward  Richmond.'  Such  military 
command  as  is  delegated  to  him  he  will 
exercise  absolutely,  but  he  draws  with 
watchful  care  the  line  between  his  re- 
sponsibility and  that  of  others,  and  is 
at  all  times  reluctant  to  overstep  it. 

An  interesting  instance  of  this  tend- 
ency to  disclaim  all  interference  with 
the  civil  authority  is  Lee's  position  in 
regard  to  prisoners  of  war.  While  they 
are  on  the  field,  they  are  in  his  charge. 
'He  told  me  that  on  several  occasions 
his  commissary-general  had  come  to 
him  after  a  battle  and  reported  that 
he  had  not  rations  enough  both  for 
prisoners  and  the  army  .  .  .  and  that 
he  had  always  given  orders  that  the 
wants  of  the  prisoners  should  be  first 
attended  to.'  Yet  even  here  mark  the 
reservation  when  the  question  becomes 
more  general.  '  While  I  have  no  author- 
ity in  the  case,  my  desire  is  that  the 
prisoners  shall  have  equal  rations  with 
my  men.' 

Once  in  the  military  prisons,  the 
captives  were  the  care  of  the  War 
Department,  not  Lee's.  When  he  testi- 
fied before  the  Reconstruction  Com- 
mittee, he  was  asked,  'Were  you  not 
aware  that  those  prisoners  were  dying 
from  cold  and  starvation?'  He  an- 
swered, 'I  was  not.  ...  As  regards 
myself,  I  never  had  any  control  over 
the  prisoners  except  those  that  were 
captured  on  the  field  of  battle.  Those 
it  was  my  business  to  send  to  Rich- 
mond to  the  provost-marshal.  In  re- 
gard to  their  disposition  afterwards  I 

VOL.  107 -NO.  2 


had  no  control.    I  never  gave  an  order 
about  it.' 

The  most  curious  point  in  this  mat- 
ter of  prisoners  of  war  is  Lee's  cor- 
respondence with  Grant  in  October, 
1863,  as  to  recaptured  slaves.  It  is 
curious  as  a  piece  of  argument  in 
which,  given  the  premises,  both  sides 
were  logically  right.  It  is  still  more 
curious  when  we  find  that  Lee,  while 
appearing  to  speak  his  own  mind,  is  in 
reality  only  a  mouthpiece,  a  depart- 
ment clerk,  writing  at  the  dictation  of 
Seddon,  —  that  is,  probably,  of  Davis. 

But  no  matter  how  submissive  a 
man  may  be,  no  matter  how  rigorously 
trained  in  military  discipline,  he  can- 
not command  a  great  army  through 
a  great  disastrous  war  in  a  republic 
and  not  meddle  with  things  that  do 
not  concern  him.  What  does  concern 
him,  and  what  does  not?  It  is  thus  that 
we  see  Lee  forced  to  advise  and  even 
to  dictate  sharply  to  his  superiors, 
more  and  more  as  the  struggle  goes  on. 
In  matters  semi-military  or  affecting 
other  military  departments,  not  Lee's 
own,  this  was  inevitable.  As  at  the 
North,  the  newspapers  were  trouble- 
some in  telling  what  they  should  not, 
and  Lee  begs  the  Secretary  of  War 
to  control  them.  'I  am  particularly 
anxious  that  the  newspapers  should 
not  give  the  enemy  notice  of  our  in- 
tention.' 'I  beg  you  will  take  the 
necessary  steps  to  prevent  in  future 
the  giving  publicity  in  this  way  to  our 
strength  and  position.' 

A  commander  in  the  field  may  do 
his  best  to  preserve  discipline,  but  he 
is  terribly  hampered  when  the  War  De- 
partment permits  all  sorts  of  details, 
furloughs,  and  transfers,  and  is  lenient 
to  desertion.  Again  and  again  Lee  is 
forced  to  protest  vigorously  against 
abuses  of  this  nature. 

A  general  may  wish  to  confine  him- 
self to  his  own  sphere  of  responsi- 
bility; but  movements  in  the  north- 


194 


LEE  AND  THE  CONFEDERATE  GOVERNMENT 


east  are  dependent  on  movements  in 
the  southwest,  and  strengthening  one 
command  means  weakening  another. 
Therefore  Lee  is  brought,  as  it  were 
against  his  will,  to  make  suggestions 
and  requests  as  to  Bragg  in  Tennessee 
and  Johnston  in  Georgia.  'I  think  that 
every  effort  should  be  made  to  con- 
centrate as  large  a  force  as  possible 
under  the  best  commander  to  insure 
the  discomfiture  of  Grant's  army  '  [in 
the  West].  He  writes  to  Bragg  for 
more  men :  '  unless  they  are  sent  to  me 
rapidly,  it  may  be  too  late.'  He  urges 
upon  Seddon  the  utmost  activity  in 
general  measures  of  defense:  'What- 
ever inconvenience  and  even  hardship 
may  result  from  a  vigorous  and  thor- 
ough preparation  for  the  most  com- 
plete defense  we  can  make,  will  be 
speedily  forgotten  in  the  event  of  suc- 
cess, or  amply  repaid  by  the  benefit 
such  a  course  will  confer  upon  us  in 
case  of  misfortune.' 

The  best  general  can  do  nothing 
with  the  best  army,  unless  it  is  fed  and 
clothed;  and  food  and  clothing  —  the 
accumulation,  the  transportation,  the 
distribution  —  depend  upon  the  en- 
ergy and  capacity  of  the  government. 
Lee  loved  his  army  as  if  they  were  his 
children.  He  knew  they  were  neither 
clothed  nor  fed.  He  was  by  no  means 
satisfied  that  the  people  at  Richmond 
were  either  energetic  or  capable.  'As 
far  as  I  can  judge,  the  proper  author- 
ities in  Richmond  take  the  necessities 
of  this  army  very  easily,'  he  writes  in 
February,  1863.  How  could  a  com- 
mander give  his  best  thought  to  fight- 
ing, when  he  saw  but  one  day's  food 
before  him?  'We  have  rations  for  the 
troops  to-day  and  to-morrow.  I  hope 
a  new  supply  arrived  last  night,  but  I 
have  not  yet  had  a  report.  Every  ex- 
ertion should  be  made  to  supply  the 
depots  at  Richmond  and  at  other 
points.  All  pleasure  travel  should 
cease  and  everything  be  devoted  to 


necessary  wants.'  Sometimes  he  feels 
that  other  armies  are  preferred  to  his, 
and  protests  vigorously.  'I  have  un- 
derstood, I  do  not  know  with  what 
truth,  that  the  armies  of  the  West  and 
that  in  the  Department  of  South 
Carolina  and  Georgia  are  more  bounti- 
fully supplied  with  provisions.  ...  I 
think  that  this  army  deserves  as  much 
consideration  as  either  of  those  named, 
and,  if  it  can  be  supplied,  respectfully 
ask  that  it  be  similarly  provided.'  He 
is  convinced  that  supplies  are  to  be 
had  and  does  not  pick  —  or  rather  does 
pick  —  his  words  in  saying  so.  'I 
know  that  there  are  great  difficulties' 
in  procuring  supplies,  but  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  with  proper  energy, 
intelligence,  and  experience  on  the 
part  of  the  Commissary  Department, 
a  great  deal  more  could  be  accom- 
plished. There  is  enough  in  the  coun- 
try, I  believe,  if  it  was  properly  sought 
for.'  And  finally,  in  January,  1865,  he 
takes  the  matter  into  his  own  hands 
and  issues  a  personal  appeal  to  the 
farmers  of  Virginia,  which,  for  the 
time,  affords  considerable  relief. 

From  the  supplying  of  armies  to 
other  things,  equally  vital,  but  quite  as 
much  civil  as  military,  the  steps  are  im- 
perceptible, but  taken  with  an  almost 
logical  necessity.  Lee  finds  his  soldiers 
refused  passage  on  the  railways,  and 
insists  on  their  claims  being  recogniz- 
ed. Passports  are  given  indiscrimin- 
ately to  persons  who  convey  informa- 
tion to  the  enemy.  Lee  exerts  his 
authority  to  control  the  practice.  The 
illegal  traffic  in  cotton  and  tobacco  is 
tolerated  by  the  government  for  its 
own  purposes*  Lee  gives  assistance 
and  advice  as  to  the  regulation  of  such 
traffic.  The  greatest  difficulty,  of  all 
the  many  difficulties  of  the  Confed- 
eracy, was  perhaps  that  of  properly 
managing  its  finances.  Lee  has  a  word 
about  this  also,  writing  to  urge  the 
authorities  to  make  treasury  notes  a 


LEE  AND  THE  CONFEDERATE  GOVERNMENT 


195 


legal  tender;  and  elsewhere,  in  connec- 
tion with  the  much-desired  reduction 
of  the  currency,  suggesting  payment 
for  certain  consignments  of  wood  in 
Confederate  bonds. 

Political  even  more  than  military 
was  the  nice  question  of  retaliation, 
which  was  made  the  subject  of  hot 
dispute  by  persons  in  authority  and 
out  of  it.  Critics  of  the  administra- 
tion attacked  its  lenient  policy,  to 
the  point  of  suggesting  that  Davis 
opposed  violent  measures  because  he 
wished  to  keep  well  with  the  North  in 
view  of  possible  defeat.  In  extreme 
cases  Lee  does  not  hesitate  to  order 
prompt  retaliatory  action.  'I  have 
directed  Colonel  Mosby,  through  his 
adjutants,  to  hang  an  equal  number  of 
Custer's  men  in  retaliation  for  those 
executed  by  him.'  But  as  to  the  gen- 
eral principle  he  is  thoroughly  in  sym- 
pathy with  Davis,  both  on  grounds  of 
humanity  and  on  grounds  of  policy. 
'  I  differ  in  my  ideas  from  most  of  our 
people  on  the  subject  of  retaliation. 
Sometimes  I  know  it  to  be  necessary, 
but  it  should  not  be  resorted  to  at  all 
times,  and  in  our  case  policy  dictates 
that  it  should  be  avoided  whenever 
possible.' 

Lee  here  frankly  and  naturally  ad- 
mits that  his  invasion  proclamations, 
so  lauded  by  Southern  writers,  were 
founded  as  much  on  common  sense  as 
on  lofty  principle.  One  can  admire 
the  noble  tone,  and  still  more  the  rigid 
enforcement,  of  those  proclamations, 
without  forgetting  that  Napoleon  also 
said  to  his  soldiers  in  Vienna,  'Let 
us  treat  the  poor  peasants  with  kind- 
ness, and  be  generous  to  this  loyal  peo- 
ple who  have  so  many  claims  to  our 
esteem;  let  us  not  be  puffed  up  by  our 
success,  but  see  in  it  another  proof  of 
the  divine  justice  which  punishes  in- 
gratitude and  treachery.' 

Although  Lee  does  not  hesitate  to 
go  outside  of  his  own  peculiar  province 


in  many  of  these  special  instances,  it 
is  very  rare  indeed  to  find  him  making 
any  general  criticism  of  the  civil  author- 
ities. The<following  remarks  as  to  the 
Confederate  Congress  have,  therefore, 
an  exceptional  interest  and  signific- 
ance: 'What  has  our  Congress  done  to 
meet  the  exigency,  I  may  say  extrem- 
ity, in  which  we^are  placed?  As  far  as 
I  know,  concocted  bills  to  exempt  a 
certain  class  of  men  from  service,  and 
to  transfer  another  class  in  service, 
out  of  active  service,  where  they  hope 
never  to  do  service.  Among  the  thou- 
sand applications  of  Kentuckians, 
Marylanders,  Alabamians,  and  Georg- 
ians, etc.,  to  join  native  regiments 
out  of  this  army,  who  ever  heard  of 
their  applying  to  enter  regiments  in 
it,  when  in  face  of  the  enemy?  I  hope 
Congress  will  define  what  makes  a  man 
a  citizen  of  a  state.' 

The  most  striking  of  all  Lee's  incur- 
sions into  the  realm  of  civil  govern- 
ment was  his  effort,  toward  the  very 
end  of  the  war,  to  have  the  Negroes 
enlisted  as  soldiers.  The  measure  was, 
of  course,  in  one  sense  purely  military; 
but  it  affected  so  intimately  the  social 
organization  and  the  ethical  theories 
on  which  the  whole  Confederacy  was 
founded,  that  the  military  significance 
of  it  was  almost  dwarfed  by  the  polit- 
ical. As  Pollard  justly  points  out,  it 
seemed  to  imply  an  equality  between 
the  two  races  which  was  utterly  repug- 
nant to  all  Southern  feeling  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  nothing  shows  more  clearly 
Lee's  immense  influence  than  the  fact 
that  he  was  able  to  persuade  his  coun- 
trymen to  accept  his  view.  All  his 
arguments  are  summed  up  in  a  clear 
and  forcible  letter  to  Hunter,  —  other- 
wise extremely  important  as  showing 
Lee's  whole  position  as  to  slavery,  — 
and  in  response  to  this  Congress  voted 
briefly,  'that  the  General-in-chief  be 
and  hereby  is  invested  with  the  full 
power  to  call  into  the  service  of  the 


196 


LEE  AND  THE  CONFEDERATE  GOVERNMENT 


Confederate  government,  to  perform 
any  duty  to  which  he  may  assign  them, 
so  many  of  the  able-bodied  slaves 
within  the  Confederate  government  as, 
in  his  judgment,  the  exigencies  of  the 
public  service  require.' 

The  comment  of  the  Examiner  on 
this  is  intensely  interesting  as  probably 
summing  up  the  opinion  of  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  Lee's  fellow  citizens. 
After  expressing  frankly  grave  doubts 
as  to  the  expediency  of  the  measure, 
the  editorial  concludes,  in  words  of  al- 
most startling  solemnity:  'This  clothes 
him  with  great  power,  and  loads  him 
with  heavy  responsibility.  If  he  is 
willing  to  wield  that  power  and  shoul- 
der that  responsibility,  in  the  name  of 
God,  let  him  have  them.' 

In  the  name  of  God,  let  Lee  save  us, 
if  he  will:  no  one  else  can.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  this  was  the  spirit  of  a 
majority  of  Southerners  in  February, 
1865.  There  is  no  doubt  that  this  was 
the  spirit  which  led  to  his  being  prac- 
tically offered  the  military  dictator- 
ship by  Congress.  'The  ablest  officers 
of  the  Confederate  States,'  says  the 
Examiner,  'would,  we  feel  assured, 
gladly  see  the  supreme  direction  of 
their  conduct  placed  in  the  hands  of 
General  Lee,  and  would  receive  his 
orders  with  pleasure.  All  citizens,  and 
more  emphatically,  all  soldiers,  now 
know  .  .  .  that  the  one  thing  needful 
to  fill  the  army  with  enthusiasm,  and 
to  inspire  the  people  for  new  effort,  is 
to  feel  that  our  military  force  is  to  be 
wielded  by  one  capable  hand  and  di- 
rected by  one  calm,  clear  intelligence.' 

Lee,  however,  absolutely  refused  to 
violate  his  subordination  to  the  Pre- 
sident in  any  way,  and  according  to 
Pollard  'went  so  far  as  to  declare  to 
several  members  of  the  Richmond  Con- 
gress that  whatever  might  be  Davis's 
errors,  he  was  yet  constitutionally  the 
President,  and  that  nothing  could 
tempt  himself  to  encroach  upon  pre- 


rogatives which  the  Constitution  had 
bestowed  upon  its  designated  head.' 

What  could  an  ambitious,  unscrup- 
ulous man  have  accomplished  in  that 
emergency,  —  or  even  a  patriot  who 
would  have  been  willing  to  over-ride 
scruple  for  the  good  of  his  country? 
Would  Napoleon  or  Cromwell  have 
said  to  Davis,  'You  may  do  what  I 
want  or  go '  ?  have  gone  direct  to  Con- 
gress and  enforced  his  will?  have  swept 
fraud  and  incompetence  out  of  the 
executive  departments?  have  handled 
the  whole  military  force  like  one  great 
machine,  and  so  concentrated  it  as  to 
accomplish  results  which  seemed  at 
that  late  hour  impossible?  'Of  one 
thing  I  am  certain,'  wrote  in  January, 
1865,  the  diarist  Jones,  who  had  the 
very  best  opportunities  of  forming  an 
opinion, '  that  the  people  are  capable  of 
achieving  independence,  if  they  only 
had  capable  men  in  all  departments 
of  the  government.'  In  any  case  Lee 
preferred  to  remain  the  loyal  servant 
of  the  civil  authority,  which  was  left 
to  work  out  its  political  problems  as 
best  it  could. 

What  interests  us  in  our  study  of 
Lee's  character  is  the  motive  which 
led  him  not  only  to  this  final  refusal, 
but  to  his  general  attitude  of  non- 
interference with  the  Confederate 
government.  It  has  often  been  sug- 
gested —  and  Grant  was  of  this  opin- 
ion —  that  he  was  consistent  in  his 
state  loyalty  and  cared  for  Virginia 
only,  not  for  the  Confederacy  as  a 
whole,  preferring  to  do  his  fighting  to 
the  end  upon  his  native  soil.  The 
writer  of  the  excellent  Nation  review  of 
Long's  Life  of  Lee  (Cox?),  basing  his 
conclusions  on  the  Townsend  anecdote 
which  I  have  quoted  in  'A  Hero's 
Conscience,'  holds  that  Lee  had  little 
faith  in  the  Confederate  cause  from 
beginning  to  end.  Some  suspicion  of 
the  kind  was  undoubtedly  at  the  bot- 
tom of  Pollard's  harsh  charges.  'The 


LEE  AND  THE  CONFEDERATE  GOVERNMENT 


197 


fact  was  that,  although  many  of  Gen- 
eral Lee's  views  were  sound,  yet,  out- 
side of  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia, 
and  with  reference  to  the  general 
affairs  of  the  Confederacy,  his  influ- 
ence was  negative  and  accomplished 
absolutely  nothing.'  Again : '  His  most 
notable  defect  was  that  he  never  had  or 
conveyed  any  inspiration  in  the  war.' 
And  Pollard  quotes  from  a  Richmond 
paper  after  the  Wilderness:  'When 
will  he  [Lee]  speak?  Has  he  nothing 
to  say?  What  does  he  think  of  our 
affairs?  Should  he  speak,  how  the 
country  would  hang  upon  every  word 
that  fell  from  him!' 

I  believe  that  this  theory  of  Lee's 
lack  of  interest  in  the  Confederacy  is 
utterly  false,  and  that  from  the  very 
first  he  merged  Virginia  in  the  larger 
loyalty.  'They  do  injustice  to  Lee  who 
believe  he  fought  only  for  Virginia,' 
said  Davis.  '  He  was  ready  to  go  any- 
where for  the  good  of  his  country.' 
The  cheerful  energy  which  the  general 
showed  when  sent  to  South  Carolina 
in  the  early  part  of  the  war  confirms 
this,  as  does  passage  after  passage  of 
his  correspondence.  'Let  it  be  dis- 
tinctly understood  by  every  one  that 
Charleston  and  Savannah  are  to  be 
defended  to  the  last  extremity.  If  the 
harbors  are"  taken,  the  cities  are  to  be 
fought  street  by  street,  house  by  house, 
so  long  as  we  have  a  foot  of  ground  to 
stand  upon.'  A  writer  in  the  Southern 
Historical  Papers  asserts  that  'those 
whose  privilege  it  was  to  hear  the  great 
chieftain  talk  most  freely  of  the  cause 
for  which  he  fought,  bear  the  most  em- 
phatic witness  that  it  was  "the  inde- 
pendence of  the  South,"  "the  triumph 
of  constitutional  freedom,"  for  which 
he  struggled  so  nobly.' 

But  by  far  the  most  striking  and  in- 
teresting testimony  to  Lee's  thorough 
espousal  of  Confederate  nationality 
and  sober,  earnest  grasp  of  the  whole 
problem  before  him,  is  his  conversation 


with  Imboden  near  the  beginning  of 
the  struggle.  General  Imboden  de- 
clares that  his  report  is  'almost  literal/ 
but  for  our  purpose  its  substantial  cor- 
rectness is  all-sufficient.  'Our  people 
are  brave  and  enthusiastic,  and  are 
united  in  defense  of  a  just  cause.  I 
believe  we  can  succeed  in  establishing 
our  independence,  if  the  people  can 
be  made  to  comprehend  at  the  outset 
that  they  must  endure  a  longer  war 
and  far  greater  privations  than  our 
forefathers  did  in  the  Revolution  of 
1776.  We  will  not  succeed  until  the 
financial  power  of  the  North  [the 
political  insight  of  this  is  noteworthy] 
is  completely  broken.  .  .  .  The  con- 
flict will  be  mainly  in  Virginia.  She 
will  be  the  Flanders  of  America  before 
this  war  is  over,  and  her  people  must 
be  prepared  for  this.  If  they  resolve 
at  once  to  dedicate  their  lives  and  all 
they  possess  to  the  cause  of  constitu- 
tional government  and  Southern  inde- 
pendence and  to  suffer  without  yield- 
ing as  no  other  people  have  been  called 
upon  to  suffer  in  modern  times,  we 
shall,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  succeed 
in  the  end;  but  when  it  will  be,  no  man 
can  foretell.  I  wish  I  could  talk  to 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the 
South  now  and  impress  them  with 
these  views.' 

No;  if  Lee  was  modest,  it  was  from 
genuine  modesty.  If  he  shunned  bur- 
dens and  responsibilities,  it  was  be- 
cause he  truly  felt  himself  unable  to 
undertake  them.  It  is  a  most  curious 
point  in  the  man's  character,  this  nice 
avoidance  of  duties  that  did  not  belong 
to  him.  'Be  content  to  do  what  you 
can  for  the  well-being  of  what  properly 
belongs  to  you,'  he  writes  to  Mrs.  Lee. 
'Commit  the  rest  to  those  who  are 
responsible.'  It  is  in  this  spirit  that 
he  is  eager  to  make  clear  to  the  Recon- 
struction Committee  that  the  govern- 
ment's foreign  policy  was  no  concern 
of  his.  '  I  know  nothing  of  the  policy 


198 


LEE  AND  THE  CONFEDERATE   GOVERNMENT 


of  the  government;  I  had  no  hand  or 
part  in  it;  I  merely  express  my  own 
opinion.'  Even  in  military  matters  he 
is  careful  to  draw  the  sharpest  line 
between  his  own  task  and  that  of  his 
subordinates:  'I  think  and  I  act  with 
all  my  might  to  bring  up  my  troops 
to  the  right  place  at  the  right  moment; 
after  that  I  have  done  my  duty.'  He 
is  so  careful  that  at  times  one  feels 
a  certain  sympathy  with  the  otherwise 
negligible  Northrop  when  he  com- 
plains of  Lee's  reservations,  'There  is, 
in  my  judgment,  no  isolation  of  the  re- 
sponsibility in  any  of  the  machinery 
of  war.' 

One  wonders  that  a  man  could  be 
so  sensitive  about  the  limits  of  respons- 
ibility and  yet  command  absolutely  for 
three  years  an  army  of  from  fifty  to 
a  hundred  thousand  men,  lead  them 
again  and  again  to  victory,  make  such 
terrible  decisions  as  that  of  Jackson's 
movement  at  Chancellorsville  and  the 
attack  at  Gettysburg.  And  then  one 
reflects  that  it  was  probably  just  this 
clear  sense  of  what  others  ought  to  do 
and  should  be  left  to  do  that  made  his 
power.  Smaller  men  fret  over  execu- 
tive details  or  rush  readily  into  what 
they  do  not  understand.  He  knew  his 
own  training,  his  own  character,  knew 
his  own  work  and  did  it,  letting  others 
do  theirs,  if  they  could.  It  is  with  this 
explanation  in  view  that  we  should 
read  his  remarkable  colloquy  with  B. 
H.  Hill,  toward  the  close  of  the  war. 

' "  General,  I  wish  you  would  give  us 
your  opinion  as  to  the  propriety  of 
changing  the  seat  of  government  and 
going  farther  south." 

'"That  is  a  political  question,  Mr. 
Hill,  and  you  politicians  must  deter- 
mine it.  I  shall  endeavor  to  take  care 
of  the  army,  and  you  politicians  must 
make  the  laws  and  control  the  govern- 
ment." 

'"Ah,  General,"  said  Mr.  Hill,  "but 
you  will  have  to  change  that  rule  and 


form  and  express  political  opinions;  for 
if  we  establish  our  independence,  the 
people  will  make  you  Mr.  Davis 's 


successor. 

< « 


Never,  sir,"  he  replied,  with  a 
firm  dignity  that  belonged  only  to  Lee; 
"that  I  will  never  permit.  Whatever 
talents  I  may  possess  (and  they  are 
but  limited)  are  military  talents,  my 
education  and  training  are  military. 
I  think  the  military  and  civil  talents 
are  distinct,  if  not  different,  and  full 
duty  in  either  sphere  is  about  as  much 
as  one  man  can  qualify  himself  to  per- 
form. I  shall  not  do  the  people  the 
injustice  to  accept  high  civil  office, 
with  whose  questions  it  has  not  been 
my  business  to  become  familiar." 

"Well,  but,  General,  history  does 
not  sustain  your  view.  Ceesar  and 
Frederick  of  Prussia  and  Bonaparte 
were  great  statesmen  as  well  as  great 
generals." 

'"And  great  tyrants,"  he  promptly 
replied.  "I  speak  of  the  proper  rule 
in  republics,  where  I  think  we  should 
have  neither  military  statesmen  nor 
political  generals." 

'  "But  Washington  was  both  and  yet 
not  a  tyrant." 

'With  a  beautiful  smile  he  re- 
sponded, "Washington  was  an  excep- 
tion to  all  rules  and  there  was  none 
like  him."' 

Probably  Lee  underestimated  his 
aptitude  for  civil  government  —  at  any 
rate  in  comparison  with  that  of  oth- 
ers. The  patience,  the  foresight,  above 
all  the  tact  in  handling  men,  which 
made  him  a  great  general,  would  have 
made  him  a  great  president  also.  But 
taking  all  things  into  account,  I  doubt 
whether  he  could  have  done  more 
for  the  Confederacy  than  he  did,  or 
whether  even  Washington  would  have 
attempted  to  do  more. 

Granted,  however,  that  Lee's  mod- 
esty was  the  chief  cause  of  his  not 
interfering  further  in  political  action, 


LEE  AND  THE  CONFEDERATE  GOVERNMENT 


199 


I  think  another  consideration  must 
have  influenced  him  to  some  extent. 
What  possible  future  had  the  Confed- 
erate government?  It  is  really  re- 
markable that  in  all  the  mass  of  South- 
ern —  or  for  that  matter  Northern  — 
historical  writing,  so  little  notice  is 
taken  of  this  vital  question.  Supposing 
that  the  North  had  given  in  and  let 
the  South  go,  what  would  have  hap- 
pened? Few  soldiers  or  statesmen  seem 
to  have  troubled  themselves  much 
about  the  matter,  so  far  as  I  can  find 
out.  It  may  be  said  that  neither  did 
the  patriots  of  the  Revolution  trouble 
themselves  about  their  future.  But  the 
case  was  different.  It  was  a  logical 
necessity,  a  natural  development,  for 
America  to  separate  from  England. 
Some  adjustment  between  the  colonies 
was  sure  to  be  found;  but  even  with 
none  they  would  be  better  free. 

For  the  Confederacy  there  would 
seem  to  have  been  but  two  possibil- 
ities. A  great  slave  empire  might  have 
been  formed,  centralized  for  necessary 
strength,  supporting  a  standing  army 
of  half  a  million  men,  not  one  man 
more  than  would  have  been  required 
at  any  moment  to  face  the  military 
power  of  the  United  States  in  disputes 
that  would  have  arisen  daily  over 
territory,  emigration,  tariff,  and  espe- 
cially over  slavery  complications.  Or 
the  absurd  incompatibility  of  this  with 
all  the  ideas  for  which  the  South 
originally  went  to  war  would  have 
made  itself  felt.  State  rights  would 
have  asserted  themselves  everywhere. 
The  Confederate  group  would  have 
broken  into  smaller  groups,  these 
again  would  have  dissolved  into  the 
original  states,  and  these,  after  a 
probably  brief  period  of  dissension  and 
strife,  would  have  been  reabsorbed, 
with  humiliation  and  disgust,  into  the 
Union  from  which  they  had  been  rent 
away.  Is  it  easy  to  paint  any  more 
satisfactory  picture  of  the  possible 


future  of  the  Confederate  States  of 
America? 

Such  speculation  is  useless  now.  It 
would  seem  to  have  been  eminently 
practical  and  necessary  for  the  men 
who  were  leading  millions  of  their  fel- 
lows into  such  an  abyss  of  uncertainty. 
What  did  Lee  think  about  it?  The 
answer  is  not  easy,  for  his  words  on 
the  subject  are  few  and  non-committal. 
Pollard's  accusation  that  'never,  at 
any  time  of  the  war,  and  not  even  in 
the  companionship  of  the  most  inti- 
mate friends,  on  whom  he  might  have 
bestowed  his  confidence  without  im- 
prudence, did  he  ever  express  the  least 
opinion  as  to  the  chances  of  the  war/ 
is  absurdly  exaggerated;  but  it  is  true 
that  Lee  had  little  to  say  that  has  come 
down  to  us  about  the  future  of  the 
Confederacy.  Before  the  war,  before 
the  issue  was  squarely  presented,  we 
know  that  he  took  much  the  view  that 
I  have  indicated  above.  'Secession  is 
anarchy.'  'I  can  anticipate  no  greater 
calamity  for  the  country  than  a  dis- 
solution of  the  Union.  It  would  be  an 
accumulation  of  all  the  evils  we  com- 
plain of,  and  I  am  willing  to  sacrifice 
anything  but  honor  for  its  preserva- 
tion.' 

Then  it  came  to  the  point  where 
either  honor  or  the  Union  must  be 
sacrificed,  and  he  did  not  hesitate.  But 
anarchy,  but  the  accumulation  of  all 
evils  must  have  been  clearly  before 
him.  Apparently  he  shut  his  eyes  to 
them.  Do  the  immediate  duty  of  the 
day.  Get  independence.  'The  Con- 
federate States  have  but  one  great 
object  in  view,  the  successful  issue  of 
their  war  of  independence.  Every- 
thing worth  their  possessing  depends 
on  that.  Everything  should  yield  to 
its  accomplishment.'  Independence 
once  achieved,  the  rest  would  take 
care  of  itself.  Or  those  who,  unlike  Lee, 
had  the  responsibility  of  civil  affairs, 
would  take  care  of  it.  Or  God  would 


200 


LEE  AND  THE  CONFEDERATE  GOVERNMENT 


take  care  of  it.  Here  is  the  key  to  what 
in  much  of  Lee's  action  seems  strangely 
puzzling  to  those  whose  standpoint  is 
somewhat  different  from  his.  Do  the 
plain  duty.  Let  the  rest  go.  God  will 
take  care  of  it.  In  this  connection  a 
conversation  of  Lee's  with  Bishop 
Wilmer  is  immensely  significant. 

'In  what  temper  of  mind  he  entered 
this  contest,  I  can  speak  with  some 
confidence,  from  personal  interviews 
with  him  soon  after  the  commence- 
ment of  hostilities. 

' "  Is  it  your  expectation,"  I  asked, 
"that  the  issue  of  this  war  will  be  to 
perpetuate  the  institution  of  slavery?  " 
"The  future  is  in  the  hands  of 
Providence,"  he  replied.  "  If  the  slaves 
of  the  South  were  mine,  I  would  sur- 
render them  all  without  a  struggle  to 
avert  this  war." 

'I  asked  him  next  upon  what  his 
calculations  were  based  in  so  unequal 
a  contest,  and  how  he  expected  to  win 
success;  was  he  looking  to  divided 
counsels  in  the  North,  or  to  foreign 
interposition? 

'  His  answer  showed  how  little  he  was 
affected  by  the  hopes  and  fears  which 
agitated  ordinary  minds.  "My  reli- 
ance is  in  the  help  of  God." 

'"Are  you  sanguine  of  the  result?" 
I  ventured  to  inquire. 

'"At  present  I  am  not  concerned 
with  results.  God's  will  ought  to  be 
our  aim,  and  I  am  contented  that  his 
designs  should  be  accomplished  and 
not  mine."' 

Naturally  the  good  bishop  was 
charmed;  but  an  ordinary  mind  is 
tempted  to  hope  that  it  is  not  incom- 
patible with  the  deepest  love  and  ad- 
miration for  Lee  to  recall  the  candor 
and  profoundly  human  truth  of  Barbe 
Bleue's  confession :  '  C'est  en  ne  sachant 
jamais  ou  fallais  moi-meme  que  je  suis 
arriv£  a  conduire  les  autres.' 

The  object  of  all  war  is  peace,  and 
with  the  thousand  doubts  and  dif- 


ficulties that  were  pressing  upon  him, 
Lee  must  have  been  anxious  from  the 
beginning  to  arrive  at  almost  any 
reasonably  satisfactory  conclusion  of 
hostilities.  Here  again  was  a  political 
question,  yet  one  that  it  was  almost 
impossible  for  a  commanding  general 
to  avoid.  In  the  earlier  part  of  the  war 
Lee  urged  a  peace  attitude  upon  Davis, 
with  some  apology  '  in  view  of  its  con- 
nection with  the  situation  of  military 
affairs.'  The  general  thought  the 
Northern  peace  party  should  be  en- 
couraged, without  fear  of  that  encour- 
agement resulting  in  a  reestablish- 
ment  of  the  Union.  '  We  entertain  no 
such  apprehensions,  nor  doubt  that 
the  determination  of  our  people  for  a 
distinct  and  independent  national  ex- 
istence will  prove  as  steadfast  under 
the  influence  of  peaceful  measures  as 
it  has  shown  itself  in  the  midst  of  war.' 
In  this,  as  in  a  score  of  other  pass- 
ages, Lee  makes  it  perfectly  evident 
that  his  idea  of  peace  was  an  ample 
acknowledgment  of  Confederate  inde- 
pendence. Yet  it  has  been  maintained, 
and  with  reliable  testimony,  that  to- 
ward the  close  of  the  struggle  he  grew 
ready  to  accept  some  less  radical  basis 
of  agreement.  The  apparent  contra- 
diction is  perfectly  explicable.  Lee 
believed  from  first  to  last  that  the 
people  of  the  South  could  get  free,  if 
they  really  wished  to.  They  had  the 
men,  they  had  the  resources,  if  they 
would  endure  and  suffer  and  sacrifice. 
As  late  as  February,  1865,  he  addressed 
to  Governor^  Brown  of  Georgia  this 
most  remarkable  appeal,  remarkable 
for  its  earnestness  and  enthusiasm  of 
conviction  in  the  midst  of  despair: 
'So  far  as  the  despondency  of  the 
people  occasions  this  sad  condition 
of  affairs,  I  know  of  no  other  means  of 
removing  it  than  by  the  counsel  and 
exhortations  of  prominent  citizens. 
If  they  would  explain  to  the  people 
that  the  cause  is  not  hopeless;  that  the 


LEE  AND  THE  CONFEDERATE  GOVERNMENT 


201 


situation  of  affairs,  though  critical,  is 
critical  to  the  enemy  as  well  as  to  our- 
selves; that  he  has  drawn  his  troops 
from  every  other  quarter  to  accom- 
plish his  designs  against  Richmond, 
and  that  his  defeat  now  would  result 
in  leaving  nearly  our  whole  territory 
open  to  us;  that  this  great  result  can 
be  accomplished  if  all  will  work  dili- 
gently and  zealously;  and  that  his 
successes  are  far  less  valuable  in  fact 
than  in  appearance,  I  think  our  sorely 
tried  people  would  be  induced  to  bear 
their  sufferings  a  little  longer  and  re- 
gain some  of  the  spirit  that  marked  the 
first  two  years  of  the  war.  If  they  will, 
I  feel  confident  that,  with  the  blessing 
of  God,  our  greatest  danger  will  prove 
the  means  of  deliverance  and  safety.' 

But,  alas,  the  spirit  was  crushed,  the 
courage  was  broken,  never  to  be  re- 
animated again.  Lee  knew  it,  however 
much  he  fought  the  conviction.  If  the 
people  were  no  longer  behind  him, 
what  could  he  do?  'General  Lee  says 
to  the  men  who  shirk  duty,'  writes 
Mrs.  Chesnut,  '"This  is  the  people's 
war:  when  they  tire,  I  stop." '  Or,  as 
he  himself  writes,  more  solemnly,  'Our 
people  have  not  been  earnest  enough, 
have  thought  too  much  of  themselves 
and  their  ease,  and  instead  of  turning 
out  to  a  man,  have  been  content  to 
nurse  themselves  and  their  dimes,  and 
leave  the  protection  of  themselves  and 
families  to  others.'  It  was  this  that 
made  him  so  hopeless  about  obtaining 
supplies  that  in  December,  1864,  he 
told  a  committee  of  Congress  that  '  he 
could  devise  no  means  of  carrying  on 
the  war.'  It  was  this  that  made  him 
so  despondent  in  his  talk  with  Hunter, 
about  the  same  time  that  the  above 
letter  was  written  to  Brown.  'In  the 
whole  of  this  conversation  he  never 
said  to  me  that  he  thought  the  chances 
were  over;  but  the  tone  and  tenor  of 
his  remarks  made  that  impression  on 
my  mind.'  It  was  this,  finally,  that 


made  him  say  what  he  is  reported  to 
have  said  shortly  after  the  war  was 
over:  'In  my  earnest  belief  peace  was 
practicable  two  years  ago  and  has  been 
since  that  time,  whenever  the  general 
government  should  see  fit  to  give  any 
reasonable  chance  for  the  country  to 
escape  the  consequences  which  the 
exasperated  North  seemed  ready  to 
visit  upon  it.' 

Yet  here  again,  Lee  was  the  soldier, 
not  the  president.  So  long  as  the  civil 
government  said  fight,  he  fought,  till 
fighting  had  become,  in  any  reason- 
able sense,  impossible.  The  distress  of 
mind  involved  in  this  attitude  is  no- 
where more  clearly  indicated  than  in 
the  words  reported  by  General  Gordon. 
'  General  Gordon,  I  am  a  soldier.  It  is 
my  duty  to  obey  orders.  It  is  enough 
to  turn  one's  hair  gray  to  spend  one 
day  in  that  Congress.  The  members 
are  patient  and  earnest,  but  they  will 
neither  take  the  responsibility  of  action 
nor  will  they  clothe  me  with  authority 
to  act  for  them.  As  for  Mr.  Davis,  he 
is  unwilling  to  do  anything  short  of 
independence,  and  feels  that  it  is  use- 
less to  try  to  treat  on  that  basis.' 

But  when  at  last  Davis  had  left  the 
capital  and  practically  the  control  of 
affairs,  the  commander  of  the  Army  of 
Northern  Virginia  acted  his  final  scene 
with  the  dignity,  the  sacrifice,  the  true 
patriotism  which  Mr.  Adams  has  so 
nobly  commemorated.  Instead  of  scat- 
tering the  desperate  remnant  of  his 
forces  to  carry  on  a  murderous  guerilla 
warfare,  Lee  recognized  the  inevitable 
verdict  of  necessity,  and  surrendered 
his  army  on  conditions  certainly  in  no 
way  hurtful  to  its  lasting  glory.  With 
that  surrender  the  government  of  the 
Confederate  States  in  reality  ceased  to 
exist. 

These  studies  of  Lee  in  his  relation 
to  the  civil  government  do  not  perhaps 
show  him  at  his  best  or  in  the  most 
splendid  manifestation  of  his  genius. 


202 


LEE  AND  THE  CONFEDERATE  GOVERNMENT 


Yet  hardly  anything  in  the  man's 
character  is  grander  than  the  way  in 
which  he  instantly  adapted  himself 
to  new  circumstances  and  began  to 
work  as  a  loyal  and  devoted  citizen, 
even  when  the  United  States  still 
refused  him  the  rights  and  privileges 
of  citizenship.  The  importance  of  his 
influence  in  this  regard,  over  his 
friends  and  family,  over  his  old  sol- 
diers, over  every  Southern  man  and 
woman,  can  hardly  be  exaggerated. 
'When  he  said  that  the  career  of  the 
Confederacy  was  ended,  that  the  hope 
of  an  independent  government  must 
be  abandoned,  and  that  the  duty  of 
the  future  was  to  abandon  the  dream 
of  a  Confederacy  and  to  render  a  new 
and  cheerful  allegiance  to  a  reunited 
government  —  his  utterances  were 
accepted  as  true  as  holy  writ.  No  oth- 
er human  being  upon  earth,  no  other 
earthly  power,  could  have  produced 
such  acquiescence  or  could  have  com- 
pelled such  prompt  acceptance  of  the 
final  and  irreversible  judgment.'  There 
was  no  grudging,  no  holding  back,  no 
hiding  of  despair  in  dark  corners,  but 
an  instant  effort  to  do,  and  to  urge 
others  to  do,  everything  possible  to 
rebuild  the  fair  edifice  that  had  been 
overthrown. 

'  When  I  had  the  privilege,  after  his 
death,  of  examining  his  private  letter- 
book,  I  found  it  literally  crowded  with 
letters  advising  old  soldiers  and  others 
to  submit  to  all  authorities  and  become 
law-abiding  citizens,'  writes  his  bio- 
grapher. 'I  am  sorry,'  writes  Lee  him- 
self, *  to  hear  that  our  returned  soldiers 
cannot  obtain  employment.  Tell  them 


they  must  all  set  to  work,  and  if  they 
cannot  xlo  what  they  prefer,  do  what 
they  can.  Virginia  wants  all  their  aid, 
all  their  support,  and  the  presence  of  all 
her  sons  to  sustain  and  recuperate  her.' 
'To  one  who  inquired  what  fate  was 
in  store  for  us  poor  Virginians,  he 
replied,  "  You  can  work  for  Virginia, 
to  build  her  up  again,  to  make  her 
great  again.  You  can  teach  your  child- 
ren to  love  and  cherish  her. " '  And 
if  any  one  urges  that  this  is  still  the 
old  leaven,  after  all,  Virginia,  always 
Virginia,  we  answer,  No;  this  man  was 
great  enough  to  forget,  and  forget  at 
once;  to  blend  Virginia  even  then  with 
a  larger  nationality.  As  a  matter  of 
policy  he  expresses  this  with  clear  in- 
sight: 'The  interests  of  the  state  are, 
therefore,  the  same  as  those  of  the 
United  States.  Its  prosperity  will  rise 
or  fall  with  the  welfare  of  the  country.' 
As  a  matter  of  feeling,  he  expresses  it 
with  profound  and  noble  emotion, 
saying  to  a  lady  who  cherished  more 
bitterness  than  he,  'Madam,  don't 
bring  up  your  sons  to  detest  the 
United  States  government.  Recollect 
that  we  form  one  country  now.  Aban- 
don all  these  local  animosities  and 
make  your  sons  Americans.' 

Abandon  all  these  local  animosities 
and  make  your  sons  Americans.  What 
finer  sentence  could  be  inscribed  on  the 
pedestal  of  Lee's  statue  than  that? 
Americans!  All  the  local  animosities 
forgiven  and  forgotten,  can  we  not  say 
that  he  too,  though  dying  only  five 
years  after  the  terrible  struggle,  died 
a  loyal,  a  Confident,  a  hopeful  Ameri- 
can, and  one  of  the  very  greatest? 


MISERERE,  DOMINE! 


BY   JEFFERSON   B.    FLETCHER 


UNFATHOMABLE  One, 
Maker  of  all  things,  breath 
Of  all  breath,  spirit-spun 
Thread  inwoven  in  birth  and  life  and  death,  — 

Whence  came  for  thee  the  mood 
To  make?  What  vision,  seen  by  thee  alone, 
Urged  thee  from  solitude 
To  an  uneasy  throne, 
Where  sounds  forever  the  sad  monotone 
Of  souls  in  worlds  unnumbered,  from  the  dust 
Crying  for  justice  against  thee,  the  Just? 

Did  darker  thoughts  harass, 
And  drive  thee  to  these  noises,  — 
Lulled,  as  on  storms  thy  sea-bird,  brooding,  poises? 
Or  hast  thou  mirrored  thee,  unveiled,  in  man, 
As  for  mere  vanity 
A  girl  dotes  on  her  image  in  a  glass; 
And  so  thy  sorry  plan 
Is  but  a  shadow-show  to  flatter  thee? 

Or,  restless  evermore, 

Hast  shaped  this  jarring  scheme  because  thy  peace 
Is  not  of  strife  surcease, 
But  instant  victory  in  constant  war? 
Or  was  thy  making  blind 
Willfulness,  which  has  brought 
Life  out  of  life,  moved  by  no  further  thought; 
Wherefore,  unlit  by  mind, 
Thy  world  is  groping  out  of  naught  to  naught? 

Master,  what  is  thy  will 

For  us!  Peace?  Lave?  Thou  seest,  Lord,  our  life: 
Does  it  thine  ends  fulfill? 

—  Yea,  they  have  peace,  the  strong,  the  conquerors; 
While  whipped  men  nurse  their  sores. 


204  MISERERE,  DOMINE! 

Yet  though  cowed  rage  awhile  may  sheathe  the  knife, 

Hate  hides  behind;  and  strife 

But  waits  upon  occasion,  —  till  old  scores 

Blood  shall  have  blotted:  leagued,  the  wolf-pack  preys 

But  should  a  leader  limp  or  lag,  it  slays. 

Thou  seest  blind  love  enmesh 
The  wills  of  men :  how  in  the  baser  crew 
Flesh  hungers  after  flesh, 
And  feeds;  hungers  afresh, 
And  dies;  and  how  the  few 
Grasp  at  an  iris-bow 
Of  many-colored  hopes  that  come  —  to  go. 

Where  is  that  love  supreme 
In  which  souls  meet,  —  where  is  it  satisfied? 
Unless  the  bridegroom  conjure  his  pale  bride 
From  insubstantial  dream; 
Or,  when  a  maid  has  died, 
Some  brooding  poet  quicken  vain  desire 
With  his  own  spirit's  fire, 
And  nursing  in  his  soul  the  dear  device, 
He  make  —  and  be  —  his  own  still  paradise. 

Enisled  on  heaving  sands 
Of  lone  desire,  spirit  to  spirit  cries; 
While  float  across  the  skies 
Bright  phantoms  of  fair  lands 
Where  fancies  fade  not,  and  where  dreams  abide. 
Then  on  a  day  the  dear  illusions  lift: 
Sundered,  upon  a  shoreless  sea  adrift, 
With  eyes  that  yearn  to  eyes, 
Mute,  with  imploring  hands, 
The  twain  go  driven  whither  no  land  lies; 
And  whether  side  by  side, 
Or  swept  apart  by  some  swift  passionate  tide, 
Each  in  the  bark  of  each 
Lies  bound;  nor  ever  soul  to  soul  shall  reach. 

Time  was  indeed  when  some, 
Gaunt,  with  averted  eyes  and  voices  dumb 
For  all  save  thee,  on  rocky  fastnesses, 
In  woods,  or  by  waste  sands, 
Sought  by  self-scourging  and  bead-mumbled  spell 
Guerdon  of  heaven :  ah,  why  in  silences 


LIFE  BEYOND  LIFE  205 

Fulfilled  with  thee,  sighed  they  for  vague  dream-lands 

Of  mystic  asphodel, 

Who,  long  self-cloistered  in  disgust  of  men, 

Must  greet  on  yonder  multitudinous  shore 

Those  they  but  scorned  before, 

Still  in  the  spirit  human — even  as  then? 

Ancient  of  days,  bemoan'st  thou  the  rent  bars 
Of  sleep?  —  thine  ere  the  inexplicable  pang 
Stirred  in  their  sockets  thy  fixed  balls  of  sight, 
And  thy  lids  loosened,  and  the  vital  light 
Flamed  on  the  dust  of  uncompacted  stars, 
Until  these  joined  and  sang; 
And  on  the  four  winds  rang 
The  long  thin  shrill  wild  wail  of  a  world's  woe. 
Lord,  with  unshaken  soul, 
Shalt  thou  forever,  hearing,  will  it  so? 
Not  halt  these  spheres  that  roll 
Infect?   Not  with  submissive  knowledge  own 
Good  was  for  thee  alone? 
Not  then,  withdrawing  thee  in  thee,  atone? 


LIFE   BEYOND  LIFE 


BY   BEULAH   B.    AMRAM 


'That  seasoned  life  of  man,  preserved  and  The  drowsy  summer- world  seemed  full 

stored  up  in  books  .an  immortality  rather  of  little  girls  But  the  woman's  mind 

than  a  life.  — MILTON  s  Areopagittca.  ,  -j  .1  i  m  j  i 

•To  the  mortal,  birth  is  a  sort  of  eternity  and  ™  less  Piawd  *****  hey  unruffled  brow, 

immortality.'— Diotima,  in  The  Symposium.  She  entertained  no  doubt  as  to  her 

answer  to  the  letter  in  her  hand,  but 

A  WOMAN  sat  in  the  shade  of  an  old  with  a  sentiment  that  she  had  thought 
wild-cherry  tree.  She  had  passed  her  could  belong  only  to  extreme  youth, 
first  youth,  —  she  had  never  been  beau-  she  felt  unwilling  to  enter  into  so  beau- 
tiful, but  the  glance  that  she  cast  at  the  tiful  and  momentous  a  relationship 
child  lying  on  the  grass  at  her  feet  made  with  any  obscure  corner  of  her  heart 
her  thoughtful  face  very  pleasing.  The  harboring  reluctance.  It  seemed  to  her 
little  niece  smiled  lazily  at  the  children  a  sort  of  lese  majesti  even  to  question 
playing  at  a  distance  behind  the  hedge,  the  desirability  of  marriage  after  those 


206 


LIFE  BEYOND  LIFE 


rare,  sweet,  companionable  months. 
Yet  it  seemed  to  her  no  less  a  treason 
to  put  her  personal  happiness  before  a 
task  that  she  felt  called  to  do,  in  the 
old,  high,  beautiful  sense  that  a  cynic- 
al modernity  has  relegated  to  the 
lumber-room  of  'hopelessly  old-fash- 
ioned '  things.  She  found  it  difficult  to 
reconcile  herself  to  the  obliteration  of 
so  rare  and  significant  a  figure  as  her 
father  had  been;  and  her  chief  desire, 
now,  was  to  secure  for  him,  through 
the  irrevocable  processes  of  the  press, 
the  life  after  death  that  her  theology 
did  not  include  among  its  consolations; 
thus,  by  a  curious  inversion,  re-creating 
the  life  through  which  her  own  had 
come. 

As  a  girl,  she  had,  like  most  girls 
of  her  type,  enjoyed  the  exhilaration  of 
situations,  even  painful  ones.  Young 
emotions,  like  young  muscles,  crave 
activity.  It  is  inertia  that  wears;  it  is 
when  heroism  takes  the  form  of  pass- 
ive endurance,  that  eager  emotions 
become  acrid  from  disuse.  One  of  her 
earliest  memories  was  of  reading,  sur- 
reptitiously, an  account  of  the  unrebel- 
lious  if  not  voluntary  sacrifice  of  the 
Hindu  suttee,  and  she  had  carried  with 
her  for  days  the  desire  to  be  placed  in 
some  difficult  position  that  should  test 
her  powers.  It  was  the  same  sentiment 
as  that  aroused  in  the  diarist  who  re- 
cords the  terrible  military  degradation 
of  Emerald  Uthwart,  'a  sort  of  desire 
to  share  his  lot,  —  to  be  actually  in  his 
place  for  a  moment,'  —  the  apprecia- 
tion of  a  difficult  part  nobly  played 
under  the  stress  of  thrilling  and  heroic 
emotions.  But  she  had  passed  that 
point,  and  no  longer  saw  herself  the 
protagonist  in  a  drama,  where,  even  in 
troublous  moments,  the  interest  was 
no  less  interesting  than  the  tragedy 
was  tragic;  and  her  feeling  now  was  one 
almost  of  annoyance  at  this  interrup- 
tion of  the  quiet  stream  of  their  well- 
ordered  lives.  Undoubtedly  it  was 


Given  unto  the  eagle's  eye 
To  face  the  midday  sky ; 

but  now  'the  heights  the  soul  is  com- 
petent to  gain,'  with  their  fierce  wide 
view,  drew  her  less  than  the  mossy 
depths  of  the  quiet  valley,  with  a  placid 
strip  of  detached  sky  above. 

One  predominant  trait  she  had  re- 
tained, however  —  the  habit  of  seeing 
difficulties  of  solution  in  personal  pro- 
blems go  down  only  before  some  great 
and  overwhelming  principle,  to  which 
opposition  might  fitly  yield,  —  which 
should  make  submission  easy,  or  at  least 
afford  the  satisfaction  of  a  moral  victory. 

On  one  strange  August  afternoon,  a 
sudden  veil  of  clouds,  black  with  wind, 
cold  with  sleet,  had  rushed  out  of  the 
north  and  east  and  south  at  once, 
covering  all  the  sky,  except  for  a  nar- 
row band  in  the  west.  The  level  rays 
lay  over  the  darkened  earth,  touching 
here  and  there  a  low-hung  branch,  but 
diffusing  no  light,  no  warmth,  strangely 
unreal  —  merely  yellow  fingers  on  the 
grass  of  a  weird,  gray  world;  like  the 
unearthly  light  when  an  eclipse  dark- 
ens the  sun,  and  the  stars  come  out 
and  the  cocks  crow  and  people  look 
a  little  fearfully  in  each  other's  faces. 
Such  a  half-light  in  human  affairs 
chilled  her.  Her  habitual  need  of  the 
irradiation  of  some  large  and  recon- 
ciling purpose  in  every  conflict  had  be- 
come almost  the  equivalent  of  the  old 
mystic  article  of  faith  that  solved  its 
problems  by  the  arbitrary  selection  of 
Biblical  texts,  feeling  that  thus  some- 
how the  problem  was  taken  out  of 
human  hands,  away  from  human  judg- 
ment. Could  she  then  marry  with  a 
mind  that  looked  back  upon  her  filial 
duty  as  perhaps  the  strongest  element 
in  her  nature? 

She  was  not  a  child  when  her  father 
had  died,  but  so  irreconcilable  with 
mortality  was  his  rare  spiritual  quality 
that  she  had  felt  an  unusual  shock  at 
his  loss,  such  as  comes  to  the  student  at 


LIFE  BEYOND  LIFE 


207 


the  verge  of  doubt  when  he  gives  over 
his  religion  to  the  hand  of  the  philolog- 
ists and  tries  to  agree  with  them  that 
his  God  is  dead.  His  memory  was  not 
to  be  effaced  from  the  minds  of  those 
who  knew  him,  but  it  must  certainly 
die  with  them,  '  for  the  iniquity  of  ob- 
livion blindly  scattereth  her  poppy  and 
deals  with  the  memory  of  men  with- 
out distinction  to  merit  of  perpetuity.' 
What  that  influence  had  been  she  nei- 
ther magnified  nor  minimized,  and  she 
was  irresistibly  impelled  to  attempt 
to  preserve  the  memory  of  a  soul  in- 
stinct with  idealism,  which  saw  only 
unerring  and  lofty  purpose,  which  was 
blind  and  deaf  to  the  basic  vices  of  our 
complex  civilization. 

Unfortunately,  she  thought,  she  her- 
self belonged  to  the  order  of  hopelessly 
old-fashioned  things,  and  so  was  not 
at  all  helped  in  her  problem  by  the  doc- 
trine of  the  modern  individualist,  for 
whose  cant  about  considerations  of  the 
'individual  soul'  as  a  thing 'entirely 
one's  own'  'to  do  with  as  one  pleases,' 
she  had  nothing  but  amused  contempt. 
She  was  not  at  all  sure  that  in  the  long 
run,  that  had  begun  so  long  ago  and 
should  run  so  far  hence,  the  happiness 
of  that  soul  troubled  at  all  the  peace 
of  the  high  gods.  She  was  not  at  all 
sure  that  the  ratio  of  human  happiness 
was  so  much  higher  in  these  days  of 
theoretical  liberty.  She  was  not  at  all 
sure  that  women  were  not  as  much 
ridden  to-day  by  the  aggressive  fear 
of  mastery  as  once  they  had  been  by 
its  actuality.  Men  and  women  seemed 
to  her  interesting  and  significant,  not 
as  separate  and  separable  units,  but  as 
humble  elements  in  one  great  and  har- 
monious whole.  And  the  only  serene 
happiness  seemed  to  her  to  lie  in  the 
attempt  of  each  to  preserve  that  har- 
mony that  linked  individual  to  individ- 
ual, people  to  people,  age  to  age. 

With  all  the  resources  of  intellect, 
and  armed  with  the  best  that  educa- 


tion can  give,  her  father  had  chosen  to 
care  less  about  what  might  be  in  the 
problematical  future  than  what  had 
been  in  the  known  past.  He  had  been 
one  of  those  who  argue  that  faith 
might  easily  and  satisfactorily  be  taken 
whole,  and  human  energies  turned  to 
more  immediate  and  useful  things.  For 
surely,  he  had  said,  it  was  not  faith 
that  was  at  fault;  even  though  it  had 
been,  for  so  many  centuries,  faith  in 
the  wrong  thing.  It  had  been  the  con- 
junction of  worldly  power  with  faith 
that  had  made  of  what  should  have 
been  the  greatest  of  blessings  the  most 
abhorred  of  weapons  in  the  hands  of 
Satan. 

Quando  si  porge  la  mono  Cesare  a  Piero 
Da  quella  stretta  sangue  umano  still  a; 
Quando  il  bacio  si  dan  Chiesa  ed  Impero 
Un  astro  di  martirio  in  ciel  sfavilla, 

wrote  a  poet  who  touched  the  oppo- 
site pole  of  religious  thought,  looking 
backward,  not  to  Religion,  but  to  Na- 
tionality with  its  immortal  traditions, 
forward  to  Science,  in  that  rare  combin- 
ation of  power  that  inspires  the  mod- 
ern Italian.  But  that  fight  was  happily 
over,  and  Caesar  no  longer  stretched  the 
hand  to  Peter.  Enough  had  been  gained 
thereby.  Beyond  that,  how  far  should 
human  reason  reach  to  the  heart  of '  the 
world  that  took  but  six  days  to  make, 
and  is  like  to  take  six  thousand  to 
make  out'?  His  doubts  he  had  salved 
with  the  Psalmist,  'The  Heavens  are 
the  Heavens  of  the  Lord,  but  the  earth 
hath  he  given  to  the  children  of  men '  — 
echoed  by  Euripides 's  chorus,  'This  is 
the  life  that  saves  all  pain,  if  a  man  con- 
fine his  thoughts  to  human  themes  as 
is  his  mortal  nature,  making  no  pre- 
tense where  heaven  is  concerned.  .  .  . 
Sophistry  is  not  wisdom,  and  to  indulge 
in  thoughts  beyond  man's  ken  is  to 
shorten  life.' 

Different  as  were  her  views  on  mat- 
ters of  theology,  she  was  too  sympa- 
thetic not  to  see  that  such  orthodoxy — 


208 


LIFE  BEYOND  LIFE 


the  conservatism  of  a  man  who  could 
take  religion  out  of  the  constraining 
barriers  of  dogmatism,  and  show  it  as 
undeniably  related  to  as  much  of  the 
eternal  verities  as  humanity  can  grasp 
—  cannot  be  contemptuously  disposed 
of  in  Oscar  Wilde's  phrase,  as  being  a 
mere '  facile  unintelligent  acquiescence.' 
Facile  it  certainly  was  not.  Surely  it  was 
infinitely  easier,  as  in  Micah's  day,  to 
care  for  only 'the  willful  pleasure  of  the 
soul.'  Still  less  was  it  unintelligent,  for, 
as  George  Eliot  says  of  Dinah  Mor- 
ris's rather  primitive  Methodism,  every 
faith  is  a  sort  of '  rudimentary  culture,' 
suffusing  the  imagination  and  taking 
the  mind  back  through  the  past.  In- 
dividualism bases  itself  on  emotion;  it 
is  conservatism  that  is  intellectual  in 
its  essence  —  not  the  conservatism  of 
the  multitude  who  follow  merely  the 
unalterable  rule  of  prescribed  duties, 
but  of  those  who  feel  that  nothing  that 
is  human,  that  has  ever  been  thought 
beautiful  and  worthy  to  be  expressed, 
and  lived  for,  and  sacrificed  for,  should 
be  lost  in  the  onward  movement  of 
things  earthly  and  spiritual.  So  that 
even  he  who  has  irrevocably  denied 
divine  prescience  in  the  plan  may  still 
wish  to  be  linked  to  all  that  has  gone 
before,  and  may  call  it  humanism,  per- 
haps, or  the  historic  consciousness. 

Strange  and  paradoxical  that  in  such 
men  humanism  should  become  almost 
identical  with  the  conservatism  that 
was  so  long  its  persistent  enemy.  It 
was  with  him  acquiescence  in  something 
that  seemed  of  too  lofty  essence  to  be 
touched  with  uncovered  hands,  some- 
thing that  had  revealed  itself  to  great 
souls  meditating  in  the  midst  of  vast 
distances,  beneath  infinite  spaces  of 
sky.  Lesser  souls  might  easily  rever- 
ence their  loftiness,  though  they  might 
doubt  their  inspiration. 

Such  orthodoxy,  stripped  of  theo- 
logy, might  still  hold  the  thoughtful 
and  independent  mind  that  confesses 


to  a  lurking  poetic  sense.  For  through 
their  inheritance  of  traditional  beliefs 
and  habits,  men  may  bridge  the  abyss 
of  the  years,  looking  back  through 
the  near  and  clearly  remembered  and 
understood,  reaching  by  easy  grada- 
tions the  visionary  beginnings  of  things. 
In  the  synagogue,  at  the  central  point 
of  the  immemorial  service,  the  officiant 
lifts  the  unrolled  scroll  in  both  hands 
and,  turning  to  all  sides,  shows  it  to 
the  congregation.  And  the  layman  says 
with  him,  'This  is  the  law  that  Moses 
set  before  the  children  of  Israel  by  the 
mouth  of  the  Lord ' ;  recognizing  that, 
in  spite  of  his  Biblical  exegesis  and  his 
comparative  jurisprudence,  it  is  the 
law,  inasmuch  as  millions  of  living  men, 
who  admitted  no  doubt,  have  so  pro- 
claimed it.  Such  customs  find  their 
sanction  in  something  deeper  than 
reason.  When  Reason  shall  have  held 
sway  over  men  as  long  as  Authority 
has  reigned,  the  gradual  deposit  of  the 
new  method  may  effectually  rout  the 
throng  of  associations  that  cling  to  cus- 
toms but  yesterday  cast  off,  customs 
that  found  their  origins  in  alien  lands, 
among  alien  peoples,  founded  perhaps 
in  unreason,  perhaps  in  what  we  have 
learned  to  call  superstition,  but  that 
bear  with  them  the  accretion  of  ages 
of  human  hopes. 

He  had  never  failed  to  recognize  that 
it  may  —  indeed,  almost  always  had 
—  become  'a  terrible  and  paralyzing 
tyranny.'  Side  by  side  with  the  order- 
ly festivals,  the  beautiful  pagan  seemly 
things,  were  the  living  torches  of  Nero, 
the  cruelty  and  the  slavery;  behind  the 
gorgeous,  gold-decked  processions  in 
glorious  churches,  hid  incredible  in- 
quisitorial terrors.  Nevertheless  he 
had  doubted  whether  there  was  more 
danger  of  conservatism  ossifying  into 
the  motionless  rock  than  of  individual- 
ism disintegrating  into  chaos.  Shortly 
before  his  death,  he  had  read  with  much 
pleasure  Maeterlinck's  charming  fancy 


LIFE  BEYOND  LIFE 


209 


that  the  dead  live  again  whenever  we 
think  of  them,  and  he  had  asked  her 
whether  they  did  not  live  forever,  their 
acts,  their  memories,  when  successive 
generations  willingly  preserved  the 
things  they  reverenced.  Truly,  a  strange 
figure  amidst  the  'heads  that  are  dis- 
posed unto  schism  and  complexion- 
ally  propense  to  innovation'  that  sur- 
rounded him  in  the  modern  world. 

She  had  no  delusions  as  to  the  ulti- 
mate value  of  his  or  any  other  man's 
work.  Neither  had  she  any  of  the  dead- 
ening neurotic  vanity  that,  seeing  itself 
always  in  relation  to  the  universe,  de- 
spises all  accomplishment.  Happily 
many  things,  above  all,  the  completion 
of  this  work,  seemed  to  her  to  be  emin- 
ently worth  doing.  The  door  to  doubt 
that  had  persistently  flown  open  in  her 
almost  morbid  girlhood,  she  now  kept 
firmly  closed  behind  the  barriers  of 
common  sense,  —  in  its  literal  inter- 
pretation, meaning  that  those  things 
that  the  sensations  and  sensibilities  of 
all  men  at  all  times  have  agreed  on,  be- 
come, in  themselves,  true  expressions 
of  that  'law  of  nature,'  dear  to  philo- 
sophers, 'inherent  in  nature  and  the 
human  heart.'  Philosophies  that  deny 
the  credibility  of  men's  senses,  seeking 
for  absolute  standards,  reach  at  last 
the  pitiful  position  taken  by  Tolstoi, 
who  would  deny  and  destroy  all  that 
the  intellect  has  so  laboriously  built 
up,  so  painfully  struggled  for,  because, 
in  his  view,  our  impressions  of  the  uni- 
verse may  be  as  far  from  the  truth  as 
are  the  impressions  that  the  senses  of 
tiny  animals  give  of  us.  She  felt,  how- 
ever, that  human  terms  accord  with 
human  sensations,  and  that  the  agree- 
ment of  men  to  call  the  grass  green 
gives  that  color  a  definite  existence, 
even  though  Rembrandt's  green  may 
have  been  what  we  now  call  brown. 

The  idealism  that,  denying  reality, 
conceives  the  universe  as  merely  a 
dream  in  the  eternal  mind,  that  shall 

VOL.  107  -  NO.  2 


vanish  some  day  when  the  dreamer 
wakes,  had  always  seemed  to  her  fan- 
tastic and  merely  literary,  until  she 
had  come  to  understand  it  through  two 
strange  experiences.  Once,  at  a  time 
of  profound  mental  exhaustion,  objects 
around  her  had  suddenly  lost  their 
objectivity  and  had  seemed  merely 
projections  of  her  mind  against  space. 
Once,  on  her  return  from  the  far  land 
of  Anaesthesia,  the  familiar  world  on 
which  her  eyes  opened  seemed  to  her  but 
a  feeble  reflection  of  the  real  world  she 
had  just  left,  and  a  vague  sense  almost 
of  amusement  at  the  ignorance  and 
self-delusion  that  the  surgeon  shared 
with  those  around  her,  mingled  with 
the  remembered  sense  of  awe  at  his 
great  knowledge  and  daring  skill.  With 
the  clearing  of  that  state,  she  realized 
that  that  far  land  had  existed  only  in 
her  own  mind,  and  she  concluded  that, 
if  conceptions  of  absolute  truth,  inde- 
pendent of  experience,  had  to  be 
reached  through  such  flashes  of  possi- 
ble insight  but  at  the  cost  of  such  really 
terrifying  mental  conflict,  it  was  better 
for  mankind  to  remain  blind,  uncon- 
scious of  its  blindness. 

So,  wise  or  foolish,  men  had  agreed 
that  death  was  disagreeable,  annihila- 
tion undesirable,  remembrance  sweet. 
Religion,  out  of  its  hope  that  this  fleet- 
ing world  might  not  be  all,  evolved  a 
doctrine  of  unending  life  in  another 
world.  The  Greek,  the  Brahmin,  gave 
the  soul  another  habitat,  and  called 
their  doctrine  metempsychosis.  The 
artist  sought  immortality  in  art,  in  self- 
expression  —  a  form  of  creative  im- 
pulse as  irresistibly  strong  as  that  by 
which  the  world  is  peopled  —  the  ca- 
coethes  scribendi,  strong  wherever  life 
is  strong,  pouring  out  the  countless  me- 
moirs of  Erasmus,  the  hundred  volumes 
of  George  Sand.  Of  all  that  formed  the 
audiences  of  the  ancient  world,  those 
live  to-day  who  expressed  themselves, 
those  who  thought  in  marble,  who  con- 


210 


LIFE   BEYOND   LIFE 


ceived  in  bronze.  With  all  men,  since 
grateful  Homer  at  Chios  put  his  bene- 
factor's name  among  the  companions 
of  Ulysses  in  the  Odyssey,  since  Milton 
died  happy  that  posterity  would  not 
willingly  let  his  memory  die,  —  it  is 
mortality's  protest  against  dissolution, 
the  recoil  from  oblivion. 

But  there  was  another  kind  of  im- 
mortality. With  all  her  sympathetic 
understanding  of  her  father's  intellect- 
ual type,  what  he  had  deliberately 
taught,  what  he  had  taught  by  simply 
being  what  he  was,  with  all  her  gift  of 
expression,  she  knew  that  she  never 
could  show  him  as  she  felt  him.  He 
could  never  live  in  her  pages  as  he  lived 
in  her.  Even  in  the  many  matters  in 
which,  a  child  of  her  century,  she 
differed  from  him,  she  still  could  un- 
derstand completely  his  strong  convic- 
tions and  deepest  incommunicable  pre- 
occupations. 

The  child  at  her  feet  stirred  in  soft 
sleep,  opened  her  eyes,  and  turned  again 
to  deeper  sleep. 

That  morning,  lured  by  a  flash  of 
color  blazing  unexpectedly  through  an 
open  space,  she  had  pushed  past  the 
detaining  arms  of  her  neighbor's  bar- 
berry hedge  and  had  come  upon  a 
formal  old-fashioned  garden,  inclosed 
on  three  sides  by  tall,  slim  young  Nor- 
mandy poplars,  broken  only  where 
through  a  low,  stone,  ivy-covered  gate, 
a  little  girl  was  bending  over  a  glow  of 
scarlet  geranium.  She  could  see  yet 
the  riot  of  color  in  the.  formal  beds, 
the  pink  and  white  and  vermilion  of 
the  verbenas,  the  scarlet  of  the  poppies, 
the  countless  blends  of  color  on  the 
sweet  peas,  and  the  dainty  larkspurs 
flaunting  their  blue  cups  to  a  bluer 
sky,  the  purple  sheet  where  the  colum- 
bines hung  their  lovely  bells  between 
modest  borders  of  pansies  and  alyssum. 
She  could  smell  yet  the  odors  in  the 
warm  air,  of  beds  of  heliotrope  and 
lavender,  mixed  so  subtly  with  the  de- 


licious fragrance  of  the  roses.  The  un- 
expected vision  had  startled  her,  so 
near  to  her  all  summer  as  she  had  sat 
under  the  paternal  arm  of  the  old  wild- 
cherry  tree  that  hung  so  low  in  the  cor- 
ner of  her  garden. 

And  here  this  child,  his  grandchild, 
lay  sleeping  in  the  lulling  summer  quiet, 
and  it  was  the  face  of  her  father  that 
she  saw  as  she  had  never  seen  it  before 
—  with  the  soft  white  hair,  that  hung 
so  gently,  changed  to  brown,  but  with 
the  same  pure  outline,  the  same  clear 
skin,  the  same  placid  mouth,  the  same 
deep  brown  eyes.  She  felt  the  branches 
spreading  out  behind  that  child,  gather- 
ing from  the  ends  of  the  earth  the  ma- 
terial that  had  gone  to  make  her,  con- 
centrating in  her,  only  to  spread  out 
again  infinitely  in  the  lives  that  should 
come  after.  In  the  likeness  of  so  much 
of  her  own  self  to  her  father,  she  was 
reminded  of  a  quaint  fancy  she  had 
read  of  a  metempsychosis  of  ideas  as 
well  as  of  souls,  of  opinions  finding 
'after    certain    revolutions    men    and 
minds  like  those  that  first  begat  them.' 
In  the  unconscious  child,  as  in  herself, 
she  saw  the  indissoluble  links  between 
the  countless  armies  '  who  have  passed 
through  the  body  and  gone,'  who  should 
bear  on  their  lives,  his  life,  forever  to 
the  countless  armies  'fresh  from  the 
Protoplast,  furnished  for  ages  to  come.' 
Thus  might  the  heavy,  earth-worn  hu- 
man mass  be  leavened! 

The  chilling  half-light  was  gone  as 
she  came  back  from  her  abstraction. 
She  looked  around  her  at  the  lovely 
blooming  world  and  there  passed  into 
her  face  'beauty  born  of  murmuring 
sound '  —  the  murmuring  as  of  running 
water  in  the  leaves  of  the  full-blown 
ash  tree,  the  twittering  of  the  young 
thrushes  in  the  well-filled  nests.  A 
shadow  fell  on  the  grass  beside  her,  and 
the  deep  eyes  and  the  grave  mouth 
smiled  as  she  gave  him  both  her  hands. 


ARCHEOLOGY 


BY   ORIC    BATES 


FOR  those  whose  work  is  the  recov- 
ery, by  researches  carried  on  in  the 
field,  of  such  monuments  of  antiquity 
as  time  has  spared  to  us,  the  public  has 
always  an  inevitable  question:  'What 
is  archaeology,  and  what  is  the  good  of 
it?'  By  this  query,  in  one  form  or  an- 
other, the  archaeologist  is  confronted 
at  every  turn.  His  profession,  still  so 
young  as  to  be  in  a  state  of  rapid  evo- 
lution, is  hardly  yet  an  accepted  fact, 
as  is  that  of  the  lawyer  or  physician. 
The  many  laymen  superficially  inter- 
ested in '  digging '  and '  finds '  are  in  most 
cases  stimulated  and  appealed  to  by 
wholly  secondary  phases  of  this  science 
of  antiquities;  by  the  fact,  for  example, 
that  through  archaeological  research 
many  beautiful  monuments  of  ancient 
art  are  being  restored  to  us;  by  the  re- 
covery of  material  throwing  light  upon 
history;  by  the  element  of  chance  in 
all  excavations;  or  even,  in  individual 
cases,  by  particulars  such  as  new  illus- 
trations of  ancient  costume,  ship-build- 
ing, or  athletics.  Already  manifold  in 
its  aspects,  archaeology  interests  for 
the  most  varied  and  often  extraordin- 
ary reasons ;  but  very  rarely  does  it 
make  its  appeal  through  the  vital  and 
undying  principle  by  which  all  its 
branches  are  —  or  should  be  —  in- 
spired, or  the  great  and  important  ends 
which,  at  its  best,  it  achieves. 

To  understand  the  principle  which 
has  slowly  come  to  animate  the  best 
archaeological  work  of  the  present  day, 
one  should  first  glance  at  the  stages 


through  which  the  science  has  passed. 
The  spirit  in  which  the  most  advanced 
workers  have,  for  the  last  ten  years, 
undertaken  the  solution  of  the  problems 
by  which  they  have  been  confronted 
will  be  the  more  easily  understood 
when  contrasted  with  the  narrower  or 
more  facile  ideals  which  contented  the 
earlier  schools.  The  history  of  archaeo- 
logy, it  will  be  seen,  presents  one  strong 
analogy  to  the  history  of  other  sciences, 
such  as  chemistry  or  astronomy:  from 
stages  secondary  and  dependent,  it  de- 
velops by  phases  to  the  condition  of  a 
pure  science  worthy  of  pursuit  for  its 
own  sake. 

From  its  origin  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury down  to  the  middle  of  the  nine- 
teenth, archaeology,  generally  speak- 
ing, concerned  itself  largely  with  the 
remains  of  Greece  and  Rome.  It  may 
be  said  to  have  begun  in  the  eager 
search  for  gems,  medals,  and  marbles 
which  arose  out  of  the  passionate  class- 
icism of  the  Renaissance.  The  enthu- 
siasm, uncritical  and  all-devouring, 
which  followed  the  rediscovery  of  long- 
neglected  Greek  and  Latin  authors, 
manifested  itself  not  only  in  the  in- 
tense and  even  fanatical  study  of 
ancient  literature,  but  in  secondary 
phases  of  many  sorts.  Inter  alia,  the 
observation  of  classic  Greece  and  Rome 
inaugurated,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  a 
keen  search  for  antiquities^  especially 
for  such  as  were  portable  and  of  a 
nature  which  made  them  desirable  ob- 
jects for  the  collections  of  the  Italian 
optimates  of  the  day.  As  typical  of  this 
epoch,  we  see  such  men  as  Ciriaco 

211 


212 


ARCHEOLOGY 


d'Ancona.  Breaking  away  from  the 
trammeled  merchant-life  for  which  he 
was  designed,  he  utters  his  splendid 
cry,  'I  go  to  awaken  the  dead ! '  and 
begins  a  career  of  adventurous  travel 
in  Europe  and  the  Levant,  seeking 
for  coins,  gems,  inscriptions,  and  sculp- 
tures, —  for  any  link,  in  fine,  with  the 
brave,  departed  glory  which  had  fired 
his  imagination.  He  spends  years  in 
tireless  search,  renewing  his  energy 
at  each  discovery  he  makes.  And  in 
the  end  he  dies,  leaving  a  fascinating 
though  rather  untrustworthy  record  of 
his  work,  and  having  enriched  the  col- 
lections of  his  prince-patrons  with 
things  beautiful  and  precious.  It  is  this 
last  point  which  deserves,  perhaps,  most 
stress:  the  archaeologist  of  the  first 
period  was  for  the  greater  part  a  mere 
collector,  stimulated  by  the  reigning 
passion  of  the  day.  Such  archaeological 
writing  as  was  undertaken  was  in  the 
nature  rather  of  enthusiastic  comment 
and  fanciful  explanation,  than  of  con- 
scientious and  accurate  description  and 
logical  deduction.1 

With  the  downfall  of  Humanism  in 
the  sixteenth  century  and  the  rise  of 
that  textual  criticism  which  found  its 
chief  expression  in  the  Dutch  Renais- 
sance, archaeology  entered  upon  its 
second  stage.  From  the  collecting  of 
objects  because  they  were  beautiful, 
or  Greek,  or  Roman,  archaeology  passed 
into  the  service  of  classical  scholarship. 
Men  of  learning,  whose  chief  interest 
lay  in  the  classic  texts,  now  saw  in  the 
ancient  monuments  material  valuable 
for  illustrative  purposes.  Coins,  for 
example,  were  used  to  elucidate  pass- 
ages in  ancient  writers;  and  the  study 
of  numismatics,  a  sound  beginning  for 
which  had  been  made  by  the  great 
French  scholar  Budaeus,  was  steadily 

1  I  should  not  wish  to  be  thought  ignorant  of 
the  striking  exceptions.  Here,  as  in  touching 
upon  the  succeeding  periods,  I  am  merely  trying 
broadly  to  characterize.  —  THE  AUTHOR. 


advanced  by  the  reproductions  and 
discussions  of  ancient  moneys  in  the 
variorum  editions  of  classic  authors. 

In  the  seventeenth  century  the  de- 
mand for  archaeological  material  to 
which  the  commentator  might  appeal 
was  so  great  as  to  produce  many  writers 
on  antiquities.  Such,  for  instance,  was 
the  Italian  Raffaele  Fabretti,  a  care- 
ful and  scholarly  observer,  who  ac- 
quired his  data  at  first  hand,  and  made 
excellently  good  use  of  his  facts  once 
he  had  them.  We  see  him  poking  about 
the  Campagna  on  his  wise  old  horse 
'Marco  Polo,'  who,  if  his  master  is  to 
be  believed,  came  himself  to  have  so 
much  archaeological  sense  that  he  was 
wont  to  'point'  antiquities  as  a  dog 
will  a  partridge.  This  rider  dismounts, 
measures,  and  sketches.  He  writes 
works  on  the  topography  of  the  Cam- 
pagna Romana,  on  the  Roman  aque- 
ducts, on  the  Column  of  Trajan.  His 
is  the  work  from  which  the  contempo- 
rary editor  of  Livy  or  Horace  may  now 
and  again  extract  material  for  a  crabbed 
and  lengthy  footnote.  For,  as  has  been 
intimated,  the  second  stage  in  the 
history  of  archaeology  is  marked  by 
the  fact  that  ancient  monuments  were 
regarded  primarily  as  material  for  the 
elucidation  of  classical  writers.2 

The  eighteenth  century  saw  the  de- 
cline —  one  might  perhaps  say  the  pet- 
rifaction —  of  the  commentator-archae- 
ologist. Lack  of  fresh  material  had  led 
to  stagnation.  It  should  be  borne  in 
mind  that,  although  there  had  been 
some  hodge-podge  excavation  during 
the  Renaissance,  and  even  after  the 
Catholic  Reaction,  it  was  of  a  very  de- 
sultory sort,  and  most  of  the  important 

8  If  one  is  curious  to  see  the  nature  of  the 
archaeological  writing  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, and  to  see  to  what  extent  it  is  subsidiary 
to  the  texts,  the  Thesaurus  Antiquitatum  Roman- 
orum,  12  vols.  folio,  may  be  seen  in  most  large 
libraries.  Many  of  the  articles  therein  are  of  an 
earlier  period,  but  the  bulk  of  the  work  is  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  —  THE  AUTHOR. 


ARCHEOLOGY 


213 


finds  had  been  made  accidentally.  As  a 
result  of  the  rareness  of  field-work,  the 
time  came  when  every  use  to  which  the 
scholars  of  the  day  could  put  the  ma- 
terial at  their  disposal  had  been  made; 
and  the  archaeology  of  the  mid-eight- 
eenth century  was  a  dilettanti  anti- 
quarianism,  rightly  stigmatized,  by  the 
man  who  put  an  end  to  it,  as  'petti- 
fogging.' 

The  change,  the  greatest  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  science,  was  made  by  Jo- 
hann  Joachim  Winkelmann.  It  would 
be  out  of  place  to  dwell  here  on  the 
good  services  of  other  men,  such  as 
Havercamp,  Spanheim,  or  Lessing;  it 
must  suffice  us  to  grasp  the  essential 
nature  of  the  revolution  which  fol- 
lowed Winkelmann,  and  of  which  he 
was  the  chief  inaugurator. 

Winkelmann's  life,  from  his  pathetic 
boyhood  until  the  day  of  his  assassin- 
ation, was  centred  in  love  of,  and  re- 
verence for,  beauty.  By  an  accident 
of  temperament,  the  artistic  expres- 
sion of  beauty  which  appealed  to  him 
most  deeply  was  that  which  he  found 
embodied  in  ancient  sculpture.  It  is 
of  no  consequence  that  since  his  day 
the  canons  of  taste  have  so  altered 
that  we  now  regard  many  of  his  opin- 
ions as  worthless;  the  cases  are  like 
mistakes  of  fact,  and  despite  them  one 
may  with  truth  still  say,  as  did  Goethe, 
that  'one  might  not  learn  much  by 
reading  Winkelmann,  but  one  became 
something.' 

The  essence  of  Winkelmann's  service 
to  archaeology  is  twofold :  by  his  desire 
as  a  critic  to  illustrate  the  principles 
of  ancient  fine  art,  he  turned  the 
tables  on  the  moribund  school  of  com- 
mentators by  bringing  the  texts  to  il- 
luminate the  antiquities;  and  he  first 
clearly  displayed  to  scholars  and  lay- 
men the  laws  of  the  rise,  culmination, 
and  decay  in  art ;  that  is,  he  presented  to 
the  world  the  analogy  existing  between 
art  and  any  other  organic  entity  —  the 


analogy  which  must,  in  some  form  or 
other,  underlie  all  aesthetic  theory.  It 
was  this  change  of  attitude  in  regard 
to  the  relation  of  ancient  texts  to  an- 
cient monuments,  and  his  clear  and 
outspoken  ideas  of  the  life  of  sculpture 
and  painting  which,  coupled  with  an 
unconcealed  contempt  for  the  'anti- 
quarians' of  the  day,  brought  Winkel- 
mann into  conflict  with  so  many  of  his 
colleagues.  His  opponents  were  borne 
down  by  the  fresh  vigor  of  his  views  — 
views  which,  with  modifications,  en- 
dured through  the  century  which  they 
ushered  in  and  the  half-century  after. 
For  archaeology  in  its  third  stage,  from 
the  publication  of  Winkelmann's  His- 
tory of  Ancient  Art  until  the  end  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  has  subordinated 
ancient  literature  to  thestudy  of  ancient 
monuments.  The  philologist  —  in  the 
narrower  sense  of  the  word  —  still 
avails  himself  of  the  results  of  the  arch- 
aeologist; but  the  needs  of  the  former 
are  no  longer  considered  the  chief  ex- 
cuse for  the  existence  of  the  latter. 

Winkelmann's  influence  upon  archae- 
ology was  in  only  one  respect  regret- 
table: the  concentration  of  his  energies 
upon  ancient  aesthetics  so  linked  to- 
gether the  study  of  archaeology  and  of 
classic  art  that,  popularly,  the  view 
that  they  are  inseparable  still  obtains.1 
In  fact,  there  was  a  danger  that  archae- 
ology, once  the  servant  of  the  philo- 
logist, would  become  a  mere  tool  of  the 

1  It  pleased  the  late  Mr.  Pater,  in  his  Renais- 
sance Studies,  to  include  an  essay  on  Winkelmann 
on  the  plea  that  Winkelmann  was  a  belated 
Humanist  of  the  Renaissance  type.  Nothing 
could,  I  think,  be  unintentionally  more  unjust. 
Winkelmann's  enthusiasm,  though  different 
from  Lessing's,  was  yet  like  it  in  this,  that  it 
belonged  rather  to  the  Romantic  Movement 
which  followed  it  than  to  the  Renaissance  which 
had  preceded  it.  He  was  not  a  follower  of  any 
older  school  so  much  as  a  precursor  of  later  ones, 
and  the  sympathy  and  enthusiasm  which  he 
imparted,  half  a  century  after  his  death,  to  men 
of  such  a  Romantic  stamp  as  Baron  Haller  von 
Hallerstein,  bear  this  out.  — THE  ACTHOB. 


214 


aesthetician;  and  it  is  only  at  the  pre- 
sent day  that  it  is  taking  its  place  as 
an  independent  and  highly  special- 
ized science,  of  use  to  so  many  other 
branches  of  knowledge  as  to  be  under 
the  shadow  of  no  one  of  them. 

Yet  it  is  perhaps  unfair  to  complain 
of  the  subordination  of  archaeology, 
throughout  the  nineteenth  century, 
to  aesthetic  interests.  For  although, 
through  the  indifference  that  was  felt 
for  material  which,  however  valuable 
scientifically,  made  no  appeal  to  the 
artistic  sense,  much  was  lost  or  over- 
looked, still  this  indifference  has  proved 
to  be  only  temporary;  and  by  recruit- 
ing its  supporters  from  the  ranks  of 
those  concerned  with  art,  archaeology 
became  a  matter  of  general  interest. 
It  was,  indeed,  by  this  recruiting  that 
support  was  found  for  extensive  excava- 
tion, and  that,  by  slow  stages  now 
undergoing  change,  systematic  field- 
methods  were  developed.  The  gulf 
between  the  methods  employed  —  if 
the  word  '  methods '  may  be  used  — 
by  the  first  excavators  at  ^Egina,  or  by 
honest  Colonel  Vyse  at  the  Pyramids 
of  Ghizeh,1  and  the  painful  modern  re- 
searches of  Winkler  at  Boghaz-Keu'i,  of 
Reisner  in  Egypt,  is  vastly  wide.  But 
it  is  largely  due  to  the  experience  gain- 
ed in  work  carried  on  by  the  means 
of  men  interested  chiefly  in  ancient  art 
that  the  advance  has  been  brought 
about.  The  work  of  Winkelmann,  the 
Philhellenism  of  the  Romantic  Move- 
ment, the  independence  of  Greece,  — 
these  elements,  among  others,  each 
contributed  to  make  the  nineteenth 
century  notably  an  epoch  of  excava- 
tion; and  it  is  very  largely,  although 
not  directly,  through  excavation  that 

1  It  is  due  to  the  memory  of  Colonel  Vyse  to 
say  that  his  book  contains  descriptions  of  the 
Pyramids  so  accurate  as  to  be  still  of  value. 
Yet  one  flinches  at  accounts  of  operations  one 
of  the  principal  factors  of  which  was  blasting- 
powder  —  in  generous  charges !  —  THE  AUTHOR. 


archaeology  has  reached  its  latest  devel- 
opment, —  its  '  independent '  phase. 

The  main  aspects  of  the  science  since 
its  origin  have  been  already  pointed 
out:  its  passage  from  ' antica '-hunting 
actuated  by  the  enthusiasm  for  the 
classical  world  in  the  Renaissance,  to 
the  more  useful  business  of  garnering 
material  for  the  textual  critic;  the  re- 
volution brought  about  by  Winkel- 
mann, which  applied  the  written  word 
to  the  explanation  of  ancient  works  of 
art;  and  Winkelmann's  great  thesis 
of  aesthetic  growth  and  decline.  It  has 
just  been  noted  that  the  nineteenth 
century  was  a  period  of  active  field- 
work;  we  are  now  ready  to  consider  the 
archaeology  of  the  present,  and  to  see 
in  what  way  it  differs  from  that  of  five- 
and-twenty  years  ago. 

To  begin  with,  it  is  thoroughly  sci- 
entific in  spirit.  The  change  to  this  posi- 
tion from  the  older  one,  of  which  com- 
parative aesthetics  was,  theoretically, 
the  basis,  —  in  reality  the  basis  was 
often  individual  taste,  —  could  not 
have  been  effected  without  passing  be- 
yond classical  horizons.  The  early  re- 
searches in  Egypt  which  followed  the 
publication  of  the  Napoleonic  Descrip- 
tion, threw  open  a  new  field,  a  field 
toward  which  an  immense  impulse  was 
given  by  the  satisfactory  decipherment 
of  hieroglyphics.  About  the  middle  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  Botta  and 
Layard  brought  the  western  world  face 
to  face  with  the  great  Semitic  civiliza- 
tions of  the  Euphrates  valley.  At  the 
same  time,  owing  to  the  discovery  of 
palaeolithic  implements  in  France,  the 
antiquity  of  man  became  a  subject  of 
violent  discussion  throughout  Europe. 
Anthropology,  a  science  some  aspects  of 
which  are  coincident  with  archaeology, 
developed  with  spectacular  rapidity. 
The  feeling  that  archaeology  was  the 
study  of  Greek  and  Roman  antiquities 
was  shaken.  Excavation  in  Egypt, 
Denmark,  Karthage,  Assyria,  and 


ARCHEOLOGY 


215 


northwestern  India,  broke  down  the 
old  narrow  tradition  from  without;  the 
claims  of  classicism  received,  however, 
a  greater  damage  from  within,  and 
that  at  the  hands  of  a  Philhellene  of 
the  stanchest  type,  —  Schliemann,  the 
excavator  of  Troy  and  Mykenae. 

This  came  about  curiously.  Schlie- 
mann, a  noble  fanatic  whose  critical 
powers  were  in  inverse  ratio  to  his  en- 
thusiasm for  Homeric  antiquity,  met 
during  his  excavations  with  immense 
and  startling  success.  But  the  rational 
and  skeptical  spirit  of  the  age,  espe- 
cially among  his  own  countrymen, 
could  not,  in  many  cases,  accept  his 
conjectural  connection  of  many  of  his 
finds  with  Homeric  story.  Lesser  men, 
who  lacked  his  enthusiasm,  had  yet 
the  advantage  of  a  critical  faculty 
which  would  not  let  them  believe  that 
Schliemann's  'cup  of  Nestor'  had  ever 
touched  the  lips  of  the  old  man  from 
sandy  Pylos.  Great  discussion  arose 
between  those  who  saw  in  the  new  dis- 
coveries relics  of  the  Homeric  heroes, 
and  those  who  considered  them  more 
impersonally.  It  was  this  discussion, 
and  the  subsequent  excavations  of '  My- 
kensean'  sites,  which  ultimately  freed 
archaeology  completely  from  being  con- 
sidered as  primarily  concerned  with 
classical  antiquity;  for  it  soon  became 
clear,  as  the  older  ^Egean  culture-strata 
were  exposed,  that  we  were  confronted, 
though  on  Greek  soil,  with  a  civiliza- 
tion which  was  not,  strictly  speaking, 
'Greek'  at  all.  At  the  same  time,  pre- 
historic Italy  became  revealed  to  us. 

It  was  at  this  point  that,  very  reluct- 
antly, the  services  of  the  anthropo- 
logist were  requisitioned  by  the  student 
of  classical  antiquity;  and  the  spirit 
infused  by  the  science  dealing  primar- 
ily with  man  as  an  animal  into  the  laxer 
science  dealing  primarily  with  his  works, 
has  from  that  day  on  had  an  increas- 
ingly valuable  influence.  The  reaction 
between  these  two  branches  of  know- 


ledge is  still  going  on,  but  already  there 
is  little  difference  in  temper  between  the 
geologically  or  anatomically-grounded 
anthropologist  and  the  modern  archae- 
ologist, save  that  the  latter  must  al- 
ways have  in  his  mental  equipment 
a  sense  of  'style,'  which  cannot  be 
wholly  acquired  by  study. 

The  scientific  advance,  especially 
in  countries  such  as  India,1  Finland,  or 
Egypt,  where  there  was  no  very  strong 
earlier  tradition  to  be  overcome,  can 
be  clearly  seen  in  the  progress  of  the 
mere  mechanics  of  excavation.  In  the 
beginning,  one  simply  chose  a  pro- 
mising site  and  looted  it.  The  'excav- 
ator' appeared  on  the  scene  when  ex- 
citing finds  were  being  made.  If  there 
were  no  exciting  finds,  he  usually  tried 
his  luck  elsewhere.  After  the  work,  he 
generally  made  a  map  —  of  sorts!  At 
times,  leaving  a  native  foreman  in 
charge,  he  went  shooting  or  exploring 
the  country.  He  kept  a  camp  which,  as 
a  rule,  was  merely  a  glorified  example  of 
the  local  native  habitation.  His  ideas  of 
recording  seldom  went  beyond  keeping 
a  'journal,'  making  occasional  maps 
and  plans  of  a  sort  now-a-days  con- 
sidered unsatisfactory,  and,  from  time 
to  time,  sketches.  His  publications 
were  frequently  burdened  with  personal 
digressions,  with  illogical  hazards  as  to 
the  meaning  of  his  own  discoveries,  and 
with  little  or  no  regard  for  contempo- 
rary work  in  his  own  field. 

To-day  this  type  of  man  still  exists, 
but  he  is  an  anachronism  and  a  sloven. 
He  is  not  regarded  as  being  so  objec- 
tionable as  the  anfo'ca-purchaser,  the 
archaeologist  who  habitually  buys  an- 
tiquities, ' —  and  who  may  be  regarded 
as  a  survival  of  the  Renaissance  col- 

1  Lest  I  be  suspected,  as  was  once  Apollonios 
of  Tyana,  of  extolling  the  wisdom  of  the  Indians 
because  they  are  so  remote,  let  me  here  refer  to 
the  brilliant  work  of  Dr.  Stein,  Dr.  Griinwedel, 
and  my  friend  Dr.  von  Le  Coq  in  Chinese  Turk- 
estan, and  to  the  splendid  Archaeological  Survey 
of  India.  —  THE  AUTHOR. 


216 


ARCHAEOLOGY 


lector,  —  but  his  capacity  for  harm, 
give  him  loose  rein,  is  really  greater; 
it  is  the  old  story  of  the  fool's  being 
more  objectionable  than  the  knave. 

Modern  field-work  of  the  best  sort 
is  a  very  different  matter  from  that  at 
which  we  have  just  glanced.  A  site  is 
generally  chosen  for  a  more  definite 
reason  than  that  it  'looks  good.'  The 
work  is  planned  as  much  as  possible  in 
advance,  frequently  with  the  help  of 
carefully-made  maps,  and  is  not  aban- 
doned until  the  site  is  thoroughly  ex- 
plored. Before  a  spade  goes  into  the 
ground,  the  excavator  has  evolved  a 
provisional  campaign  for  his  season:  a 
plan  which,  while  lax  enough  to  accom- 
modate itself  readily  to  new  conditions 
which  cannot  be  foreseen  but  which  are 
sure  to  arise,  is  yet  well  enough  thought 
out  to  avoid  any  possibility  of  the  hap- 
hazard 'try-here,  try-there'  nonsense 
of,  for  example,  the  excavations  in  Ky- 
rena'ika  under  Vattier  de  Bourville  or 
Smith  and  Porcher.  The  men  who  do 
the  digging  are  grouped  into  small 
companies,  and  are  carefully  given 
simple  and  definite  instructions,  to 
carry  out  which  they  are  encouraged 
by  a  system  of  generous  '  bakshish '  and 
severe  penalties. 

During  the  progress  of  the  work 
some  member  of  the  staff  is  actually 
on  the  spot  most  of  the  time,  and  the 
camp  is  never  left  by  all  of  the  staff 
at  once.  The  camp  itself  is,  if  circum- 
stances will  possibly  admit  it,  a  house, 
a  safe  store,  and  an  engineer's  office. 
When  an  object  is  found,  it  is  first 
cleared  and  then  photographed.  It 
is  left  in  situ  until  the  development  of 
the  photographic  plate  shows  a  satis- 
factory result.  The  map-making  is 
done  with  an  'admissible  error'  of 
1:1500  for  the  smaller  plans,  and 
1 :1000  for  the  larger.  The  record  con- 
sists of  these  photographs  and  maps, 
which  are  cross-referenced;  of  a  writ- 
ten daily  record;  and  of  special  'de- 


tails '  to  scales  of  1 :100  up  to  1 : 5.  The 
publication  is  a  concise,  clear  presenta- 
tion of  material.  All  theories  which  are 
not  directly  pertinent  are  omitted,  or 
consigned  to  appendices  or  notes;  and 
the  illustrations  consist  of  a  selection 
of  significant  photographs,  plans,  and 
maps. 

From  the  perfect  modern  record  it 
would  be  possible,  in  theory,  to  replace 
every  object  as  it  was  found,  and  to 
reconstruct  the  whole  site  to  the  state 
in  which  it  was  on  the  day  when  first 
attacked.  Thus  the  excavator,  who, 
owing  to  the  fatigue  and  distraction  in- 
separable from  carrying  the  work  for- 
ward, is  practically  unable,  no  matter 
what  his  scholarly  equipment,  to  theo- 
rize advantageously  upon  his  own  ma- 
terial or  to  see  it  in  proper  perspective, 
places  his  results  before  the  world  in 
such  form  that  the  scholarly  reader 
may  have  before  him  a  complete  ex- 
position of  the  site  explored. 

Much  more  might  be  remarked  on 
this  topic;  the  difficulty  is  to  stop  here! 
But  enough  has,  it  is  hoped,  been  said 
to  show,  by  illustration,  the  scientific 
advance  of  modern  archaeological  re- 
search. 

ii 

Our  question,  'What  is  archaeology, 
and  what  is  the  good  of  it?'  yet  waits 
an  answer.  Having  gone  into  the  pro- 
gress of  the  science  thus  far,  we  are  able 
to  make  this  now,  and  to  make  it  con- 
cisely. 

If  any  knowledge  be  worth  while, 
none  can  be  more  valuable  than  that 
which,  by  enabling  us  to  understand 
man  in  the  past,  helps  us  to  understand 
him  to-day.  Archaeology,  through  the 
objects  by  which  ancient  man  expressed 
his  conceptions  of  God,  of  beauty,  and 
of  life,  vivifies  the  past.  It  makes  or 
reshapes  history;  our  meagre  literary 
notices,  for  example,  of  the  Greek  dy- 
nasts of  Central  Asia  have  a  double 


ARCHAEOLOGY 


217 


value  since  supplemented  by  the  Bak- 
trian  coins,  and  we  are  helped  to  a  new 
estimate  of  the  extent  and  power  of 
Hellenic  culture  on  the  Oxus  and  the 
flanks  of  the  Hindu-Kush  by  discov- 
eries in  Ghandhara  and  Khotan.  The 
knowledge  of  the  Egyptian  Empire  to 
which  our  grandfathers  could  attain, 
even  by  the  closest  study,  shrinks  to 
a  point  in  comparison  with  the  history 
which  we  are  to-day  able  to  reconstruct 
from  the  monuments.  • 

Religion  and  art,  the  two  highest 
forms  of  racial  expression,  have  through 
the  services  of  archaeology  become  phe- 
nomena more  and  more  comprehensi- 
ble. New  and  vast  fields  have  been 
opened  up  by  the  spade.  The  Pantheon 
of  Winkelmann,  cold,  perfect,  and  au- 
gust, dwelling  in  Olympian  serenity, 
has  had  to  yield  to  a  complex  company 
in  which  daimon,  hero,  god,  and  man 
are  all  organically  related,  and  only 
with  difficulty  separated  one  from  an- 
other. All  that  had  come  down  to  us 
in  literary  form  in  regard  to  the  relig- 
ion of  Babylon  or  Sabean  Arabia  ap- 
pears a  tissue  of  fable  and  error  in  the 
light  of  the  surer  knowledge  won  by 
archaeology. 

The  progress  of  archaeological  discov- 
ery is  marked  by  the  collection  of  new 
truths,  and  the  routing  out  of  old  er- 
rors. Herein  lies  its  importance.  This 
is  the  reason  why  the  modern  excava- 
tor, to  be  worthy  of  his  trust,  must  do 
his  work  with  a  scrupulousness  which, 
to  the  practitioners  of  the  older  and 
laxer  tradition,  must  seem  Levitical. 


The  mechanical  part  of  his  work,  from 
its  very  nature,  can  be  done  only  once, 
and  it  is  in  the  field  as  in  the  British 
navy,  — '  there  may  be  mistakes,  but 
never  excuses  for  them.'  Nor  is  one 
justified  in  supposing  that  he  will  not 
be  called  to  account  for  his  labors.  The 
general  public  of  to-day  is  largely  de- 
pendent for  its  knowledge  about  tech- 
nical subjects  on  information  which  it 
has  taken  twenty  years  to  popularize. 
Intelligent  people  still  miscall  the  mas- 
terpieces of  the  Greek  potter  'Etrus- 
can vases.'  But  the  facts  being  pain- 
fully collected  to-day  will  find  their 
way  in  some  form  to  the  public  of  the 
future,  as  surely  and  as  naturally  as 
water  flows  down  hill.  The  archaeo- 
logist is  contributing  to  the  race-con- 
sciousness his  quota,  as  do  poet,  phil- 
osopher, and  historian.  Multitudes 
die  before  the  accumulated  knowledge 
reaches  them,  but  in  some  form,  pos- 
itive or  negative,  direct  or  indirect,  it 
comes  home  to  the  survivors;  it  be- 
longs to  them;  they  receive  an  impres- 
sion from  it,  and  this  impression  is  that 
of  Truth. 

Modern  archaeology,  to  answer  the 
question  with  which  we  began,  is  'the 
science  of  antiquities.'  But  this  sci- 
ence is  not  merely  the  elucidation  of 
ancient  authors,  or  of  classical  art;  its 
aim  is  higher  than  this,  and  its  scope 
broader.  It  is  the  elucidation  of  the 
ancient  world  to  the  world  of  to-day 
and  of  the  future.  It  is,  together  with 
philosophy,  history,  and  anthropo- 
logy, the  elucidation  of  mankind. 


JOURNALISM  AS  A  CAREER 


BY  CHARLES  MOREAU  HARGER 


IN  a  recent  discussion  with  a  suc- 
cessful business  man  concerning  an  oc- 
cupation for  the  business  man's  son,  a 
college  graduate,  some  one  suggested: 
'Set  him  up  with  a  newspaper.  He  likes 
the  work  and  is  capable  of  success.' 

'  Nothing  in  it,'  was  the  prompt  reply. 
'He  can  make  more  money  with  a 
clothing  store,  have  less  worry  and 
annoyance,  and  possess  the  respect  of 
more  persons.' 

This  response  typifies  the  opinion 
of  many  fathers  regarding  a  newspaper 
career.  It  is  especially  common  to  the 
business  man  in  the  rural  and  semi- 
rural  sections.  The  dry-goods  mer- 
chant who  has  a  stock  worth  twenty 
thousand  dollars,  and  makes  a  profit 
of  from  three  thousand  dollars  to  five 
thousand  dollars  a  year,  realizes  that 
the  editor's  possessions  are  meagre, 
and  believes  his  income  limited.  He 
likewise  hears  complaints  and  criti- 
cisms of  the  paper.  Comparing  his  own 
placid  money-making  course  with  what 
he  assumes  to  be  the  stormy  and  un- 
profitable struggle  of  the  publisher,  he 
considers  the  printing  business  an  in- 
ferior occupation. 

For  this  view  the  old-time  editor 
is  largely  responsible.  For  decades  it 
was  his  pride  to  make  constant  refer- 
ence to  his  poverty-stricken  condition, 
to  beg  subscribers  to  bring  cord-wood 
and  potatoes  on  subscription,  to  glorify 
as  a  philanthropist  the  farmer  who 
'called  to-day  and  dropped  a  dollar  in 
the  till.'  The  poor-editor  joke  is  as  well 
established  as  the  mother-in-law  joke 
or  the  lover-and-angry-father  joke,  and 

218 


about  as  unwarranted;  yet  it  has  built 
up  a  sentiment,  false  in  fact  and  sug- 
gestion,*often  accepted  as  truth. 

To  the  younger  generation,  journal- 
ism presents  another  aspect.  The  fas- 
cination of  doing  things,  of  being  in  the 
forefront  of  the  world's  activities,  ap- 
peals to  young  men  and  young  women 
of  spirit.  Few  are  they  who  do  not  con- 
sider themselves  qualified  to  succeed 
should  they  choose  this  profession.  To 
the  layman  it  seems  so  easy  and  so 
pleasant  to  write  the  news  and  com- 
ment of  the  day,  to  occupy  a  seat  on  the 
stage  at  public  meetings,  to  pass  the 
fire-lines  unquestioned. 

Not  until  the  first  piece  of  copy  is 
handed  in  does  the  beginner  compre- 
hend the  magnitude  of  his  task  or  the 
demand  made  upon  him  for  technical 
skill.  When  he  sees  the  editor  slash, 
blue-pencil,  and  rearrange  his  story,  he 
appreciates  how  much  he  has  yet  to 
learn.  Of  this  he  was  ignorant  in  his  high 
school  arid  his  college  days,  and  he  was 
confident  of  his  ability.  An  expression 
of  choice  of  a  life-work  by  the  freshman 
class  of  a  college  or  university  will  give 
a  large  showing  for  journalism;  in  the 
senior  year  it  will  fall  to  a  minor  figure, 
not  more  than  from  three  to  seven  per 
cent  of  the  whole.  By  that  period  the 
students  have  learned  some  things  con- 
cerning life,  and  have  decided,  either 
because  of  temperament,  or  as  did  the 
business  man  for  his  son,  for  some  other 
profession. 

To  those  who  choose  it  deliberately 
as  a  life-work,  obtaining  a  position 
presents  as  many  difficulties  as  it  does 


JOURNALISM  AS  A  CAREER 


219 


in  any  other  profession.  The  old-time 
plan  by  which  the  beginner  began  as 
'devil,'  sweeping  out  the  office,  clean- 
ing the  presses,  and  finally  rising  to  be 
compositor  and  writer,  is  in  these  days 
of  specialization  out  of  date.  The  news- 
paper business  has  as  distinct  depart- 
ments as  a  department  store.  While 
a  full  knowledge  of  every  part  of  the 
workings  of  the  office  is  unquestion- 
ably valuable,  the  eager  aspirant  finds 
time  too  limited  to  serve  a  long  appren- 
ticeship at  the  mechanical  end  in  order 
to  prepare  himself  for  the  writing-room. 

Hence  we  find  the  newspaper  worker 
seeking  a  new  preparation.  He  strives 
for  a  broad  knowledge,  rather  than 
mechanical  training, and  it  is  from  such 
preparation  that  he  enters  the  news- 
paper office  with  the  best  chances  of 
success.  Once  the  college  man  in  the 
newspaper  office  was  a  joke.  His  sopho- 
moric  style  was  the  object  of  sneers 
and  jeers  from  the  men  who  had  been 
trained  in  the  school  of  actual  prac- 
tice at  the  desk.  To-day  few  editors 
hold  to  the  idea  that  there  can  be  no 
special  preparation  worth  while  out- 
side the  office,  just  as  you  find  few 
farmers  sneering  at  the  work  of  agri- 
cultural colleges.  It  is  not  uncommon 
to  find  the  staff  of  a  great  newspaper 
composed  largely  of  college  men,  and 
when  a  new  man  is  sought  for  the  writ- 
ing force  it  is  usually  one  with  a  col- 
lege degree  who  obtains  the  place.  It 
is  recognized  that  the  ability  to  think 
clearly,  to  write  understandable  Eng- 
lish, and  to  know  the  big  facts  of  the 
world  and  its  doings,  are  essential,  and 
that  college  training  fits  the  young  man 
of  brains  for  this.  Such  faults  as  may 
have  been  acquired  can  be  easily  cor- 
rected. 

Along  with  the  tendency  toward 
specialization  in  other  directions,  col- 
leges and  universities  have  established 
schools  or  departments  of  journalism 
in  which  they  seek  to  assist  those  stud- 


ents who  desire  to  follow  that  career. 
It  is  not  a  just  criticism  of  such  efforts 
to  say,  as  some  editors  have  said,  that 
it  is  impossible  to  give  practical  ex- 
perience outside  a  newspaper  office. 
Such  an  opinion  implies  that  news  and 
comment  can  be  written  only  within 
sound  of  a  printing-press;  yet  a  vast 
deal  of  actual  everyday  work  on  the 
papers  themselves  is  done  by  persons 
outside  the  office. 

About  twenty  colleges  and  univers- 
ities, chiefly  in  the  Middle  West  and 
Northwest,  have  established  such 
schools.  They  range  in  their  curriculum 
from  courses  of  lectures  by  newspaper 
men  continued  through  a  part  of  the 
four-years'  course,  to  complete  schools 
with  a  systematic  course  of  study  com- 
prehending general  culture,  history, 
and  science,  with  actual  work  on  a  daily 
paper  published  by  the  students  them- 
selves, and  on  which,  under  the  guid- 
ance of  an  experienced  newspaper  man, 
they  fill  creditably  every  department 
and  assist  in  the  final  make-up  of  the 
publication.  They  even  gain  a  fair 
comprehension  of  the  workings  of  lino- 
types, presses,  and  the  details  of  com- 
position, without  attempting  to  attain 
such  hand-skill  as  to  make  them  elig- 
ible to  positions  in  the  mechanical  de- 
partment. 

These  students,  in  addition  to  pos- 
sessing the  broad  culture  that  comes 
with  a  college  degree,  know  how  to 
write  a  'story,'  how  to  frame  a  head- 
line, how  to  construct  editorial  com- 
ment, and  they  certainly  enter  the 
newspaper  office  lacking  the  crudeness 
manifested  by  those  who  have  all  the 
details  of  newspaper  style  to  learn. 
This  sort  of  schooling  does  not  make 
newspaper  men  of  the  unfit,  but  to  the 
fit  it  gives  a  preparation  that  saves 
them  much  time  in  attaining  positions 
of  value.  That  a  course  of  this  kind  will 
become  an  integral  part  of  many  more 
colleges  is  probable.  When  the  million- 


220 


JOURNALISM  AS  A  CAREER 


dollar  bequest  which  Joseph  Pulitzer 
of  the  New  York  World  has  promised 
Columbia  University  becomes  avail- 
able, a  newspaper  school  of  much  great- 
er proportions  will  be  established,  and 
this  will  give  an  impetus  to  the  al- 
ready well-marked  tendency. 

In  these  schools  some  of  the  most 
capable  students  enroll.  They  are  the 
young  men  and  young  women  of  liter- 
ary tastes  and  keen  ambitions.  They 
are  as  able  as  the  students  who  elect 
law,  or  science,  or  engineering.  From 
months  of  daily  work  in  a  class-room 
fitted  up  like  the  city  room  of  a  great 
newspaper,  with  definite  news-assign- 
ments and  tasks  that  cover  the  whole 
field  of  writing  for  the  press,  they  can 
scarcely  fail  to  absorb  some  of  the  news- 
paper spirit,  and  graduate  with  a  fairly 
definite  idea  of  what  is  to  be  required 
of  them. 

Then  there  comes  the  question, 
where  shall  the  start  be  made?  Is  it 
best  to  begin  on  the  small  paper  and 
work  toward  metropolitan  journalism? 
or  to  seek  a  reporter's  place  on  the  city 
daily  and  work  for  advancement? 

Something  is  to  be  said  for  the  lat- 
ter course.  The  editor  of  one  of  the 
leading  New  York  dailies  remarked 
the  other  day,  'The  man  who  begins  in 
New  York,  and  stays  with  it,  rises  if 
he  be  capable.  Changes  in  the  staffs 
are  frequent,  and  in  a  half-dozen  years 
he  finds  himself  well  up  the  ladder.  It 
takes  him  about  that  long  to  gain  a 
good  place  in  a  country  town,  and  then 
if  he  goes  to  the  city  he  must  begin  at 
the  bottom  with  much  time  wasted.' 
This  is,  however,  not  the  essential  ar- 
gument. 

Who  is  the  provincial  newspaper 
man?  Where  is  found  the  broadest 
development,  the  largest  conception 
of  journalism?  To  the  beginner  the 
vision  is  not  clear.  If  he  asks  the  busy 
reporter,  the  nervous  special  writer  on 
a  metropolitan  journal,  he  gets  this 


reply : '  If  I  could  only  own  a  good  coun- 
try paper  and  be  my  own  master!' 
Then,  turning  to  the  country  editor, 
he  is  told:  'It  is  dull  in  the  country 
town  —  if  I  could  get  a  place  on  a 
city  journal  where  things  are  happen- 
ing!' Each  can  give  reasons  for  his 
ambition,  and  each  has  from  his  ex- 
perience and  observation  formed  an 
ex  parle  opinion.  Curiously,  in  view  of 
the  glamour  that  surrounds  the  city 
worker,  and  the  presumption  that  he 
has  attained  the  fullest  possible  equip- 
ment for  the  newspaper  field,  he  is  less 
likely  to  succeed  with  satisfaction  to 
himself  on  a  country  paper  than  is  the 
country  editor  who  finds  a  place  in 
the  city. 

The  really  provincial  journalist,  the 
worker  whose  scope  and  ideals  are  most 
limited,  is  often  he  who  has  spent  years 
as  a  part  of  a  great  newspaper- 
making  machine.  Frequently,  when 
transplanted  to  what  he  considers  a 
narrower  field,  which  is  actually  one 
of  wider  demands,  he  fails  in  complete 
efficiency.  The  province  of  the  city 
paper  is  one  of  news-selection.  Out  of 
the  vast  skein  of  the  day's  happenings 
what  shall  it  select?  More  'copy'  is 
thrown  away  than  is  used.  The  New 
York  Sun  is  written  as  definitely  for 
a  given  constituency  as  is  a  technical 
journal.  Out  of  the  day's  news  it  gives 
prominence  to  that  which  fits  into  its 
scheme  of  treatment,  and  there  is  so 
much  news  that  it  can  fill  its  columns 
with  interesting  material,  yet  leave  un- 
touched a  myriad  of  events.  The  New 
York  Evening  Post  appeals  to  another 
constituency,  and  is  made  accordingly. 
The  World  and  Journal  have  a  far  dif- 
ferent plan,  and  'play  up'  stories  that 
are  mentioned  briefly  or  ignored  by 
some  of  their  contemporaries.  So  the 
writer  on  the  metropolitan  paper  is 
trained  to  sift  news,  to  choose  from  his 
wealth  of  material  that  which  the  pa- 
per's traditions  demand  shall  receive 


JOURNALISM  AS  A  CAREER 


attention;  and  so  abundant  is  the  sup- 
ply that  he  can  easily  set  a  feast  with- 
out exhausting  the  market's  offering. 
Unconsciously  he  becomes  an  epicure, 
and  knows  no  day  will  dawn  without 
bringing  him  his  opportunity. 

What  happens  when  a  city  news- 
paper mangoes  to  the  country?  Though 
he  may  have  all  the  graces  of  literary 
skill  and  know  well  the  art  of  featuring 
his  material,  he  comes  to  a  new  jour- 
nalistic world.  Thus  did  the  manager 
of  a  flourishing  evening  daily  in  a  city 
of  fifty  thousand  put  it:  'I  went  to  a 
leading  metropolitan  daily  to  secure 
a  city  editor,  and  took  a  man  recom- 
mended as  its  most  capable  reporter, 
one  with  years  of  experience  in  the  city 
field.  Brought  to  the  new  atmosphere, 
he  was  speedily  aware  of  the  changed 
conditions.  In  the  run  of  the  day's 
news  rarely  was  there  a  murder,  with 
horrible  details  as  sidelights;  no  heiress 
eloped  with  a  chauffeur;  no  fire  de- 
stroyed tenements  and  lives;  no  family 
was  broken  up  by  scandal.  He  was  at 
a  loss  to  find  material  with  which  to 
make  local  pages  attractive.  He  was 
compelled  to  give  attention  to  a  wide 
range  of  minor  occurrences,  most  of 
which  he  had  been  taught  to  ignore. 
In  the  end  he  resigned.  I  found  it  more 
satisfactory  to  put  in  his  place  a  young 
man  who  had  worked  on  a  small-town 
daily  and  was  in  sympathy  with  the 
things  that  come  close  to  the  whole 
community,  who  realized  that  all  classes 
of  readers  must  be  interested  in  the 
paper,  all  kinds  of  happenings  reported, 
and  the  paper  be  made  each  evening  a 
picture  of  the  total  sum  of  the  day's 
events,  rather  than  of  a  few  selected 
happenings.  The  news-supply  is  limit- 
ed, and  all  must  be  used  and  arranged 
to  interest  readers  —  and  we  reach  all 
classes  of  readers,  not  a  selected  con- 
stituency.' 

The  small-town  paper  must  do  this, 
and  because  its  writers  are  forced  so  to 


look  upon  their  field  they  obtain  a 
broader  comprehension  of  the  commun- 
ity life  than  do  those  who  are  restricted 
to  special  ideas  and  special  conceptions 
of  the  paper's  plans.  The  beginner  who 
finds  his  first  occupation  on  a  country 
paper,  by  which  is  meant  a  paper  in 
one  of  the  smaller  cities,  is  likely  to 
obtain  a  better  all-round  knowledge 
of  everything  that  must  be  done  in  a 
newspaper  office  than  the  man  who  goes 
directly  to  a  position  on  a  thorough- 
ly organized  metropolitan  journal.  He 
does  not  secure,  however,  such  help- 
ful training  in  style  or  such  expert  drill 
in  newspaper  methods.  He  is  left  to 
work  out  his  own  salvation,  sometimes 
becoming  an  adept,  but  frequently 
dragging  along  in  mediocrity.  When 
he  goes  from  the  small  paper  to  the 
larger  one  he  has  a  chance  to  acquire 
efficiency  rapidly.  The  editor  of  one  of 
the  country's  greatest  papers  says  that 
he  prefers  to  take  young  men  of  such 
training,  and  finds  that  they  have  a 
broader  vision  than  when  educated  in 
newspaper-making  from  the  bottom 
in  his  own  office. 

It  is  easy  to  say,  as  did  the  mer- 
chant concerning  his  son,  that  there 
are  few  chances  for  financial  success  in 
journalism.  Yet  it  is  probable  that  for 
the  man  of  distinction  in  journalism 
the  rewards  are  not  less  than  they  are 
in  other  professions.  The  salaries  on 
the  metropolitan  papers  are  liberal,  and 
are  becoming  greater  each  year  as  the 
business  of  news-purveying  becomes 
better  systematized  and  more  profit- 
able. The  newspaper  man  earns  vastly 
more  than  the  minister.  The  editor 
in  the  city  gets  as  much  out  of  life  as 
do  the  attorneys.  The  country  editor, 
with  his  plant  worth  five  thousand  dol- 
lars or  ten  thousand  dollars,  frequently 
earns  for  his  labors  as  satisfactory  an 
income  as  the  banker,  while  the  num- 
ber of  editors  of  country  weeklies  who 
have  a  profit  of  three  thousand  dol- 


222 


lars  or  more  from  their  papers,  is  as- 
tonishing. 

It  is,  of  course,  not  always  so,  any 
more  than  it  is  true  that  the  lawyer, 
preacher,  or  physician  always  possesses 
a  liberal  income.  When  the  city  editor 
makes  sport  of  the  ill-printed  country 
paper,  he  forgets  under  what  condi- 
tions the  country  editor  at  times  works. 
A  prosperous  publisher  with  sympathy 
in  his  heart  put  it  this  way:  — 

'The  other  day  we  picked  up  a 
dinky  weekly  paper  that  comes  to  our 
desk  every  week.  As  usual  we  found 
something  in  it  that  made  us  somewhat 
tired,  and  we  threw  it  down  in  disgust. 
For  some  reason  we  picked  it  up  again 
and  looked  at  it  more  closely.  Our 
feelings,  somehow  or  other,  began  to 
change.  We  noted  the  advertisements. 
They  were  few  in  number,  and  we  knew 
that  the  wolf  was  standing  outside  the 
door  of  that  little  print-shop  and  howl- 
ing. The  ads  were  poorly  gotten  up, 
but  we  knew  why.  The  poor  fellow 
did  n't  have  enough  material  in  his 
shop  to  get  up  a  good  ad.  It  was  poorly 
printed  —  almost  unreadable  in  spots. 
We  knew  again  what  was  the  matter. 
He  needed  new  rollers  and  some  decent 
ink,  but  probably  he  did  n't  have  the 
money  to  buy  them.  One  of  the  few 
locals  spoke  about  "the  editor  and 
family."  So  he  had  other  mouths  to 
feed.  He  was  burning  midnight  oil  in 
order  to  save  hiring  a  printer.  He 
could  n't  afford  it.  True,  he  is  n't 
getting  out  a  very  good  paper,  but  at 
that,  he  is  giving  a  whole  lot  more  than 
he  is  receiving.  It  is  easy  to  poke  fun 
at  the  dinky  papers  when  the  waves  of 
prosperity  are  breaking  in  over  your 
own  doorstep.  Likely,  if  we  were  in  that 
fellow's  place  we  could  n't  do  as  well 
as  he  does.' 

The  profession  of  the  publicist  nat- 
urally leads  to  politics,  and  the  editor 
is  directly  in  the  path  to  political  pre- 
ferment. The  growth  of  the  primary 


system  adds  greatly  to  the  chance  in 
this  direction.  One  of  the  essentials 
of  success  at  a  primary  is  that  the  can- 
didate have  a  wide  acquaintance  with 
the  public,  that  his  name  shall  have 
been  before  the  voters  sufficiently  often 
for  them  to  become  familiar  with  it. 
The  editor  who  has  made  his  paper 
known  acquires  this  acquaintance.  He 
goes  into  the  campaign  with  a  positive 
asset.  One  western  state,  for  instance, 
has  newspaper  men  for  one  third  of  its 
state  officers  and  forty  per  cent  of 
its  delegation  in  Congress.  This  is  not. 
exceptional.  It  is  merely  the  result  ol 
the  special  conditions,  both  of  fitness 
and  prominence,  in  the  editor's  rela- 
tion to  the  public. 

This  very  facility  for  entering  poli- 
tics is  perhaps  an  objection  rather  than 
a  benefit.  The  editor  who  is  a  seeker 
after  office  finds  himself  hampered  by 
his  ambitions  and  he  is  robbed  of  much 
of  the  independence  that  goes  to  make 
his  columns  of  worth.  The  ideal  posi- 
tion is  when  the  editor  owns,  clear  of 
debt,  a  profit-making  plant  and  is  not 
a  candidate  for  any  office.  Just  so  far 
as  he  departs  from  this  condition  does 
he  find  himself  restricted  in  the  free 
play  of  his  activities.  If  debt  hovers, 
there  is  temptation  to  seek  business 
at  the  expense  of  editorial  utterance; 
if  he  desires  votes,  he  must  temporize 
often  in  order  to  win  friendships  or 
to  avoid  enmities.  Freedom  from  en- 
tangling alliances,  absolutely  an  open 
way,  should  be  the  ambition  of  the 
successful  newspaper  worker.  Fortun- 
ate is  the  subordinate  who  has  an  em- 
ployer so  situated,  for  in  such  an  office 
can  be  done  the  best  thinking  and  the 
clearest  writing.  Though  he  may  suc- 
ceed in  other  paths,  financially,  social- 
ly, and  politically,  he  will  lack  in  his 
career  some  of  the  finer  enjoyments 
that  can  come  only  with  unobstructed 
vision. 

It  is  not  agreed  that  everyday  news- 


JOURNALISM  AS  A  CAREER 


223 


paper  work  gives  especial  fitness  for 
progress  in  literature.  The  habit  of 
rapid  writing,  of  getting  a  story  to 
press  to  catch  the  first  edition,  has  the 
effect  for  many  of  creating  a  style  un- 
fitted for  more  serious  effort.  Yet  when 
temperament  .and  taste  are  present, 
there  is  no  position  in  which  the  aspir- 
ant for  a  place  in  the  literary  field  has 
greater  opportunity.  To  be  in  touch 
with  the  thought  and  the  happenings 
of  the  world  gives  opportunity  for  in- 
terpretation of  life  to  the  broader  pub- 
lic of  the  magazine  and  the  published 
volume.  Newspaper  work  does  not 
make  writers  of  books,  but  experience 
therein  obtained  does  open  the  way; 
and  the  successes,  both  in  fiction  and 
economics,  that  have  come  in  the  past 
decade  from  the  pens  of  newspaper 
workers  is  ample  evidence  of  the  truth 
of  this  statement. 

It  is  one  of  the  criticisms  of  the  press 
that  it  corrupts  beginners  and  not  only 
gives  them  a  false  view  of  life,  but 
compels  them  to  do  things  abhorrent 
to  those  possessed  of  the  finer  feelings 
of  good  taste  and  courtesy.  The  fact  is 
that  journalism  is,  to  a  larger  degree 
than  almost  all  other  businesses  or  pro- 
fessions, individualistic.  It  is  to  each 
worker  what  he  makes  it.  The  minister 
has  his  way  well  defined;  he  must  keep 
in  it  or  leave  the  profession.  The  teach- 
er is  restrained  within  limits;  the 
lawyer  and  physician,  if  they  would 
retain  standing,  must  follow  certain 
codes.  The  newspaper  worker  is  a  free 
lance  compared  with  any  of  these. 

The  instances  in  which  a  reporter  is 
asked  to  do  things  in  opposition  to  the 
best  standards  of  ethics  and  courtesy 
are  rare,  —  and  becoming  rarer.  The 
paper  of  to-day,  though  a  business  en- 
terprise as  well  as  a  medium  of  pub- 
licity and  comment,  has  a  higher  ideal 
than  that  of  two  decades  ago.  The 
rivalry  is  greater,  the  light  of  competi- 
tion is  stronger,  the  relation  to  the  pub- 


lic is  closer.  Little  mystery  surrounds 
the  press.  Seldom  does  the  visitor 
stand  open-eyed  in  wonder  before  the 
'sanctum.'  The  average  man  and  wo- 
man know  how  'copy'  is  prepared, 
how  type  is  set,  how  the  presses  oper- 
ate. The  newspaper  office  is  an  'open 
shop'  compared  with  the  early  print- 
ing-offices, of  which  the  readers  of  pa- 
pers stood  somewhat  in  awe.  Because 
of  this  there  is  less  temptation  and  less 
opportunity  for  obscure  methods.  The 
profession  offers  to  the  young  man  and 
young  woman  an  opportunity  for  in- 
telligent and  untainted  occupation. 
Should  there  be  a  demand  that  seems 
unreasonable  or  in  bad  taste,  plenty  of 
places  are  open  on  papers  that  have  a 
higher  standard  of  morals  and  are  con- 
ducted with  a  decent  respect  for  the 
opinions  and  rights  of  the  public. 

Nor  is  it  necessary  that  the  worker 
indulge  in  any  pyrotechnics  in  main- 
taining his  self-respect.  The  editor  of 
one  of  the  leading  papers  of  western 
New  York  quietly  resigned  his  position 
because  he  could  not  with  a  clear  con- 
science support  the  nominee  favored 
by  the  owner  of  the  paper.  He  did 
nothing  more  than  many  men  have 
done  in  other  positions.  His  action  was 
not  proof  that  his  employer  was  dis- 
honest, but  that  there  were  two  points 
of  view  and  he  could  not  accept  the 
one  favored  by  the  publisher.  Such  a 
course  is  always  open,  and  so  wide  is 
the  publishing  world  that  there  is  no 
need  for  any  one  to  suffer.  Nor  can  a 
paper  or  an  editor  fence  in  the  earth. 
With  enough  capital  to  buy  a  press, 
some  paper,  and  to  hire  a  staff,  any 
one  can  have  his  say  —  and  frequently 
the  most  unpromising  field  proves  a 
bonanza  for  the  man  with  courage  and 
initiative. 

In  a  long  and  varied  experience  as 
editor,  I  have  rarely  found  an  adver- 
tiser who  was  concerned  regarding  the 
editorial  policy  of  the  paper.  The  ad- 


224 


JOURNALISM  AS  A  CAREER 


vertiser  wants  publicity,  he  is  inter- 
ested in  circulation  —  when  he  ob- 
tains that  he  is  satisfied.  Instances 
there  are  where  the  advertiser  has  a 
personal  interest  in  some  local  enter- 
prise and  naturally  resents  criticism 
of  its  management,  but  such  situations 
can  be  dealt  with  directly  and  without 
loss  of  self-respect  to  the  publisher. 
Not  from  the  advertiser  comes  the  most 
interference  with  the  press.  If  there 
were  as  little  from  men  with  political 
schemes,  men  with  pet  projects  to  pro- 
mote, men  (and  women)  desiring  to 
use  the  newspaper's  columns  to  boost 
themselves  into  higher  positions  or  to 
acquire  some  coveted  honor,  an  inde- 
pendent and  self-respecting  editorial 
policy  could  be  maintained  without 
material  hindrance.  With  the  right 
sort  of  good  sense  and  adherence  to 
conviction  on  the  part  of  the  pub- 
lisher it  can  be  maintained  under  pre- 
sent conditions  —  and  the  problem 
becomes  simpler  every  year.  More 
papers  that  cannot  be  cajoled,  bought, 
or  bulldozed  are  published  to-day  than 
ever  before  in  the  world's  history.  The 
'  organ '  is  becoming  extinct  as  the  pro- 
motion of  newspaper  publicity  be- 
comes more  a  business  and  less  a  means 
of  gratifying  ambition. 

Publishers  have  learned  that  fair- 
ness is  the  best  policy,  that  it  does  not 
pay  to  betray  the  trust  of  the  public, 
and  journalism  becomes  a  more  attract- 
ive profession  exactly  in  proportion 
as  it  offers  a  field  where  self-respect  is 
at  a  premium  and  bosses  are  uncon- 
sidered.  The  new  journalism  demands 
men  of  high  character  and  good  habits. 
The  old  story  of  the  special  writer  who, 
when  asked  what  he  needed  to  turn  out 
a  good  story  for  the  next  day's  paper, 
replied,  'a  desk,  some  paper,  and  a 
quart  of  whiskey,'  does  not  apply. 
One  of  the  specifications  of  every  re- 


quest for  writers  is  that  the  applicant 
shall  not  drink.  Cleanliness  of  life,  a 
well-groomed  appearance,  a  pleasing 
personality,  are  essentials  for  the  jour- 
nalist of  to-day.  The  pace  is  swift,  and 
he  must  keep  his  physical  and  mental 
health  in  perfect  condition. 

That  there  is  a  new  journalism,  with 
principles  and  methods  in  harmony 
with  new  political  and  social  condi- 
tions and  new  developments  in  news- 
transmission  and  the  printing  art,  is 
evident.  The  modern  newspaper  is 
far  more  a  business  enterprise  than 
was  the  one  of  three  decades  ago.  To 
some  observers  this  means  the  sub- 
ordination of  the  writer  to  the  power 
of  the  publisher.  If  this  be  so  in  some 
instances,  the  correction  lies  with  the 
public.  The  abuse  of  control  should 
bring  its  own  punishment  in  loss  of 
patronage  or  of  influence,  or  of  both. 
The  newspaper,  be  it  published  in  a 
country  village  or  in  the  largest  city, 
seeks  first  the  confidence  of  its  readers. 
Without  this  it  cannot  secure  either 
business  for  its  advertising  pages,  or 
influence  for  its  ambitions.  Publicity 
alone  may  once  have  sufficed,  but  ri- 
valry is  too  keen  to-day.  Competition 
brings  a  realizing  sense  of  fairness. 
Hence  it  is  that  there  is  a  demand  for 
well-equipped  young  men  and  clever 
young  women  who  can  instill  into  the 
pages  of  the  press  frankness,  virility, 
and  a  touch  of  what  newspaper  men 
call  'human  interest.' 

The  field  is  broad;  it  has  place  for 
writers  of  ^varied  accomplishments;  it 
promises  a  profession  filled  with  inter- 
esting experiences  and  close  contact 
with  the  world's  pulse.  It  is  not  for 
the  sloth  nor  for  the  sloven,  not  for  the 
conscienceless  nor  for  the  unprepared. 
Without  real  qualifications  for  it,  the 
ambitious  young  person  would  better 
seek  some  other  life-work. 


A  JAPANESE  WOOD-CARVING 


BY   AMY   LOWELL 

HIGH  up  above  the  open,  welcoming  door 

It  hangs,  a  piece  of  wood  with  colors  dim. 

Once,  long  ago,  it  was  a  waving  tree, 

And  knew  the  sun  and  shadow  through  the  leaves 

Of  forest  trees,  hi  a  thick  eastern  wood. 

The  whiter  snows  had  bent  its  branches  down, 

The  spring  had  swelled  its  buds  with  coming  flowers, 

Summer  had  run  like  fire  through  its  veins, 

While  autumn  pelted  it  with  chestnut  burrs 

And  strewed  the  leafy  ground  with  acorn  cups. 

Dark  midnight  storms  had  roared  and  crashed  among 

Its  branches,  breaking  here  and  there  a  limb; 

But  every  now  and  then  broad  sunlit  days 

Lovingly  lingered,  caught  among  the  leaves. 

Yes,  it  had  known  all  this,  and  yet  to  us 

It  does  not  speak  of  mossy  forest  ways, 

Of  whispering  pine  trees  or  the  shimmering  birch; 

But  of  quick  winds,  and  the  salt,  stinging  sea! 

An  artist  once,  with  patient,  careful  knife, 

Had  fashioned  it  like  to  the  untamed  sea. 

Here  waves  uprear  themselves,  their  tops  blown  back 

By  the  gay,  sunny  wind,  which  whips  the  blue 

And  breaks  it  into  gleams  and  sparks  of  light. 

Among  the  flashing  waves  are  two  white  birds 

Which  swoop,  and  soar,  and  scream  for  very  joy 

At  the  wild  sport.   Now  diving  quickly  in, 

Questing  some  glistening  fish;  now  flying  up, 

Their  dripping  feathers  shining  in  the  sun, 

While  the  wet  drops  like  little  glints  of  light, 

Fall  pattering  backward  to  the  parent  sea; 

Gliding  along  the  green  and  foam-flecked  hollows 

Or  skimming  some  white  crest  about  to  break,  — 

The  spirits  of  the  sky  deigning  to  stoop 

And  play  with  ocean  in  a  summer  mood, 

VOL.  107 -NO.  2 


226 


WILD  LIFE  IN  A  CITY  GARDEN 


Hanging  above  the  high,  wide-open  door, 
It  brings  to  us  in  quiet,  firelit  room, 
The  freedom  of  the  earth's  vast  solitudes 
Where  heaping,  sunny  waves  tumble  and  roll, 
And  seabirds  scream  in  wanton  happiness. 


WILD   LIFE   IN  A  CITY  GARDEN 


BY   HERBERT   RA VENAL    SASS 


LYING  in  bed  early  one  cool  March 
morning,  before  the  hush  that  hung 
over  the  sleeping  city  had  been  broken 
by  the  first  of  those  multitudinous 
noises  that  the  young  day  would  bring, 
I  saw  a  compact  black  body  shoot 
with  the  speed  of  a  comet  across  the 
square  of  blue  sky  framed  like  a  pic- 
ture in  the  open  window.  In  an  in- 
stant I  was  on  my  feet ;  and  in  another 
instant,  freed  from  the  coverlet  that 
wrapped  itself  around  me  and  almost 
threw  me  to  the  floor,  I  was  leaning  far 
out  across  the  sill.  Yonder  it  was,  a 
hundred -feet  above  the  wet,  glistening 
roofs  to  the  northwest,  cleaving  the  still, 
fresh  air  like  some  aerial  torpedo.  I 
gazed  at  it  until  it  was  gone,  and  doubt- 
less my  disappointment  was  writ  large 
upon  my  sleepy  face.  After  all,  it  was 
only  a  loon  —  and  I  had  hoped  to  see  a 
wild  goose! 

Only  a  loon,  bound,  perhaps,  for 
some  cold  glassy  lake  within  the  Arctic 
Circle  —  only  a  great  Northern  diver, 
obeying  the  call  of  the  North.  What 
was  a  loon  that  it  should  lure  a  sane 
man  from  his  warm  bed  two  hours  too 
soon  on  a  chilly  morning  in  March?  I 
asked  myself  the  question  as  I  stood 
by  the  window,  looking  across  my 


neighbor's  lot  at  the  houses  beyond, 
and  at  the  broad  steel-blue  river  to  the 
south.  A  cardinal,  half-hidden  in  the 
vivid  new  foliage  of  a  sugarberry  tree, 
glowed  in  the  sunlight  like  a  great  drop 
of  blood;  and  on  a  tall  chimney  farther 
away  a  slim  gray  mocking-bird  sang 
of  the  joys  that  April  never  failed  to 
bring.  Overhead,  nineteen  black  vul- 
tures passed  in  procession,  coming  into 
town  from  their  sleeping-place  across 
the  river,  to  spend  the  day  feasting 
with  their  fellows  at  the  butcher-stalls 
and  slaughter-pens.  A  large  flock  of 
satiny  waxwings,  lisping  monotonous- 
ly and  all  at  once,  settled  among  the 
branches  of  the  sugarberry  where  the 
cardinal  perched;  and  in  the  brown 
grasses  beneath  the  window  half  a  dozen 
white-throated  sparrows,  too  busy  or 
too  hungry  for  song,  searched  industri- 
ously for  the  breakfast  that  is  unlikely 
to  reward  the  sluggard. 

My  gaze  roved  from  cardinal  to 
mocking-bird,  from  wax  wing  to  spar- 
row ;  and  my  thoughts  rushed  northward 
with  the  vanished  loon,  over  house-tops 
and  fields  and  woods  and  marshes,  on 
a  journey  that  would  not  end  until  he 
slanted  down  at  last  to  a  lake  that  he 
remembered — a  lake  perhaps  two  thou- 


WILD  LIFE  IN  A  CITY  GARDEN 


227 


sand  miles  away.  And  then,  of  a  sud- 
den, the  old  wonder  swept  over  me, 
the  exultation  that  had  thrilled  me  so 
often  as  I  stood  by  that  west  window 
or  under  the  garden  elms.  What  if  the 
loon  were  a  common  bird  on  the  river 
in  winter?  It  was,  nevertheless,  one 
of  the  wildest  of  the  wild  things;  and 
from  my  bed  in  the  midst  of  a  busy 
city  I  had  seen  it!  Strangely  it  may 
seem  at  first,  but  in  reality  naturally 
enough,  I  thought  of  an  old  friend  who 
had  died  one  hundred  and  fifteen  years 
before  —  Reverend  Gilbert  White  of 
Selborne  Parish,  Hampshire,  England. 

Gilbert  White  is  my  precedent  — 
my  apology  for  these  pages  —  my  ex- 
cuse for  many  attacks  of  what  my 
neighbors  probably  regard  as  harmless 
insanity;  and  I  am  bold  enough  to  be- 
lieve that  if  he  could  revisit  the  earth 
for  a  little  while  he  would  take  back 
with  him  on  his  return  a  copy  of  this 
issue  of  the  Atlantic  to  show  to  his 
friends  Thomas  Pennant  and  Daines 
Barrington.  Gilbert  White  loved  his 
home  with  a  love  that  never  weakened. 
He  would  have  reveled  in  the  forests 
of  wild  America,  for  there  he  would 
have  found  many  strange  beasts  and 
birds  to  watch  and  study;  but  he  pre- 
ferred to  spend  his  time,  when  he  was 
not  engaged  with  his  clerical  duties, 
studying  the  familiar  creatures  of  his 
native  parish.  The  birds  of  Selborne 
interested  him  more  than  those  of  any 
other  place,  because  Selborne  was  his 
home;  and  before  he  died  he  wrote  a 
simple  little  book  about  these  birds 
and  beasts  of  his  home  —  a  book  that 
is  now  a  classic. 

So,  in  part,  it  has  been  with  me.  It 
will  not  be  my  fortune  to  write  a  book 
that  will  live,  nor,  probably,  a  book  of 
any  kind;  but,  nevertheless,  I  have  fol- 
lowed the  example  of  Gilbert  White. 
As  he  studied  the  wild  life  of  his  parish, 
so  I  have  studied  the  wild  life  of  my 
garden ;  and  as  he  learned  in  his  circum- 


scribed field  many  a  bit  of  bird-lore 
unknown  to  more  sophisticated  natur- 
alists who  had  traveled  far  and  wide, 
so  I  have  seen  in  and  above  my  garden 

—  which  is  not  in  the  open  country 
where  birds  abound,  but  in  one  of  the 
oldest  parts  of  the  old  city  of  Charleston 

—  a  larger  number  of  different  species 
of  the  wild  feathered  kindred  than  any 
other  man  has  seen  in  any  other  city 
garden  in  the  world. 

He  boasts,  says  some  one;  but  no, 
it  is  not  boasting;  it  is  a  simple  state- 
ment of  what  I  believe  to  be  a  fact. 
'Wild  Life  in  a  City  Garden'  —  some 
will  smile  when  they  read  the  title;  for 
is  it  not  common  knowledge  that  wild 
life  does  not  exist  in  city  gardens  — 
that  because  the  city  is  the  stronghold 
of  man,  it  is  avoided  by  those  timor- 
ous creatures  of  the  woods  and  marshes 
who  fear  man  as  they  fear  no  other 
enemy?  There  was  never  a  greater 
mistake,  nor  a  more  popular  fallacy; 
and  as  evidence  I  will  submit  the  re- 
cord of  my  garden. 

It  is  not  a  large  place:  a  plot  of 
ground  two  hundred  feet  square  would 
contain  it.  Houses  surround  it  on 
three  sides,  while  to  the  southwest,  be- 
yond the  open  lot  of  a  neighbor,  is  the 
Ashley  River.  To  reach  the  nearest 
woodland  I  must  either  traverse  some 
two  or  three  miles  of  city  blocks,  or 
else  cross  the  river,  which  is  here  more 
than  a  mile  wide.  Actually  in,  and 
directly  above,  this  garden  I  have  seen 
one  hundred  and  fourteen  different 
species  of  birds.  If,  as  is  perfectly 
fair,  I  include  those  that  I  have  seen 
from  the  windows  of  the  house,  the 
number  of  species  is  one  hundred  and 
thirty-two  —  more  than  one  third  of 
the  total  number  to  be  found  in  the 
entire  state  of  South  Carolina.  This 
fact,  I  think,  would  interest  the  parson- 
naturalist  of  Selborne.  'All  nature  is 
so  full,'  he  wrote  in  his  imperishable 
book,  'that  that  district  produces  the 


228 


WILD   LIFE   IN  A   CITY   GARDEN 


greatest  variety  which  is  the  most  ex- 
amined.' What  better  proof  of  the  truth 
of  his  statement  could  he  ask  than  the 
record  of  this  little  plot  of  much- 
examined  city  land,  where,  in  a  period  of 
ten  years,  more  than  five-score  different 
kinds  of  birds  have  been  seen  by  one 
observer? 

I  have  studied  the  birds  of  my  gar- 
den at  odd  moments  in  the  short  inter- 
vals between  working  hours,  yet  I  have 
data  enough  to  enable  me  to  write 
a  book  about  them.  I  know  when  to 
expect  each  of  those  species  that  come 
regularly  each  spring  or  fall,  where 
those  that  breed  in  my  bushes  and 
trees  are  likely  to  build  their  nests, 
when  each  songster  is  apt  to  begin 
singing,  how  they  feed  and  what  they 
eat,  and  a  thousand  and  one  other  de- 
tails that  would  suffice  to  fill  this  maga- 
zine from  cover  to  cover.  Neverthe- 
less I  have  not  learned  all  that  there  is 
to  learn  about  the  wild  life  of  this  small 
city  lot.  Scarcely  a  month  passes  that 
does  not  teach  something  new,  and  now 
and  again  there  comes  some  great  sur- 
prise. Not  long  ago,  I  looked  out  of 
the  window  one  morning  and  saw  in 
one  of  the  sugarberry  trees  behind  the 
kitchen  a  bird  that  no  one,  so  far  as 
is  known,  had  ever  seen  in  Charleston 
before.  It  was  a  yellow-crowned  night 
heron,  in  the  dark-brown,  white- 
spotted  plumage  that  every  bird  of 
that  species  wears  during  the  first  year 
or  so  of  its  life  —  a  yellow-crowned 
night  heron  within  fifty  feet  of  my  bed- 
room window! 

That  was  a  red-letter  day;  for  al- 
though the  yellow-crowned  heron  breeds 
along  this  coast,  it  is  one  of  the  shyest 
of  its  tribe,  and  you  must  go  to  the  deep 
swamps  or  lonely  marshes  far  from  the 
homes  of  men  if  you  would  see  it  — 
unless  you  come  to  my  garden.  Since 
that  memorable  morning,  this  heron 
and  I  have  become  well  acquainted 
with  each  other.  This  afternoon,  as  I 


write,  he  —  in  reality  I  do  not  know 
whether  he  is  a  gentleman  or  a  lady  — 
is  standing  on  one  long  leg  on  a  mul- 
berry branch  ten  feet  from  rny  north- 
window.  I  can  stare  at  him  as  rudely 
and  as  boldly  as  I  please,  and  he  will 
not  trouble  to  untwist  his  snaky  neck 
or  even  open  wide  his  half-closed  yellow 
eyes.  He  knows  the  sweetness  of  idle- 
ness, and  apparently  he  delights  in  the 
warm  languorous  September  sunshine. 
He  will  stand  on  one  thin,  greenish  leg 
on  that  mulberry  limb,  dozing  placidly 
or  preening  his  feathers  with  his  long, 
stout  bill,  until  the  light  begins  to  fade. 
Then  he  will  sweep  on  his  wide  wings 
down  to  the  lower  end  of  my  neighbor's 
lot,  where  the  soil  is  wet  and  salty  and 
where  many  little  fiddler-crabs  dwell; 
and  there,  in  the  dusk  and  darkness, 
he  will  eat  his  supper. 

Yesterday  I  had  some  fun  with  this 
solemn  recluse  of  the  swamps  who  has 
violated  all  the  traditions  of  his  kind 
by  taking  up  his  abode  in  town.  For 
hours  the  rain  had  been  falling  stead- 
ily, and  when  the  clouds  broke  in  mid- 
afternoon,  the  ground  was  soggy  and 
covered  in  low  places  with  shallow 
pools.  On  the  fence  of  the  duck-yard, 
utterly  oblivious  to  the  perturbation 
with  which  the  wondering  ducks  view- 
ed his  fantastic,  melancholy  figure, 
stood  my  long-legged  friend,  his  narrow 
shoulders  humped  most  unbecomingly, 
his  thin  neck  looped  like  a  moccasin 
hanging  from  a  bush.  Presently  his 
neck  lengthened,  and  spreading  his 
wings,  he  skimmed  along  the  ground 
past  the  wood-shed  to  a  shady  alley 
underneath  some  elms.  Here,  in  a  large 
puddle  some  twenty  feet  long  and  half 
as  wide,  he  began  to  stride  slowly  up 
and  down  as  complacently  as  though 
he  were  in  the  heart  of  a  cypress  swamp 
where  the  foot  of  man  never  trod. 

For  fifteen  minutes  I  leaned  against 
the  corner  of  the  wood-shed  and  watched 
him,  wondering  now  and  then  whether 


WILD  LIFE  IN  A  CITY  GARDEN 


229 


any  other  city  man  had  ever  seen  a  wild 
yellow-crowned  heron  fishing  in  a  pool  of 
rain-water  in  his  back  yard.  The  heron 
saw  me,  but  he  ignored  me  in  a  manner 
that  was  almost  humiliating.  He  did 
not  hesitate  to  approach  within  a  dozen 
feet  of  where  I  stood  in  plain  view; 
while  a  pair  of  GrinneU's  water-thrushes, 
who  were  reaping  a  plentiful  harvest 
of  tiny  insects  among  the  dead  leaves 
in  the  shallow  water,  were  even  bolder. 
They  walked  swiftly  back  and  forth  — 
for  the  water-thrush  is  a  walker,  not 
a  hopper  —  so  close  to  me  that  I  could 
have  put  my  foot  upon  one  of  them,  ap- 
parently ignorant  of  the  fact  that  in  the 
books  they  are  called  shy  and  timor- 
ous. Their  food  was  so  minute  that  I 
could  not  distinguish  what  it  was,  but 
the  heron  was  after  larger  game.  He 
was  angling  for  angle-worms  —  surely 
a  strange  proceeding,  since  normally 
an  angler  angles  not  at  all  until  he  has 
his  angle- worms  with  which  to  tempt 
the  victim  for  which  he  angles.  But 
my  heron  was  angling  after  a  fashion 
of  his  own,  and  he  knew  how  to  go 
about  it.  Now  and  again,  as  he  stalked 
noiselessly  through  the  water,  his  long 
beak  flashed  down  to  right  or  left; 
and  each  time  death,  as  sudden  as 
thought,  claimed  one  of  the  little 
brown  burrowers  in  the  mould.  I  left 
him  at  last,  walking  about  under  the 
fig  trees  near  the  piazza,  with  all  the 
nonchalance  of  a  rooster  hatched  and 
reared  in  the  yard,  while  the  colored 
cook  stood  by  the  kitchen  door  and 
protested  '  befo'  de  Lawd '  that  she  had 
never  seen  so  strange  a  sight  'sence 
de  day  she  was  bawn.' 

It  is  pleasant  to  recall  some  of  the 
other  great  surprises  —  some  of  the 
other  red-letter  days  in  the  history  of 
the  garden,  each  one  of  them  rendered 
u  nforgettable  by  the  coming  of  some  un- 
looked-for feathered  stranger.  Such  a 
day  was  that  third  of  May  four  years 
and  a  half  ago,  when  I  looked  up  from 


my  book  to  find  a  gorgeous  male  scarlet 
tanager  in  the  elm  sapling  beside  the 
piazza.  So  rare  is  this  bird  in  the  low- 
lands of  South  Carolina  that,  in  spite  of 
the  careful  studies  of  Audubon,  Bach- 
man,  and  Wayne,  there  are  but  four  au- 
thentic records  of  its  occurrence  in  this 
region;  and  of  these  four  two  were 
made  in  my  city  garden  —  surely  a  mat- 
ter of  curious  interest,  to  say  the  least. 
Another  day  that  will  not  soon  be 
forgotten  was  February  14,  1899,  when 
a  woodcock  —  perhaps  the  very  shy- 
est of  all  American  game  birds — stood 
on  the  flat  top  of  a  tall  stump  not 
twenty  feet  from  the  piazza,  driven 
into  the  city  by  the  great  blizzard  that 
swept  the  South  on  that  date,  freezing 
to  death  thousands  of  birds  of  many 
kinds  and  almost  wiping  out  of  exist- 
ence the  bluebird  and  the  beautiful 
ground  dove.  On  January  1,  1910,  a 
bitterly  cold  day,  a  live  woodcock  was 
picked  up  in  the  garden.  The  bird  died 
after  two  days.  So  also  October  29, 
1906,  was  made  memorable  by  the  ar- 
rival of  two  visitors  from  the  North,  of 
a  species  that  few  observers  have  ever 
seen  on  this  coast  —  a  pair  of  red- 
breasted  nuthatches;  while  April  18, 
1909,  will  stand  always  among  the  great- 
est of  the  great  days  of  the  garden, 
because  on  that  morning  I  found  in 
my  elms  a  band  of  eight  or  ten  pine 
siskins  —  a  bird  almost  if  not  quite  as 
rare  in  this  part  of  the  world  as  the 
scarlet  tanager.  I  have  seen  the  black- 
and-white  warbler  in  the  garden  on 
December  1  —  at  least  a  month  later 
than  the  latest  record  made  in  this 
state  by  any  other  man ;  and  the  cedar 
waxwing  has  feasted  on  my  mulberries 
on  May  21,  long  after  the  last  wax- 
wing  should  have  passed  from  the  flat 
coast  country,  where  the  great  flocks 
gather  in  winter  and  early  spring,  to 
the  hills  and  mountains  of  the  interior, 
where  they  disperse  and  build  their 
nests. 


230 


WILD  LIFE  IN  A  CITY  GARDEN 


After  all,  however,  it  is  not  in  the 
chance  visit  of  some  rare  member  of 
the  feathered  tribes,  nor  in  the  occur- 
rence at  an  unwonted  time  of  a  species 
common  enough  in  its  appointed  sea- 
son, that  the  charm  of  garden  ornitho- 
logy chiefly  lies.  I  mention  these 
matters  merely  to  show  that  in  a  few 
instances,  of  interest  to  the  profession- 
al naturalist  rather  than  to  the  dilet- 
tante bird-gazer,  this  tiny  area  of  city 
real  estate  is  able  to  contribute  its  mite 
to  the  sum  of  what  is  known  about  the 
seasonal  distribution  and  migrational 
movements  of  the  birds  of  a  great  con- 
tinent. For  me,  the  fascination  of  the 
study  —  or  diversion,  as  I  should  more 
modestly  call  it  —  is  found,  first,  in  the 
wonderful  fact  that  even  here  amid  the 
streets  and  houses  of  a  modern  city  I 
see  from  time  to  time  —  in  some  cases, 
regularly  each  year  —  some  of  the 
feathered  kindred  that  are  thought  to 
be  most  fearful  of  man  and  most 
characteristic  of  the  wilderness;  and 
secondly,  in  the  continued  presence, 
throughout  the  year,  or  during  certain 
periods,  of  other  birds,  common  and 
familiar,  perhaps,  and  known  by  name 
to  every  country  boy,  yet  possessing 
and  sometimes  betraying  secrets  that 
cannot  be  learned  from  the  books  of 
the  wisest  of  those  who  have  gone  be- 
fore us. 

There  is  a  sequestered  corner  of  the 
garden  where  a  few  tall  elms  and  bushy 
privet  trees  cast  so  dark  a  shade  that 
even  in  midsummer  the  moist  black 
soil  is  bare  of  weeds  and  grass.  Here, 
in  April,  August,  and  September,  I  see 
the  hooded  warbler,  resplendent  in 
yellow  and  sable,  gleaning  the  good 
things  to  be  found  in  the  thick  foli- 
age to  the  right,  and  in  the  trumpet- 
vines  that  clamber  up  the  wooden 
fence  to  the  left.  Hither  in  April  and 
August  comes  sometimes  the  gorge- 
ous prothonotary,  whose  flame-colored 
breast  is  like  a  fragment  of  glowing 


cloud  stolen  from  an  autumn  sunset 
and  whose  simple  song  rings  just  as 
clear  and  bold  here  amid  the  houses  as 
in  the  sombre  swamps  that  I  must 
penetrate  to  find  him  when  I  go  bird- 
hunting  elsewhere  than  in  the  garden. 
The  damp  ground  under  the  elms  feels 
each  autumn  the  dainty  tread  of  the 
water-thrush,  and  more  rarely  of  the 
oven-bird  —  members,  although  there 
is  nothing  in  their  English  names  to 
indicate  the  relationship,  of  that  same 
numerous  family,  the  Warblers  or  Mnio- 
tiltidse,  to  which  the  prothonotary  and 
the  hooded  warbler  belong. 

The  clump  of  fig-bushes  hiding  the 
angle  formed  by  the  fence  and  the 
back  of  a  neighbor's  cow-shed  seems 
to  possess  a  strange  attraction  for  the 
sedate  black-and-white  warblers  that 
visit  it  in  spring  and  autumn;  and  it 
was  in  these  same  bushes  that  I  saw 
the  only  black-and-white  warbler  ever 
seen  by  any  man  —  so  far  as  is  known 
to  science  —  in  South  Carolina  in  the 
month  of  December.  When  the  first 
cool  wave  of  autumn  freshens  the  sul- 
try air  of  September,  many  red-starts 
—  with  most  of  the  'red'  washed  out 
of  them  —  wage  war  on  the  slender 
pale-green  larvae  that  hide,  all  in  vain, 
under  the  small  saw-edged  leaves  of 
the  terminal  twiglets  of  the  elms.  In 
April,  September,  and  October  I  some- 
times see  the  handsome  black-throat- 
ed blue  warbler,  solemn  with  a  most 
unwarblerlike  solemnity,  moving  in 
silence  from  branch  to  branch  where 
the  shadow  is  darkest;  while  the  parula, 
the  prairie,  the  summer  yellow-bird, 
and,  in  the  depth  of  winter,  the  hardy 
little  yellow-rump,  are  among  the  other 
warblers  that  are  more  or  less  familiar 
visitors  to  the  spot.  It  is  a  wonderful 
place,  this  'warbler  corner,'  as  I  call 
it,  with  its  ugly  fence,  its  funereal 
gloom,  and  its  bare  black  soil  where 
hundreds  of  earthworms  work  in  their 
humble  way  the  miracle  of  which  the 


WILD   LIFE   IN  A   CITY  GARDEN 


231 


world  knew  nothing  until  a  man  named 
Darwin  wrote  a  matter-of-fact  book 
on  the  unromantic  subject  of  vegetable 
mould.  I  wonder  what  Gilbert  White 
would  say  if  he  knew  that  of  the  thirty- 
two  species  of  Mniotiltidse  known  to 
occur  in  this  state — and  some  of  them 
have  been  recorded  only  once  or  twice 
—  I  have  seen  fourteen  species  in  a 
single  tiny  nook  of  my  little  garden  in 
Charleston. 

Yet  it  is  not  the  fragile  warbler,  child 
of  the  forest  and  swamp  though  he  be, 
that  brings  the  wilderness  to  me  here 
in  the  city.  Rather  it  is  the  lordly 
eagle  that  I  sometimes  see  looking 
down  at  me,  scornfully  it  seems,  as  he 
sweeps  over,  his  snowy  head  glancing 
in  the  sun.  It  is  the  phalanx  of  wild 
geese  rushing  northward  in  a  long  wedge 
across  the  clear  April  sky.  It  is  the 
wide-winged  black-and-white  wood- 
ibis,  sailing  'in  those  blue  tracts  above 
the  thunder,'  with  outstretched  neck, 
trailing  legs,  and  stiff-spread,  motion- 
less pinions.  It  is  the  sharp-shinned 
hawk  that  smashes,  like  a  miniature 
thunderbolt,  into  the  rose-tangle  where 
the  English  sparrows  hold  noisy  con- 
clave, and  in  an  instant  is  up  and  away 
with  his  limp  prize.  It  is  the  hurrying 
loon  bound  for  the  far  boreal  lake 
whose  lonely  shores  will  ring  ere  long 
with  his  weird  laughter.  And  most  of 
all,  it  is  the  noise  of  invisible  myriads 
passing  in  the  night. 

Sitting  on  the  piazza  on  cool  even- 
ings in  late  September,  I  hear  the  voices 
of  feathered  hosts  that  I  cannot  see. 
In  hundreds  and  thousands  and,  it  may 
be,  in  hundreds  of  thousands,  they  are 
streaming  over  my  head,  up  yonder 
in  the  black  infinity  that  lies  between 
earth  and  stars.  The  whole  vast  air  is 
full  of  them;  now  here,  now  there,  now 
elsewhere,  their  various  voices  call  to 
me  out  of  the  darkness.  Some  of  the 
sounds  I  know  well  —  the  guttural 
'quok'  of  the  black-crowned  night 


heron,  the  high  pitched  'skeow'  of 
the  green  heron,  the  metallic  chirp  of 
the  ricebird  that  travels  in  company 
with  the  larger  wayfarers  in  the  gloom. 
Others  are  sounds  that  I  have  never 
heard  at  any  other  time  —  that  prob- 
ably I  shall  never  hear  except  on  these 
autumnal  nights  when  the  far-called 
armies  of  the  migrating  birds  are  flee- 
ing southward  before  the  intangible,  ir- 
resistible might  of  approaching  winter. 

Whence  come  these  myriads  and 
whither  are  they  bound?  By  what 
strange  sense  do  they  guide  their  cer- 
tain flight  through  the  uncharted  spaces 
of  the  air?  Where  were  they  yester- 
day, and  where  will  they  hide  them- 
selves when  daylight  comes  to-morrow? 
How  many  out  of  all  that  host  will  live 
to  complete  the  long  journey,  escaping 
the  innumerable  perils  that  threaten 
them  by  land  and  sea?  A  month  from 
now,  perhaps,  the  small  voice  that 
spoke  so  plaintively  a  moment  ago  out 
of  the  dark  void  above  my  neighbor's 
stable  may  be  heard  by  some  huge 
jaguar  gliding  like  a  ghost  through  the 
dim  aisles  of  the  Amazonian  forest. 
A  month  from  now,  for  aught  I  know, 
the  little  wings  that  fan  the  breeze  above 
my  garden  to-night  may  be  battling 
bravely  but  in  vain  in  one  of  the  furious 
hurricanes  that  sweep  the  Caribbean. 
Out  of  the  unknown  they  come,  and 
into  the  unknown  they  depart  —  these 
unseen  aerial  regiments,  pressing  on 
blindly  yet  unerringly  through  the 
black  waste  of  air,  toward  strange,  far 
lands  where  winter  is  but  a  name. 

From  the  vague  dome-like  mass  of 
a  fig  tree  near  the  piazza  —  a  darker 
shadow  among  dark  shadows  —  comes 
a  clear  flute-like  whistle  repeated  again 
and  again.  It  is  a  cardinal  singing  in 
the  gloom  —  singing  perhaps  to  the 
yellow  moon  that  peeps  now  and  then 
from  behind  the  scurrying  drifts  of 
cloud.  I  am  ashamed.  I  have  written 
page  after  page  about  the  birds  of  my 


232 


WILD  LIFE   IN  A  CITY  GARDEN 


garden,  and  scarcely  a  word  have  I 
written  about  those  that  should  oc- 
cupy the  most  exalted  place.  Tempted 
by  the  unusual,  I  have  ignored  the  or- 
dinary, which  in  all  our  affairs  is  gener- 
ally the  most  important.  I  have  sought 
to  imprison  in  a  few  paragraphs  some 
idea  of  the  wild  life  that  exists  in  my 
city  garden ;  and  because  they  are  some- 
what less  wild  than  the  others,  I  have 
passed  over  those  more  familiar  birds 
that  are  most  characteristic  of  the 
place.  I  do  not  know  what  the  garden 
would  be  like  if  its  cardinals  and  its 
mocking-birds  were  taken  away.  In 
sunshine  and  in  rain,  in  the  dream-like 
calm  of  breathless  summer  noons,  and 
in  the  gray  desolation  of  bleak  De- 
cember dawns,  they  are  my  comrades, 
these  two.  Better  than  the  weather 
god  himself,  the  red-coated  cardinal 
knows  when  spring  is  coming;  and  the 
bold,  free  song  that  he  sings  outside  the 
window  on  the  first  sunny  morning  in 
January  is  the  sweetest  sound  that  I 
hear  in  all  the  year.  He  is  the  guardian 
spirit  of  the  garden,  my  honest,  stout- 
hearted Redcoat;  and  for  him  and  his 
fair  dove-colored  wife  a  goodly  por- 
tion of  cracked  corn  is  placed  each  day 
on  the  feeding-stump  under  the  grace- 
ful elm  in  which,  years  ago  when  it  was 
a  slender  sapling,  I  saw  the  scarlet 
tanager. 

Redcoat's  life  is  an  open  book  that 
he  who  runs  may  read.  In  the  North 
he  is  called  shy,  secretive,  skulking; 
but  if  the  charge  be  true,  this  Yankee 
cardinal  is  not  akin  to  the  gallant 
feathered  gentleman  that  I  know.  I 
have  yet  to  see  him  do  anything  of 
which  I  might  disapprove.  True,  he 
does  not  help  in  the  making  of  the  three 
nests  that  his  mate  builds  each  year 
in  the  garden;  but  is  it  not  possible 
that  the  lady  prefers  to  fashion  the 
cradle  of  her  prospective  brood  accord- 
ing to  her  own  whims  and  with  her  own 
capable  bill?  Certainly,  in  all  other 


respects,  his  treatment  of  his  spouse  is 
beautiful  to  behold,  and  in  all  nature 
you  will  not  find  a  father  more  lov- 
ing or  less  lazy.  Morally  —  if  there  be 
such  a  thing  as  morality  or  its  opposite 
among  the  wild  creatures  —  he  is  the 
superior  of  '  the  Mocking-bird,  Dawn's 
gay  and  jocund  Priest,'  though  he 
lacks  the  genius  of  that  slim  Shake- 
speare, as  Lanier  called  the  mocker, 
and  the  marvelous  vocal  technique  to 
which  the  latter  owes  his  fame. 

The  mocking-bird's  character  is  not 
without  its  defects.  As  his  supremely 
beautiful  song  is  marred  at  times  by 
strange  discordant  notes,  so  in  the 
commonplace,  prosaic  affairs  of  every- 
day life  he  strays  now  and  then  from 
the  strait  path  of  rectitude  that  Red- 
coat follows  faithfully  to  the  end  of  his 
days.  The  mocking-bird  is  one  of  the 
bravest  creatures  that  breathe  the  air. 
He  will  lay  down  his  life  in  defense  of 
his  nest,  and  I  have  seen  him  actually 
put  a  fair-sized  dog  to  flight;  but  at  the 
same  time  he  is  as  shameless  and  in- 
corrigible a  bully  as  the  kingbird  or  the 
crested  flycatcher.  Often  have  I  heaped 
abuse  upon  his  head  because  in  utterly 
causeless  fury  he  has  smitten  hip  and 
thigh  some  unusual  visitor  to  the  gar- 
den; and  as  often  have  I  granted  him 
forgiveness  of  his  sin  when,  after  routing 
the  inoffensive  object  of  his  wrath  and 
pursuing  it  far  beyond  the  confines  of 
his  domain,  he  has  mounted  light  as  air 
to  the  topmost  twig  of  the  tallest  elm 
and  poured  forth  to  the  calm  sky  above 
such  music  as  no  other  bird  can  make. 

Contralto  cadences  of  grave  desire 

Tissues  of  moonlight,  shot  with  songs  of  6re; 
Bright  drops  of  tune  from  oceans  inBnite 
Of  melody,  sipped  off  the  thin-edged  wave 
And  trickling  down  the  beak, — discourses  brave 
Of  serious  matter  that  no  man  may  guess, — 
Good-fellow  greetings,  cries  of  light  distress. 

In  the  drawer  of  my  desk  is  the  un- 
finished manuscript  of  a  history  of  the 


THE   BIRTHPLACE 


233 


garden's  birds  —  dry,  concise  (I  hope), 
and  matter-of-fact,  treating  each  spe- 
cies separately  and  in  order.  Perhaps 
it  would  interest  Gilbert  White  more 
than  this  rambling  story;  but  of  the 
people  that  I  know  many  would  judge 
its  author  a  fool  for  burning  the  mid- 
night oil  in  work  so  bizarre  and  so 
barren  of  material  profit.  Yet  in  this 
little  garden  there  is  matter  for  a  cent- 
ury of  study;  and  for  him  whose  spirit 
is  attuned  to  the  simpler  notes  of  life's 
music,  there  is  enjoyment  and  some- 
thing that  approaches  happiness  — 
something  that  no  one  can  take  away 
save  him  whom  the  old  Arabians  were 
wont  to  call  the  Destroyer  of  Delights 
and  the  Sunderer  of  Companies.  Out- 
side, in  the  world  of  fiercer  passions  and 
graver  problems,  there  may  be  perplex- 
ity and  defeat;  but  in  the  privet  hedge 
under  the  elms  Redcoat  still  sings  his 


song,  while  his  mate  still  eats  my  corn 
—  and,  I  believe,  gives  me  thanks. 

Within  the  boundary  of  these  fences 
I  have  learned  a  few  things  that  have 
been  worth  learning,  and  I  have  found 
much  to  wonder  at.  I  am  a  hobbyist, 
I  suppose,  but  surely  my  hobby  has 
features  that  commend  it.  I  have  dis- 
covered that  my  garden  is  a  .whole 
country  in  itself  —  a  country  possess- 
ing an  astonishingly  large  and  varied 
avifauna:  and  it  is  pleasant  to  me  to 
reflect  that  I  have  rendered  my  garden 
unique;  for  I  doubt  if  there  is,  any- 
where on  this  planet,  another  plot  of 
ground  of  the  same  size  where  so  many 
different  species  of  birds  have  been 
recorded.  A  poor  achievement  this, 
perhaps,  and  small  cause  for  pride; 
yet  the  sage  of  Selborne  would  forgive 
me,  I  think,  if  he  should  find  a  certain 
conceit  between  these  lines. 


THE  BIRTHPLACE 


Miss  LAYLOR  descended  slowly  from 
the  train,  and  looked  around  her  at  the 
commonplace  little  station.  The  plat- 
form was  strewn  thick  with  cinders; 
the  yellow-painted  railway  offices  were 
dingy  and  weather-stained ;  a  group  of 
loafers  were  shouting  coarse  jests  at 
one  another,  and  laughing  boisterous- 
ly. They  glanced  curiously  at  her  as 
she  passed  them,  and  one  said  some- 
thing to  the  rest  in  a  low  tone;  a  loud 
burst  of  vacant  laughter  rose  at  this 
sally,  and  trailed  after  her  as  she  went 
on  down  the  platform.  Miss  Laylor 
looked  distinctly  annoyed.  All  the 
morning,  as  the  train  had  brought  her 


nearer  and  nearer  to  the  little  town  that 
she  had  so  often  pictured  in  her  mind 
with  affectionate  imagery,  she  had  kept 
telling  herself  that  Ballard  would  be 
exactly  like  other  villages  of  its  size. 
There  would  be  nothing  startling  about 
it.  It  would  gather  no  peculiar  grace 
from  the  fact  that  a  certain  sprawling 
freckled-faced  boy  had  grown  to  ado- 
lescence there,  and  that  the  man  who 
had  been  that  boy  still  looked  back  to 
it  from  his  busy  Eastern  office,  and 
called  the  village  home.  Although  she 
had  schooled  herself  to  be  satisfied  with 
the  ordinary,  unpromising  country 
hamlet,  a  vague  sense  of  disappoint- 


234 


THE  BIRTHPLACE 


ment  clouded  her  brain  for  a  moment, 
as  she  paused  irresolute  on  the  high 
steps  that  led  to  the  sidewalk. 

Of  course,  she  had  not  expected  that 
the  inhabitants  would  be  standing 
around  in  picturesque  garb  and  re- 
spectful postures,  saying  to  one  another 
in  subdued  voices,  '  Harden  Carroll 
was  born  here';  but,  after  all,  she  was 
conscious  that  there  had  been  in  her 
soul  a  lurking  hope  of  things  being  'dif- 
ferent.' As  she  had  lain  awake  the 
night  before,  throbbing  with  the  lurch 
and  jolt  of  the  sleeping-car,  she  had 
tried  to  make  some  mental  organiza- 
tion of  what  Carroll  had  told  her  of  the 
place.  It  was  all  so  disjointed,  thrown 
out  under  such  varied  suggestions  and 
in  such  dissimilar  moods,  that  she  could 
piece  together  nothing  less  confused 
than  the  glimpse  of  the  landscape 
which  she  had  seen  from  the  car-win- 
dow during  the  day.  Her  midnight 
recollections  had  refused  to  be  reduced 
to  anything  like  order  and  definite- 
ness.  To-day  she  saw  that,  however 
clear  her  reminiscences  might  have 
been,  they  could  have  availed  but  little 
to  keep  her  from  disappointment.  Car- 
roll had  told  her  of  the  maple  wood, 
just  outside  the  town,  where  he  had 
hunted  partridges  in  a  forest  of  pure 
gold;  he  had  described  the  tangle  of 
lilacs  and  syringas  and  weigelia  that 
bordered  the  pond  behind  his  father's 
house;  he  had  talked  to»her  of  these 
things,  and  a  thousand  others;  but  it 
had  never  occurred  to  him  to  speak  of 
the  dusty  streets,  the  dingy  station, 
and  the  vulgar  crowd  of  idlers  at  its 
door.  They  were  not  what  had  counted 
for  him,  —  why  should  she  give  them 
a  thought?  They  were  not  what  she 
had  come  five  hundred  miles  to  see. 
Ballard  should  be  to  her  to-day  only 
what  Ballard  had  been  to  Harden  Car- 
roll a  score  of  years  ago,  when  he  had 
walked  its  streets,  a  youth,  and  seen  no 
blemish  in  it.  Her  brow  cleared  as  she 


stepped  down  to  the  dirty  board-walk. 

The  railroad  buildings,  and  two  dun- 
colored  warehouses,  with  their  signs 
blurred  and  hanging  loose,  formed  a 
grimy  nucleus  for  a  few  scattered 
dwellings  whose  white  paint  the  soot 
from  passing  trains  had  turned  gray. 
Close  up  to  these  crept  cultivated  fields 
— >  long  stretches  of  short,  silvery- 
tipped  wheat-blades,  glittering  in  the 
June  sun,  and  bare-looking  brown 
squares  where  potatoes  were  beginning 
to  sprout.  Could  it  be  that  there  was 
no  more  of  the  village?  Miss  Laylor 
had  supposed  that  it  would  be  small, 
but  she  was  not  prepared  for  such  an 
atom  as  this.  She  looked  about  her 
again,  more  uncertain  than  before. 

A  man  approached  her,  and  said, 
with  a  kind  of  respectful  familiarity, 
'There's  a  'bus,  lady,  that'll  take  you 
over  town.  Guess  you  won't  want  to 
walk  it  to-day.' 

It  came  to  her  then  in  a  flash  that 
Carroll  had  told  her  once  that  the  town 
itself  was  a  mile  from  the  station. 

'It  must,  be  over  that  hill,  there,' 
she  said  to  herself.  'Thank  you,'  she 
added  aloud ;  '  I  think  I  '11  try  walking. 
It  is  n't  very  far.' 

The  man  turned  abruptly,  not  to  say 
contemptuously,  and  left  her.  Miss 
Laylor  put  up  her  parasol,  grasped  her 
small  hand-bag  more  firmly,  and  fol- 
lowed the  sidewalk  till  it  ended  sud- 
denly, 6n  a  line  with  the  last  of  the 
gray  houses.  She  found  herself  on  a 
straight,  Worn  foot-path  that  led  away 
over  the  hill.  The  omnibus  passed  her 
at  a  swinging  pace,  stirring  up  a  cloud 
of  dust,  through  which  the  driver  gave 
her  one  more  scornful  glance  as  he  rat- 
tled by.  She  remembered  now,  sur- 
prised at  her  former  stupidity,  that 
Carroll  had  told  her  of  this  very  path, 
and  his  walking  over  after  school  to 
see  the  trains  come  in.  He  had  even 
related  for  her  diversion  the  details  of 
two  or  three  incidents  that  had  oc- 


THE  BIRTHPLACE 


235 


curred  along  the  way.  Turning  one  of 
them  over  in  her  mind  as  she  went, 
Miss  Laylor  soon  discovered  the  cor- 
roboration  that  she  sought.  Here  was 
the  precise  oyster-shaped  rock  on  which 
he  had  lain  that  day  when  the  bor- 
rowed revolver  went  off  in  his  coat 
pocket,  and  ploughed  a  burning  furrow 
down  his  leg.  He  had  fainted  from  pain 
and  terror,  and  his  mother  had  found 
him  here,  surrounded  by  his  scared 
companions,  as  she  was  returning  from 
a  day's  visit  in  the  next  town. 

Miss  Laylor  sat  down  on  the  rock. 
The  fair,  damp  head  was  in  her  lap,  and 
she  had  her  arms  around  the  angular, 
boyish  shoulders.  A  throb  of  mother- 
anguish  started  in  her  breast.  Then  she 
laughed  and  rose  from  the  rock,  shaking 
herself,  a  little  impatiently.  'It  won't 
do  at  all,'  she  said  half  aloud,  'to  begin 
like  this.  I  did  n't  think  I  was  going  to 
be  really  silly!' 

Over  the  hill  in  front  of  her  rose  a 
group  of  Lombardy  poplars.  The  vil- 
lage was  at  hand.  She  passed  several 
neat  cottages  with  vines  climbing 
sparsely  over  the  picket  fences,  and 
white  and  purple  iris  about  the  front 
doors.  The  sidewalk  began  again.  Elm 
trees  mixed  with  poplars  formed  inter- 
mittent rows  on  both  sides  of  the  high- 
way. She  came  at  last  into  a  quiet 
street,  cool  and  pleasant  after  the  in- 
tolerable heat  of  the  long,  treeless  path. 
This  certainly  was  like  the  Arcadian 
village  of  her  dream.  From  one  to  an- 
other of  the  shaded  streets  she  passed, 
noting  a  white-pillared  porch  here,  a 
pansy-bordered  gravel  walk  there,  and 
wondering  vaguely,  as  she  recalled  the 
meagre  hints  she  had  of  its  appearance, 
if  she  should  know  'the  house'  when 
she  saw  it.  Every  old  man  that  she 
met,  she  studied  intently  for  resem- 
blances, saying  to  herself,  'That  may 
be  his  father.'  Every  gray-haired  wo- 
man, seated  calmly  with  book  or  knit- 
ting in  the  flickering  noon  light,  was 


possibly  Doctor  Carroll's  widowed 
cousin,  who  had  come  to  take  the  dead 
wife's  place  in  the  household. 

Once  or  twice  Miss  Laylor's  unguid- 
ed  footsteps  took  her  through  the  strag- 
gling main  street  of  the  town.  Over 
the  barrels  of  vegetables,  and  crates  of 
strawberries  surrounding  some  shad- 
owy doorway,  or  above  windows  heap- 
ed with  the  country  storekeeper's  jum- 
bled array  of  goods,  she  beheld  names 
familiar  to  her  in  anecdote  and  chron- 
icle and  tale  of  boyish  prank.  It  was 
as  if  she  had  stepped  into  the  setting  of 
one  of  her  favorite  books.  The  hunch- 
backed figure  at  the  window  of  the 
harness-shop  gave  her  a  start  of  re- 
membrance. The  sharp-nosed  little 
man  shaking  a  grotesque,  yellow- wigged 
head  as  he  bartered  for  a  basket  of 
green  peas,  brought  a  swift  smile  to  her 
lips;  she  knew  his  story,  too. 

Little  by  little  her  knowledge  of  Bal- 
lard  and  its  people  came  back,  as 
the  suggestions  all  around  her  re- 
called half-forgotten  bits  of  Carroll's 
conversation.  During  the  three  years 
that  she  had  known  him,  he  had 
spoken  often  of  his  birthplace,  but 
especially  in  this  last  twelvemonth,  so 
hard  for  them  both,  had  he  delighted 
in  recounting  to  her  the  annals  of  the 
sober  Illinois  town.  It  rested  him,  he 
said,  when  his  mind  was  a  pot  pourri 
of  proof-sheets,  editorials,  and  bank- 
robberies,  to  weave  yarns  about  that 
dozy  little  hole  in  the  ground  that 
could  n't  even  be  found  on  the  map. 
The  ache  in  her  own  heart  was  easier, 
too,  when  his  homely  tales  transported 
her  with  him  to  a  different  scene  and 
time.  While  he  was  a  boy  in  Ballard 
he  had  belonged,  if  not  to  her,  at  least 
to  no  one  else.  So  he  was  an  eager  talker, 
and  she  a  willing  listener;  and  although 
the  demands  of  the  newspaper  office 
had  left  them  but  scanty  opportunity 
for  conversation  of  any  kind,  she  had 
gleaned  a  surprising  number  of  frag- 


286 


THE   BIRTHPLACE 


ments  relating  to  the  village  that  he 
loved.  Now  Miss  Laylor  found  herself 
straining  every  power  of  association  in 
her  effort  to  fit  to  her  present  environ- 
ment the  things  Carroll  had  told  her. 
She  was  fascinated  with  the  attempt, 
as  by  an  exciting  new  game.  Though 
a  wheezing  whistle  had  long  since  an- 
nounced the  hour  of  noon,  she  felt  no 
desire  for  food.  Her  head  ached  sharp- 
ly, and  her  face  was  hot.  In  spite  of 
her  hope  that  for  this  one  day  the  heart- 
ache would  be  gone,  it  was  returning 
insistently.  Still  she  followed  with  ab- 
sorbed interest,  and  increasing  bitter- 
ness, the  footsteps  of  a  boy,  who,  twenty 
years  before,  had  walked  the  same 
ways  in  the  heedless  ecstasy  of  youth. 
The  streets  had  a  trick  of  ending 
unexpectedly,  and  merging  into  shrub- 
edged  footpaths  that  led  across  undu- 
lating green  and  brown  billows  of  tilth; 
or  they  took  the  form  of  ashen  roads 
that  curved  their  dusty  length  away 
into  the  country.  Just  where  a  par- 
ticularly deep-shaded  street  was  under- 
going this  process  of  transformation, 
Miss  Laylor  ran  upon  the  old  Ballard 
Academy.  Here  Carroll  had  spent  the 
greater  part  of  his  early  school-life,  pre- 
paring himself  laboriously,  and  with 
no  great  relish,  for  college;  his  academy 
experiences  had  been  among  the  most 
amusing  of  his  recollections.  She  im- 
agined him,  short-trousered,  long- 
legged,  book-strap  in  hand,  taking  the 
high  steps  two  at  a  time  as  he  elbowed 
his  way  through  a  crowd  of  boys  let 
loose  from  school;  or  sliding  down  the 
smooth  gray  balusters,  when  the  teach- 
ers' backs  were  turned.  The  school 
year  was  over  now,  and  the  plain  brick 
building,  with  its  green  blinds  and  small 
white-paneled  cupola,  had  a  reserved 
and  distant  air.  The  glassy  stare  of  the 
vacant  windows  offered  no  invitation 
to  enter.  Miss  Laylor  walked  twice 
around  the  building,  and  withdrew, 
baffled  by  its  lack  of  cordiality. 


As  she  turned  away  she  caught  a 
gleam  of  water  through  the  trees.  The 
pond!  Now  she  should  find  the  house. 
Though  she  had  been  looking  for  it  all 
the  time,  she  had  seen  nothing  that 
corresponded  to  her  idea  of  what  it  was 
like.  She  knew  it  at  once  by  the  tall 
French  windows  opening  upon  the  nar- 
row veranda,  and  by  the  long  back  yard 
sloping  to  the  water.  This  ample  gar- 
den-space, however,  was  inclosed  by 
a  high  brick  wall  crumbling  at  the  top, 
and  hung  with  hop  and  clematis  vines 
that  climbed  up  from  the  inside,  and 
dangled  inquisitive  creepers  over  the 
edge.  The  round  'port-holes'  in  the 
walls  were  so  curtained  by  vines  and 
lush,  thorny  bushes  that  not  even  Miss 
Laylor's  wistful  eyes  could  see  through 
them,  except  to  catch  tantalizing 
glimpses  of  still  more  bushes  beyond. 

The  house  and  the  garden  were  on 
a  corner,  and  opposite  them  lay  vacant 
lots  with  a  slender  second  growth  of 
trees  half-covering  them.  There  was  no 
fear  of  any  questioning  gaze  from  that 
source.  She  followed  the  wall  to  a  nar- 
row iron  gate  not  far  from  the  edge  of 
the  pond;  boldly  peeping  in,  she  found 
that  a  row  of  barberry  bushes  along 
the  edge  of  a  winding  path  shut  off  all 
but  a  tiny  corner  of  the  garden  from 
her  view,  — a  corner  which,  indeed,  was 
only  another  patch  of  shrubbery.  She 
could  see  the  petals  of  the  late  syringas 
scattered  on  the  ground.  The  lilacs 
were  no  longer  in  flower,  but  the  wei- 
gelia  held  a  few  pink  blossoms  begin- 
ning to  turn  brown  at  the  edges  and 
loosen  on  the  stem. 

The  young  woman's  eyes  filled  as  she 
looked  between  the  slender  iron  bars  of 
the  gate  into  that  inaccessible  garden. 
This  spot  was  one  of  the  two  that,  from 
the  first  planning  of  her  pilgrimage,  she 
had  set  her  heart  on  seeing.  Harden 
had  spoken  of  it  so  often  and  with  such 
affection  that  she  felt  it  essential 
to  know  the  place  as  he  remembered 


THE   BIRTHPLACE 


237 


it.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done,  how- 
ever, and  she  made  her  way  back  calm- 
ly enough  to  the  front  of  the  house;  she 
was  used  to  making  the  best  of  dis- 
couraging situations.  Harden's  win- 
dow she  knew,  because  it  overlooked 
the  garden  and  had  a  little  balcony 
around  it,  built  over  the  bow  windows 
below.  The  curtains  were  drawn  in  the 
front  rooms.  No  sign  of  life  appeared. 
A  small  girl  in  a  pink  gingham  apron 
was  coming  up  the  street,  carrying  a 
blue-striped  pitcher,  full  of  sour  milk, 
which  dripped  down  the  sides  of  the 
vessel  at  every  step.  She  eyed  Miss 
Laylor's  neat  gray  traveling-suit  and 
modish  hat  with  friendly  interest. 

'  Does  Doctor  Silas  Carroll  live  here? ' 
asked  Miss  Laylor,  moved  by  a  sudden 
determination  to  be  sure. 

The  child  stared  frankly  before  she 
replied,  'Old  Doctor  Carroll?  Yes, 
him  and  Mis'  Wilton.  Do  you  know 
'em?  Was  you  comin'  to  see  'em?' 

'No,'  said  Miss  Laylor  hastily,  'I 
just  wanted  to  know';  and  thanking 
the  little  girl,  she  hurried  on.  It  seemed 
all  at  once  that  even  the  child  must 
know  she  had  no  right  to  enter  the  Car- 
roll gate,  and  that  she  had  no  claim  on 
the  Carroll  hospitality.  Her  interest  in 
the  son  of  the  household  would  scarce- 
ly bear  explanation.  Weak  and  tired, 
she  walked  on  rapidly  in  the  waning 
afternoon,  following  a  street  that  led 
toward  the  edge  of  the  town.  Her 
attention  was  attracted  by  a  field  bor- 
dered with  box  elders,  between  which 
showed  the  dark  tops  of  small  fir  trees 
with  a  glint  of  white  shining  here  and 
there  against  them.  Miss  Laylor's  tense 
pace  slackened.  She  had  stumbled 
upon  the  graveyard,  the  place  that, 
more  perhaps  even  than  the  garden, 
she  had  longed  to  see. 

The  light  wooden  bars  were  open. 
A  horse  and  a  low  uncovered  buggy 
stood  at  the  rough  cedar  post  without 
the  gate.  A  black  figure  moved  among 


the  headstones.  Entering  the  ceme- 
tery, Miss  Laylor  approached  the  wo- 
man, who  was  arranging  some  home- 
grown flowers  in  a  tin  basin  on  a  bare, 
sandy  mound.  She  felt  a  sick  desire  for 
company  —  for  any  kind  of  human 
conversation.  The  woman,  sallow  and 
middle-aged,  looked  up  with  startled, 
red  eyes  as  the  stranger  came  toward 
her  through  the  grass.  Miss  Laylor  felt 
awkward  and  de  trop. 

'Good-afternoon,'  she  stammered. 
'Don't  let  me  disturb  you.'  Then  the 
self-control  bred  of  her  three  years 
in  the  newspaper  office  with  Harden 
Carroll  on  one  hand,  and  suspicious, 
small-soul  ed  John  Herfurth  on  the 
other,  asserted  itself  again.  'I  really 
beg  your  pardon,'  she  said.  'I  was 
spending  a  few  hours  in  town,  and  as  I 
knew  no  one,  I  thought  I  'd  walk  around 
a  little.  This  old  cemetery  looked 
interesting,  and  I  stepped  in  for  a  mo- 
ment. It  has  been  a  delightful  day, 
has  n't  it?' 

The  older  woman,  after  her  first  start 
of  surprise,  seemed  rather  grateful  for 
the  intrusion  than  otherwise.  She  re- 
plied politely  to  Miss  Laylor's  greeting, 
and  smiled  in  an  amiable  way  at  the 
excuse. 

'You  won't  disturb  me  a  bit,'  she 
said;  'I  was  feeling  pretty  lonesome, 
anyway,  and  just  wishin'  I  had  some 
one  with  me.  Do  sit  down  here  in  the 
shade.  You  look  kind  o'  tired  and 
white.  A  little  rest  '11  be  good  for  you.' 

Miss  Laylor  sat  down,  and  took  off 
her  hat.  It  did  seem  good  to  rest,  after 
her  long  tour  of  exploration. 

'Won't  you  sit  down,  too?'  she  said 
to  the  woman  standing  beside  her. 
'It's  hot  work  there  in  the  sun.' 

'I  might,  for  a  few  minutes,'  was  the 
reply; ' but  I  must  be goin'  before  long.' 

Nevertheless,  it  was  nearly  half  an 
hour  that  the  two  women  sat  there 
talking,  —  the  one  with  the  ready 
understanding  that  had  helped  to  make 


238 


THE  BIRTHPLACE 


her  modest  literary  career  a  success,  the 
other  with  the  half-diffident  loquacity 
of  the  country  woman,  narrowly  bred. 
The  gulf  that  lay  between  them  was 
not  a  wide  one,  however  different  their 
circumstances  had  been. 

Miss  Laylor  found  that  her  com- 
panion, though  living  on  a  farm  three 
miles  from  Ballard,  knew  intimately 
the  greater  number  of  its  inhabitants. 
She  could  not  forbear  a  question. 

'  I  ran  across  a  man  from  here  a  few 
years  ago,'  she  said  carelessty,  as  she 
tore  a  crisp,  wide  grass-leaf  into  shreds; 
'  I  wonder  if  you  know  him  —  Carroll 
his  name  was.' 

'  It  must  have  been  Harden  Carroll,' 
the  woman  exclaimed  delightedly. 
'Yes  indeed,  I  know  him.  I've  always 
known  Doctor  Carroll  and  his  family. 
Harden's  mother  is  dead  —  she's  lyin' 
here  in  this  very  graveyard,  in  fact; 
but  she  was  always  fond  of  my  folks 
when  she  was  alive,  and  we  used  to 
visit  back  'n '  forth.  She  was  quiet  'n' 
plain,  'n'  never  put  on  airs,  but  she  was 
a  lady  all  through,  just  the  same.  She 
certainly  was  a  fine  woman.  Harden 
takes  after  her  a  lot.  Good  lookin', 
was  n't  he,  with  a  straightish  nose,  and 
lots  of  fair-colored  hair?  I  thought  so. 
Yes,  it  must  have  been  Harden.  He 
ain't  been  home  this  summer  yet.  He 
usually  comes  in  August  and  brings 
his  wife  with  him,  —  he 's  been  mar- 
ried seven  or  eight  years.  His  wife's  a 
high-headed  piece,  an'  don't  take  very 
well  with  the  folks  round  here.  I  don't 
see,  myself,  how  Harden  happened  to 
get  her.  She  ain't  like  him  a  bit.' 

Miss  Laylor  could  endure  no  more. 
'  I  think  that  must  have  been  the  man,' 
she  said.  'I  never  knew  his  wife  very 
well.  I  wonder  how  late  it  is?  ' 

The  other  woman  rose  hurriedly.  'It 
is  late,'  she  sighed.  'I've  talked  too 
long.  But  it's  done  me  good.  I  always 
feel  so  used  up  when  I  come  away  from 
here  that  I  don't  get  over  it  all  the  rest 


of  the  day.'  She  had  told  Miss  Laylor 
of  her  husband's  sudden  death  in  March. 
Her  tears  came  again  as  she  turned  to- 
ward his  grave.  'It  seems  as  if  I  can't 
stand  it,'  she  said. 

'You  must  n't  feel  that  way,'  con- 
soled Miss  Laylor.  '  You  know  death  is 
not  the  worst.' 

The  triteness  of  her  remark  smote 
her,  but  the  older  woman  accepted  it 
without  scorn. 

'No,'  she  said  slowly,  'it  ain't  the 
worst,  to  be  sure,  but  it's  bad  enough.' 
Then,  after  a  pause,  'I  guess,  on  the 
whole,  though,  it's  better  to  lose  him 
this  way  than  not  to  have  been  mar- 
ried to  him  at  all.' 

Miss  Laylor  leaned  over  the  grave, 
and  finished  arranging  the  flowers. 
'I'm  sure  it  is,'  she  said  simply. 

'I  must  go  home  and  get  supper  for 
my  son,'  the  other  explained,  gather- 
ing up  her  things.  '  He 's  a  comfort  to 
me,  and  I  must  n't  neglect  him'.' 

Miss  Laylor,  smiling  into  the  eyes 
of  her  companion,  took  both  her  hands. 
'Good-by,' she  said.  '  Surely  you  must 
n't  neglect  your  son.  I  think  you  are 
a  very  fortunate  woman.' 

She  watched  the  stooping  black  form 
as  it  made  its  way  out,  beyond  the  box 
elders.  Then  she  looked  about  her, 
wearily.  The  next  grave  might  be  the 
one  she  sought.  It  was  somewhere  in 
this  green  and  white  God's-acre.  Yet 
she  stood  still. 

She  knew  that  his  mother  had  died 
the  year  before  Carroll  went  away  to 
college.  Yet  he  seemed  never  for  a  mo- 
ment to  have  forgotten  her.  'I  think 
of  her  in  some  connection,  every  hour 
in  the  day,'  he  had  said  once,  almost 
shyly.  No  one  else,  perhaps,  knew  as 
well  as  Miss  Laylor  how  much  his 
mother's  memory  was  to  him.  She  her- 
self had  come  to  have  something  of  his 
feeling.  A  thousand  times  in  the  last 
miserable  year  she  had,  in  her  passion- 
ate yearning  for  sympathy,  imagined 


THE   BIRTHPLACE 


239 


herself  sobbing  out  on  his  mother's 
grave  the  story  of  her  love  and  Car- 
roll's to  the  deaf  ears  of  the  only  per- 
son who  could  ever  have  understood. 
Mary  Carroll's  grave  had  become,  to 
her  harassed  fancy,  the  one  place  in  the 
world  where  she  could  unburden  her- 
self of  her  grief.  But  now  that  it  was 
within  touch  of  her  hand,  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  look  for  it.  The  poign- 
ancy of  her  desire  was  gone.  Some 
undefined  reluctance  held  her  back. 
This  hesitation  was  as  whimsical  as 
the  impulse  that  had  brought  her  to 
Ballard  in  the  first  place.  She  would 
have  had  difficulty  in  putting  it  into 
speech;  but  it  crystallized  at  last  into 
a  clear  idea,  —  she  would  go  away 
without  finding  Mary  Carroll's  grave 
and  she  would  never  come  back  till 
she  could  come  joyfully  with  Mary 
Carroll's  son.  That  meant,  in  all  prob- 
ability, never.  Yet  who  was  she,  that 
she  should  break  in  upon  a  dead  wo- 
man's peace  with  a  wild  tale  of  sorrow, 
and  love  misplaced  ?  Carroll  himself,  if 
he  knew,  would  frown  at  her  folly. 

She  left  the  graveyard  and  made 
her  way  with  lagging  footsteps  back 
to  the  town.  Choosing  the  neater  of 
the  two  small  hotels,  she  turned  her 
mind  at  last  to  the  exhaustion  of  her 
body.  There  was  still  a  half-hour  left 
before  the  early  country  supper-time. 
With  a  dull  sense  of  the  futility  of  her 
day,  she  lay  down  on  the  clean,  hard 
bed  of  her  narrow  inn-bedroom.  She 
had  seen  neither  of  the  spots  that  she 
wanted  above  all  to  see,  —  Carroll's 
garden,  and  his  mother's  grave.  She 
had  not  even  kept  her  resolution  of  the 
morning,  to  read  the  story  of  the  little 
town,  always  in  the  language  of  Car- 
roll's youth.  She  had,  she  realized  now, 
translated  it  with  a  bitter  accent  of  her 
own  that  had  made  it,  after  all,  quite 
different  from  what  it  had  been  to  him. 
In  the  early  morning  of  the  next  day, 
she  would  leave  Ballard,  and  set  out 


for  the  Southern  city  where  she  was  to 
begin  the  new  life  that  she  had  planned 
for  herself  in  a  field  of  wider  opportun- 
ities. Would  not  the  sharpness  of  her 
remembrance  be  augmented,  rather 
than  decreased,  by  this  one  day  in  Har- 
den Carroll's  birthplace? 

With  a  brain  overwearied  by  emo- 
tion and  long,  useless  questioning,  she 
fell  asleep,  and  forgot  for  half  an  hour 
the  fullness  of  her  grief. 

After  an  almost  untasted  supper, 
she  put  on  her  hat  once  more  and 
strolled  idly  about  the  neighboring 
streets.  Insensibly,  her  footsteps  drew 
her  to  the  house  beside  the  pond;  al- 
most before  she  knew  what  she  had 
really  intended,  she  had  paused  before 
the  iron  gate  of  the  garden. 

She  leaned  for  a  moment  on  the  gate, 
like  a  child,  longing  yet  fearing  to  go 
in,  and  as  she  stood  there  she  saw  the 
old  man  coming  down  the  path,  his 
bare  white  head  appearing  and  disap- 
pearing among  the  untrimmed  shrubs. 
Miss  Laylor  did  not  move.  As  he  came 
nearer,  he  stopped  and  looked  at  her 
earnestly. 

'I  should  have  known  the  face  any- 
where,' she  was  thinking.  'The  same 
nose  and  chin  —  but  Harden's  eyes 
must  be  like  his  mother's.' 

'Good-evening,'  said  the  old  man 
kindly^ 

*  May  I  come  in  and  see  your  garden  ? ' 
she  cried  impulsively.  'It  looked  so 
attractive  that  I  had  to  stop.' 

'Certainly,'  he  said,  with  a  pleased 
gesture.  '  It  is  n't  much  of  a  garden,  but 
you're  welcome  to  see  it  all.' 

He  opened  the  gate  for  her,  and  she 
went  in.  The  long,  gentle  slope  from 
the  house  to  the  pond  had  scarcely 
been  touched  by  the  twilight,  yet  it 
held  a  certain  dimness  of  its  own, 
emanating  from  its  trailing  vines  and 
overhanging  boughs.  The  grass,  heavy 
and  matted  after  the  June  rains,  was 
unmownr.  Unexpected  paths  cut  nar- 


THE   BIRTHPLACE 


rowly  through  the  verdure  of  the  gar- 
den, and  disappeared  as  unexpectedly 
behind  the  shrubs.  Over  against  the 
wall  a  late  tulip  or  two  flamed  out  star- 
like  from  the  dark.  Here  and  there 
stood  a  thick  clump  of  rose-bushes 
covered  with  small,  old-fashioned, 
golden-hearted  white  blossoms,  while 
at  Miss  Laylor's  elbow  a  taller  and 
more  spreading  bush  held  crowded 
sprays  of  round,  sulphur-colored  roses, 
abundant  and  good-smelling.  She  fin- 
gered their  smooth  petals  as  she  looked 
about.  Her  heart  swelled  with  a  slow 
gush  of  thankfulness.  She  could  not 
have  borne  it  if  the  garden  had  been 
one  whit  less  satisfying,  if  it  had  dif- 
fered one  iota  from  what  it  had  been 
when  Harden  was  a  boy. 

The  old  man  was  watching  her  al- 
most anxiously. 

'It  is  a  perfect  Garden  of  Delight,' 
she  sighed  happily. 

The  old  man  laughed.  'That's  just 
what  my  son  Harden  calls  it,'  he  said. 
*It's  queer  that  you  should  have  hit 
on  his  very  words.' 

He  led  the  way  to  a  worn  old  bench 
under  the  branches  of  a  pair  of  shaggy 
apple  trees.  His  absolute  courtesy  re- 
quired no  explanations.  'Sit  down,'  he 
said  simply,  'and  look  at  the  pond  a  few 
minutes.  I  always  like  it  at  this  time, 
especially  when  there's  a  good  sunset.' 

The  water  gave  back  the  fading 
colors  of  the  sky,  but  the  shadows 
around  the  edge  were  quiet  and  black. 
On  the  other  bank  trembled  a  group  of 
birches,  their  white  trunks  gleaming 
like  the  slim,  naked  bodies  of  wood 
nymphs  poised  for  a  simultaneous 
leap  into  the  water.  A  robin  chirruped 
noisily  from  somewhere  above. 

The  two  people  on  the  bench  talked 
intermittently  of  the  sunset  and  the 
delightful  June  weather,  lapsing  often 
into  a  silence  as  natural  and  uncon- 
strained as  their  conversation. 

'You  have  been  in  Ballard  before?' 


the  old  man  queried  at  last,  with  no 
touch  of  curiosity,  but  with  the  quick 
interest  of  the  aged  in  the  young. 
'No,  I  just  came  here  for  the  day, 

—  on  an  errand,  —  or  rather  on  a  pil- 
grimage.' Miss  Laylor  smiled,  the  tense 
look  of  despair  already  half-softened 
in  her  face. 

'And  has  it  been  successfully  ac- 
complished ? 

'A  part  of  it  —  perhaps  all.' 

'Good!'  The  doctor's  exclamation 
was  such  as  he  might  have  given  at 
seeing  a  patient  advancing  toward  re- 
covery. 

A  silence  fell  upon  them.  The  young 
woman  breathed  a  little  sigh  and  leaned 
back  in  her  seat  with  a  feeling  of  ap- 
proaching comfort,  from  what  source 
she  hardly  knew.  Her  tired  thoughts 
wandered  for  a  moment.  She  was  re- 
called to  herself  by  the  voice  of  the  old 
man,  speaking  of  the  garden. 

'I'm  glad  you  like  it,'  he  said;  'it 
does  n't  appeal  to  some  people  at  all. 
My  son's  wife  wants  it  changed.  She 
thinks  it  ought  to  be  thoroughly  cleared 
up,  and  then  laid  out  properly  with 
straight  paths,  and  stone  urns,  and  a 
fountain.  She  talks  about  it  every  time 
she  comes  here.  She  says  it 's  "  creepy  " 

—  the  old  man  smiled  —  'and  that  she 
can't  bear  to  stay  in  it.  And  she  never 
does,  either,'  he  added.   'I  don't  think 
she  ever  came  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
pond.' 

Miss  Laylor  was  conscious  of  a  flit- 
ting gladness  that  Harden's  wife  had 
never  sat  on  the  old  bench  under  the 
apple  trees,  never  walked  among  the 
roses,  and  watched  the  shadows  deepen 
in  the  pond.  But  the  flash  of  joy  van- 
ished at  the  sound  of  Harden's  name. 

'My  son  is  a  very  busy  man  —  he's 
the  editor  of  a  paper  out  East  —  and 
it  always  rests  him,  he  says,  to  spend 
his  vacations  at  home  in  Ballard  —  to 
loaf  around  in  the  garden,  and  sit  here 
on  this  bench  and  dream.' 


THE  BIRTHPLACE 


241 


'Ah,  yes,  the  garden  is  so  good  a 
place  to  rest.' 

The  old  man  eyed  his  companion 
thoughtfully,  detecting  the  hidden 
weariness  in  her  tone. 

'Young  people  like  you  ought  not 
to  be  tired,'  he  said.  'Life  is  so  full  of 
incident  to  you,  so  full  of  interest  and 
exhilaration.' 

'Oh,  but  it's  so  hard!'  The  woman 
choked  a  little  as  she  spoke. 

'I  know.  Young  people  find  it  so. 
It  is,  too,  in  a  way;  but  it's  so  much 
easier,  better,  than  you  think.  And 
there  is  so  much  that  one  can  learn.' 

'Yes  —  to  endure  the  bitterness  of 
loss.'  She  spoke  sharply,  with  the  sud- 
den poignancy  of  a  creature  awakened 
to  an  habitual  pain. 

He  answered  gently,  'Not  that.  To 
find  no  bitterness,  and  feel  no  loss.' 

She  did  not  answer,  but  her  tears 
fell. 

He  went  on:  'One  does  not  learn  it 
all  at  once;  but  it  comes  little  by  little, 
if  one  will  let  it,  when  one  realizes  the 
fullness  of  life  all  around  one,  and  feels 
the  power  under  it  all.  And  then, 
there  are  those  we  love  — ' 

'Those  we  love  —  ah,  they're  what 
make  life  hard ! ' 

'Not  if  we  love  rightly.  To  have  had 
them  is  enough.' 

'But  when  we  can't  have  them  any 
more?' 

'But  you  always  can;  once  having 
them  is  everything.  Nothing  can  make 
them  less  than  yours  after  that.' 

'That's  true,'  Miss  Laylor  said 
humbly;  'yes,  of  course.  I  knew  it  be- 
fore, but  you  make  me  feel  it  now.' 

'To  live,  and  see,'  the  old  doctor 
went  on  slowly,  'and  feel,  and  love, 
and  have,  —  to  work  with  one's  hands 
and  brain,  and  to  aspire  and  develop 
with  one's  soul,  —  these  are  the  great 
things,  things  worth  living  for,  even 
though  we  can't  always  do  and  be  what 
we  should  like.' 
VOL.  107 -NO.  2 


'Oh,  if  I  could  stay  here  in  this 
garden,  I  could  be  sure  of  what  you 
say.  I  could  be  rested,  and  have  some 
happiness  and  peace.' 

'But  you  can  take  the  garden  with 
you.  If  you  shut  your  eyes  now,  you 
have  it  just  as  much  as  if  you  saw  it. 
Why  not  so,  when  you  are  miles  away? 
And  why  not  happiness  and  peace?' 
His  voice  was  insistent  and  persuasive. 

Miss  Laylor  heard  him  with  an  eager 
gaze.  Then  she  closed  her  eyes  and 
leaned  back  once  more  against  the 
bench.  A  light  wind  rustled  the  branch- 
es above  her  head;  the  smell  of  the 
flowers  came  to  her  through  the  damp 
evening  air.  Across  her  face  moved  a 
slow  succession  of  emotions,  until  the 
last  trace  of  hopeless  wretchedness  was 
gone.  Watching  her,  the  old  man  was 
quiet  for  a  long  time.  Then  he  spoke :  — 

'  We  two  are  strangers  —  I  shall 
never  see  you  again;  but  I  am  old,  and 
I  have  learned.  Life  is  good,  and  it  is 
peace  to  know  its  goodness  —  to  love 
those  that  are  dear  to  us,  to  feel  that 
what  has  once  been  ours  is  ours  for- 
ever. Believe  me,  for  it  is  true.' 

'  I  will  believe  it,'  she  murmured  with 
a  new  note  in  her  voice.  '  I  will  believe 
it  because  you  tell  me;  and  perhaps 
some  time  you  may  know  how  much 
your  words  have  meant.' 

She  put  out  her  hand  as  if  to  touch 
his,  then  withdrew  it  hastily.  The  old 
man  was  looking  out  across  the  shadows 
of  the  pond,  and  did  not  notice  the 
gesture.  Silence  fell  again  upon  the  two. 
A  robin  flew  across  the  pond  with  an 
important  flutter  of  wings.  The  last 
streak  of  crimson  above  the  birches 
had  disappeared.  Miss  Laylor  knew 
that  she  must  go.  But  still  for  a  little 
season  they  sat  there,  the  old  man  and 
the  young  woman,  who  loved  Harden 
Carroll  as  the  blood  of  their  own  hearts. 

And  so  the  evening  fell,  and  peace 
came  with  it  and  brooded  over  the 
Garden  of  Delight. 


THE  PATRICIANS 


BY  JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


XX 

IT  was  about  noon,  when,  accom- 
panied by  Courtier,  she  rode  forth. 

The  sou'westerly  spell  —  a  matter 
of  three  days  —  had  given  way  before 
radiant  stillness;  and  merely  to  be 
alive  was  to  feel  emotion.  At  a  little 
stream  running  by  the  moor-side  under 
the  wild  stone  man,  the  riders  stopped 
their  horses,  just  to  listen  and  inhale 
the  day.  The  far  sweet  chorus  of  life 
was  tuned  to  a  most  delicate  rhythm; 
not  one  of  those  small  mingled  pipings 
of  streams  and  the  lazy  air,  of  beasts, 
men,  birds,  and  bees,  jarred  out  too 
harshly  through  the  garment  of  sound 
enwrapping  the  earth.  It  was  noon  — 
the  still  moment — but  this  hymn  to  the 
sun,  after  his  too  long  absence,  never 
for  a  moment  ceased  to  be  murmured. 
And  the  earth  wore  an  under-robe  of 
scent,  delicious,  very  finely  woven  of  the 
young  fern-sap,  heather-buds,  larch 
trees  not  yet  odorless,  gorse  just  going 
brown,  drifted  wood-smoke,  and  the 
breath  of  hawthorn.  Above  earth's 
twin  vestments  of  sound  and  scent, 
the  blue  enwrapping  scarf  of  air,  that 
wistful  wide  champaign,  was  spanned 
only  by  the  wings  of  Freedom. 

After  a  long  drink  of  the  day,  the 
riders  mounted  almost  in  silence  to  the 
very  top  of  the  moor.  There  again  they 
sat  quite  still  on  their  horses,  examining 
the  prospect.  Far  away  to  south  and 
east  lay  the  sea,  plainly  visible.  Two 
small  groups  of  wild -ponies  were  slowly 
grazing  toward  each  other,  on  the  hill- 
side below. 

242 


Courtier  said  in  a  low  voice,  '"Thus 
will  I  sit  and  sing,  with  thee  in  my 
arms;  watching  our  two  herds  mingle 
together,  and  below  us  the  far,  divine, 
cerulean  sea.'"  And,  after  another 
silence,  looking  steadily  in  Barbara's 
face,  he  added,  'Lady  Barbara,  I  am 
afraid  this  is  the  last  time  we  shall  be 
alone  together.  While  I  have  the 
chance,  therefore,  I  must  do  homage. 
You  will  always  be  the  fixed  star  for 
my  worship.  But  your  rays  are  too 
bright;  I  shall  worship  from  afar.  From 
your  seventh  heaven,  therefore,  look 
down  on  me  with  kindly  eyes,  and  do 
not  quite  forget  me.' 

Under  that  speech,  so  strangely  com- 
pounded of  irony  and  fervor,  Barbara 
sat  very  still,  with  glowing  cheeks. 

'Yes,'  said  Courtier,  'only  an  im- 
mortal must  embrace  a  goddess.  Out- 
side the  purlieus  of  Authority  I  shall 
sit  cross-legged,  and  prostrate  myself 
three  times  a  day.' 

But  Barbara  answered  nothing. 

'  In  the  early  morning,'  went  on  Cour- 
tier,'  leaving  the  dark  and  dismal  homes 
of  Freedom,  I  shall  look  toward  the 
Temples  of  the  Great;  there  with  the 
*eye  of  faith  I  shall  see  you.' 

He  stopped,  for  Barbara's  lips  were 
moving. 

'Don't  hurt  me,  please.' 

Courtier  leaned  over,  took  her  hand, 
and  put  it  to  his  lips.  'We  will  now 
ride  on.' 

That  night  at  dinner,  Lord  Dennis, 
seated  opposite  his  grand-niece,  was 
struck  by  her  appearance. 


THE  PATRICIANS 


243 


'A  very  beautiful  child,'  he  thought; 
'a  most  lovely  young  creature!' 

She  was  placed  between  Courtier 
and  Lord  Harbinger.  And  the  old  man's 
still  keen  eyes  carefully  watched  those 
two.  Though  attentive  to  their  neigh- 
bors on  the  other  side,  they  were  both 
of  them  keeping  the  corner  of  an  eye  on 
Barbara,  and  on  each  other.  The  thing 
was  transparent  to  Lord  Dennis,  and 
a  smile  settled  in  that  nest  of  gravity 
between  his  white  peaked  beard  and 
moustaches.  But  he  waited,  the  in- 
stinct of  a  fisherman  bidding  him  to 
neglect  no  piece  of  water,  till  he  saw 
the  child  silent  and  in  repose,  and 
watched  carefully  to  see  what  would 
rise.  For  all  that  she  was  calmly  and 
healthily  eating,  her  eyes  stole  round 
at  Courtier.  This  quick  look  seemed 
to  Lord  Dennis  perturbed,  as  though 
something  were  exciting  her.  Then 
Harbinger  spoke,  and  she  turned  to 
answer  him.  Her  face  was  calm  enough 
now,  faintly  smiling,  a  little  eager,  pro- 
vocative in  its  joy  of  life.  It  made  Lord 
Dennis  think  of  his  own  youth.  What 
a  splendid  couple!  If  Babs  married 
young  Harbinger  there  would  not  be 
a  finer  pair  in  all  England. 

His  eyes  traveled  back  to  Courtier. 
Manly  enough!  They  called  him  dan- 
gerous! There  was  a  look  of  effer- 
vescence, carefully  corked  down  — 
might  perhaps  be  attractive  to  a 
youngster!  To  his  essentially  prac- 
tical and  sober  mind,  a  type  like  Cour- 
tier was  puzzling.  He  liked  the  look  of 
him,  but  distrusted  his  ironic  expres- 
sion, and  that  appearance  of  blood  to 
the  head.  Fellow  —  no  doubt  —  that 
would  ride  off  on  his  ideas,  humanitar- 
ian !  To  Lord  Dennis  there  was  some- 
thing queer  about  humanitarians.  They 
offended,  perhaps,  his  dry  and  precise 
sense  of  form.  They  were  always  look- 
ing out  for  cruelty  or  injustice;  seemed 
delighted  when  they  found  it;  swelled 
up,  as  it  were,  when  they  scented  it; 


and  as  there  was  a  good  deal  about, 
were  never  quite  of  normal  size.  Men 
who  lived  for  ideas  —  to  one  for  whom 
facts  sufficed,  a  little  worrying. 

But  the  sight  of  Barbara  again  brought 
him  back  to  actuality.  Was  the  pos- 
sessor of  that  crown  of  hair  and  those 
divine  young  shoulders  the  little  Babs 
who  had  ridden  with  him  in  the  Row  ? 
Time  was  the  Devil!  Her  eyes  were 
searching  for  something;  and  following 
the  direction  of  her  glance,  Lord  Dennis 
found  himself  observing  Milton.  What 
a  difference  between  those  two!  Both, 
no  doubt,  deep  in  that  great  trouble  of 
youth,  which  sometimes,  as  he  knew 
too  well,  lasted  on  almost  to  old  age. 
It  was  a  curious  look  the  child  was 
giving  her  brother,  as  if  asking  him  to 
help  her. 

Lord  Dennis  had  seen  in  his  day 
many  young  creatures  leave  the  shel- 
ter of  their  freedom  and  enter  the  house 
of  the  great  lottery;  many  who  had 
drawn  a  prize  and  thereat  lost  forever 
the  coldness  of  life;  many,  too,  the 
light  of  whose  eyes  had  faded  behind 
the  shutters  of  that  house,  having 
drawn  a  blank.  The  thought  of '  little ' 
Babs  on  the  threshold  of  that  inexor- 
able saloon,  filled  him  with  an  eager 
sadness;  and  the  sight  of  the  two  men 
watching  for  her,  waiting  for  her,  like 
hunters,  was  to  him  distasteful. 

With  the  prophetic  certainty  which 
comes  sometimes  to  the  old,  he  felt 
sure  that  one  or  other  of  these  two 
she  would  take;  and  in  his  jealousy 
he  did  not  want  her  to  take  either. 
But  if  she  must,  then,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  let  her  not  go  running  risks,  and 
ranging  as  far  as  that  red  fellow  of 
middle  age,  who  might  have  ideas,  but 
had  no  pedigree;  let  her  stick  to  youth 
and  her  own  order,  and  marry  the 

young  man,  d n  him,  who  looked 

like  a  Greek  god,  of  the  wrong  period, 
having  grown  a  moustache. 

You  could  n't   eat  your  cake  and 


244 


THE  PATRICIANS 


have  it!  She  had  said  something  the 
other  evening  about  those  two  and  the 
different  lives  they  lived?  Yes,  some 
romantic  notion  or  other  was  working 
in  her!  Adventure!  Ah!  but  you  must 
have  it  in  your  blood,  like  that  glori- 
ous Anita  of  Garibaldi's! 

Again  he  looked  at  Courtier.  The 
sort  that  rode  slap-bang  at  everything. 
All  very  well!  But  Babs!  No,  no! 
There  was  another  side  to  little  Babs. 
She  would  want  more,  or  was  it  less, 
than  just  a  life  of  sleeping  under  the 
stars  for  the  man  she  loved,  and  the 
cause  he  fought  for.  She  would  want 
pleasure,  and  not  too  much  effort,  and 
presently  a  little  power;  not  the  un- 
comfortable after-fame  of  a  woman  who 
went  through  fire  and  water;  but  the 
fame  and  power  of  beauty  and  prestige. 
This  fancy,  if  it  were  a  fancy,  was  no- 
thing but  the  romanticism  of  a  young 
girl.  For  the  sake  of  a  passing  shadow, 
to  give  up  substance?  It  wouldn't 
do!  And  again  Lord  Dennis  fixed  his 
shrewd  glance  on  his  great-niece.  Those 
eyes,  that  smile!  Yes!  She  would  grow 
out  of  this  —  and  take  the  Greek  god, 
the  dying  Gaul  — whichever  that  young 
man  was! 

XXI 

It  was  not  till  the  very  morning  of 
polling  day  itself  that  Courtier  left 
Monkland  Court.  He  had  already  suf- 
fered for  several  days  from  a  bad  con- 
science; for  his  knee  was  practically 
cured,  and  he  knew  very  well  that  it 
was  Barbara,  and  Barbara  alone,  who 
kept  him  staying  on.  The  atmosphere 
of  the  big  house  with  its  army  of  serv- 
ants, the  impossibility  of  doing  any- 
thing for  himself,  and  the  feeling  of 
hopeless  insulation  from  the  vivid  and 
necessitous  sides  of  life,  galled  him 
greatly.  It  inspired  in  him  too  a  very 
genuine  pity  for  these  people,  who 
seemed  to  him  to  lead  an  existence  as 
it  were  smothered  under  their  own  so- 


cial importance.  It  was  not  their  fault. 
He  recognized  that  they  did  their  best. 
They  were  not  soft  or  luxurious,  they 
did  not  eat  or  drink  or  clothe  them- 
selves extravagantly,  indeed  they  ap- 
peared to  try  and  be  simple,  and  this 
seemed  to  him  to  heighten  the  pathos 
of  their  situation.  Fate  had  been  too 
much  for  them.  What  human  spirit 
could  emerge  untrammeled  and  un- 
shrunk  from  that  great  encompassing 
host  of  material  advantage?  To  a 
Bedouin  like  Courtier  it  was  as  if  a 
subtle  but  very  terrible  tragedy  was  all 
the  time  being  played  before  his  eyes; 
and  in  the  very  centre  of  this  tragedy 
was  the  girl  who  had  for  htm  such -a 
great  attraction.  Every  night,  when 
he  retired  to  that  lofty  room  which 
smelt  so  good,  and  where  without  os- 
tentation everything  was  so  perfectly 
ordered  for  his  comfort,  he  thought, 
'My  God,  to-morrow  I'll  be  off.' 

But  every  morning  when  he  met  her 
at  breakfast  his  thought  was  precisely 
the  same,  and  there  were  moments 
when  he  caught  himself  wondering: 
'Am  I  falling  under  the  spell  of  this 
existence,  —  am  I  getting  soft  ? '  He 
recognized  as  never  before  that  the  pe- 
culiar artificial  '  hardness '  of  the  aris- 
tocrat was  a  brine  or  pickle  in  which, 
with  the  instinct  of  self-preservation, 
they  deliberately  soaked  themselves, 
to  prevent  the  decay  of  fibre,  through 
too  much  protection.  He  perceived  it 
even  in  Barbara,  a  sort  of  sentiment- 
proof  overall.  And  every  day  he  was 
tempted  to  lay  rude  hands  on  it,  to 
see  whether  he  could  not  make  her 
catch  fire,  and  flare  up  with  some  feel- 
ing or  idea.  In  spite  of  her  tantalizing 
youthful  self-possession,  he  saw  that 
she  felt  this  longing  in  him,  and  now 
and  then  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
streak  of  recklessness  in  her  which  lured 
him  on. 

And  yet  at  last,  when  he  was  saying 
good-bye  on  the  night  before  polling 


THE  PATRICIANS 


245 


day,  he  could  not  flatter  himself  that  he 
had  really  struck  any  spark  from  her. 
She  gave  him  no  chance,  at  that  last 
interview,  but  stood  amongst  the  other 
women,  calm  and  smiling,  as  if  deter- 
mined that  he  should  not  again  mock 
her  with  his  ironical  devotion. 

He  got  up  very  early  the  next  morn- 
ing, intending  to  pass  away  unseen; 
and  was  in  the  car  put  at  his  disposal 
by  half-past  seven.  He  found  it  occu- 
pied by  a  little  figure  in  a  holland  frock, 
leaning  back  against  the  cushions  so 
that  her  small  sandaled  toes  pointed 
up  at  the  chauffeur's  back.  This  was 
indeed  little  Ann,  who  in  the  course  of 
business  had  discovered  it  before  the 
door.  Her  sudden  little  voice  under 
her  sudden  little  nose,  friendly  but  not 
too  friendly,  was  comforting. 

'Are  you  going?  I  can  come  as  far 
as  the  gate.' 

'That  is  lucky.' 

'Yes.  Is  that  all  your  luggage?' 

'I'm  afraid  it  is.' 

'Oh!  It's  quite  a  lot,  really,  isn't 
it?' 

'As  much  as  I  deserve.' 

'Of  course  you  don't  have  to  take 
guinea-pigs  about  with  you?' 

'Not  as  a  rule.' 

'  I  always  do.  There 's  great-granny ! ' 

It  was  indeed  Lady  Casterley,  stand- 
ing a  little  back  from  the  drive,  and  di- 
recting a  tall  gardener  how  to  deal  with 
an  old  oak  tree.  Courtier,  alighting, 
went  towards  her  to  say  good-bye.  The 
little  old  lady  addressed  him  with  grim 
cordiality. 

'  So  you  are  going !  I  am  glad  of  that, 
though  I  hope  you  quite  understand 
that  I  like  you  personally.' 

'Quite!' ' 

Her  eyes  gleamed  maliciously. 

'Men  who  laugh  like  you  are  dan- 
gerous, as  I've  told  you  before!' 

Then,  with  great  gravity,  she  added, 
'My  granddaughter  will  marry  Lord 
Harbinger.  I  mention  that,  Mr.  Cour- 


tier, for  your  peace  of  mind.   You  are 
a  man  of  honor;  it  will  go  no  further.' 

Courtier,  bowing  over  her  hand, 
answered,  'He  will  be  lucky.' 

The  little  old  lady  regarded  him  un- 
flinchingly. 

'  He  will,  sir.   Good-bye ! ' 

Courtier  smilingly  raised  his  hat. 
His  cheeks  were  burning.  Regaining 
the  car,  he  looked  round.  Lady  Cas- 
terley was  busy  once  more  exhorting 
the  tall  gardener.  The  voice  of  little 
Ann  broke  in  on  his  thoughts:  — 

'I  hope  you'll  come  again.  Because 
I  expect  I  shall  be  here  at  Christmas; 
and  my  brothers  will  be  here  then,  that 
is,  Jock  and  Tiddy,  not  Christopher, 
because  he's  young.  I  must  go  now. 
Good-bye!  Hallo,  Susie!' 

Courtier  saw  her  glide  away,  and 
join  the  little  pale  adoring  figure  of  the 
lodgekeeper's  daughter. 

The  car  passed  out  into  the  lane. 

If  Lady  Casterley  had  planned  this 
disclosure,  which  indeed  she  had  not, 
for  the  impulse  had  only  come  over  her 
at  the  sound  of  Courtier's  laugh,  she 
could  not  have  devised  one  more  ef- 
fectual, for  there  was  deep  down  in  him 
all  of  a  wanderer's  very  real  distrust, 
amounting  almost  to  contempt,  of  an 
aristocrat  or  bourgeois,  and  all  a  man 
of  action's  horror  of  what  he  called 
'puking  and  muling.'  The  pursuit  of 
Barbara  with  any  other  object  but 
that  of  marriage  had  not  occurred  to 
one  who  had  little  sense  of  convention- 
al morality,  but  much  of  self-respect; 
and  a  secret  endeavor  to  cut  out  Har- 
binger, ending  in  a  marriage  whereat 
he  would  figure  as  a  sort  of  pirate,  was 
quite  as  little  to  the  taste  of  a  man  not 
unaccustomed  to  think  himself  as  good 
as  other  people. 

He  caused  the  car  to  deviate  up  the 
lane  that  led  to  Mrs.  Noel 's,  hating  to 
go  away  without  a  word  of  cheer  to  her. 

She  came  out  to  him  on  the  veranda. 
From  the  clasp  of  her  hand,  thin  and 


246 


THE   PATRICIANS 


faintly  browned,  —  the  hand  of  a  wo- 
man never  quite  idle,  —  he  felt  that  she 
relied  on  him  to  understand  and  sym- 
pathize; and  nothing  so  awakened  the 
best  in  Courtier  as  such  mute  appeals 
to  his  protection. 

He  said  gently,  'Don't  let  them 
think  you  're  down ' ;  then,  squeezing 
her  hand  hard,  'Why  should  you  be 
wasted  like  this  ?  It 's  a  sin  and  a  shame. ' 

But  he  stopped  at  sight  of  her  face, 
which  without  movement  expressed  so 
much  more  than  his  words.  He  had 
protested  as  a  civilized  man;  her  face 
was  the  protest  of  Nature,  the  soundless 
declaration  of  beauty  wasted  against 
its  will,  beauty  that  was  life's  invitation 
to  the  embrace  which  gave  life  birth. 

'I'm  clearing  out  myself,'  he  said. 
'You  and  I,  you  know,  are  not  good 
for  these  people.  No  birds  of  freedom 
allowed!' 

Pressing  his  hand,  she  turned  away 
into  the  house,  leaving  Courtier  gazing 
at  the  patch  of  air  where  her  white  fig- 
ure had  stood.  He  had  always  had  a 
special  protective  feeling  for  Audrey 
Noel,  a  feeling  which  with  but  little  en- 
couragement might  have  become  some- 
thing warmer.  But  since  she  had  been 
placed  in  her  anomalous  position,  he 
would  not  for  the  world  have  brushed 
the  dew  off  her  belief  that  she  could 
trust  him.  And  now  that  he  had  fixed 
his  own  gaze  elsewhere,  and  she  was  in 
this  bitter  trouble,  he  felt  on  her  ac- 
count the  rancor  that  a  brother  feels 
when  Justice  and  Pity  have  conspired 
to  flout  his  sister. 

The  voice  of  Frith  the  chauffeur 
roused  him  from  gloomy  reverie. 

'Lady  Barbara,  sir!' 

Following  the  man's  eyes,  Courtier 
saw  against  the  skyline  on  the  tor  above 
Ashman's  Folly,  an  equestrian  statue. 
He  stopped  the  car  at  once,  and  got 
out. 

He  reached  her  at  the  ruin,  screened 
from  the  road,  by  that  divine  chance 


which  attends  on  men  who  take  care 
that  it  shall.  He  could  not  tell  whether 
she  knew  of  his  approach,  and  he  would 
have  given  all  he  had,  which  was  not 
much,  to  have  seen  through  the  stiff 
blue  of  her  habit,  and  the  soft  cream  of 
her  body,  into  that  mysterious  cave, 
her  heart;  to  have  been  for  a  moment, 
like  Ashman,  done  for  good  and  all 
with  material  things,  and  living  the 
white  life  where  are  no  barriers  be- 
tween man  and  woman.  The  smile  on 
her  lips  so  baffled  him:  puffed  there 
by  her  spirit,  as  a  first  flower  is  puffed 
through  the  surface  of  earth  to  mock 
at  the  spring  winds.  How  tell  what  it 
signified !  Yet  he  rather  prided  himself 
on  his  knowledge  of  women,  of  whom 
he  had  seen  something. 

'I'm  glad  of  this  chance,'  he  said, 
'to  say  good-bye  as  it  should  be  said.' 

Then,  suddenly  looking  up,  he  saw 
her  strangely  pale  and  quivering. 

'  I  shall  see  you  in  London ! '  she  said ; 
and  touching  her  horse  with  her  whip, 
without  looking  back,  she  rode  away 
over  the  hill. 

Courtier  returned  to  the  moor  road, 
and  getting  into  the  car,  muttered, 
'Faster,  please,  Frith!' 

XXII 

Polling  was  already  in  brisk  progress 
when  Courtier  arrived  in  Buckland- 
bury;  and  partly  from  a  not  unnatural 
interest  in  the  result,  partly  from  a  half- 
unconscious  clinging  to  the  chance  of 
catching  another  glimpse  of  Barbara, 
he  took  his  bag  to  the  hotel,  deter- 
mined to  stay  for  the  announcement 
of  the  poll.  Strolling  out  into  the  high 
street,  he  began  observing  the  humors 
of  the  day.  The  bloom  of  political  be- 
lief had  long  been  brushed  off  the  wings 
of  one  who  had  so  flown  the  world's 
winds.  He  had  seen  too  much  of  more 
vivid  colors  to  be  capable  now  of  ven- 
erating greatly  the  dull  and  dubious 


THE  PATRICIANS 


247 


tints  of  blue  and  yellow.  They  left  him 
feeling  extremely  philosophic.  Yet  it 
was  impossible  to  get  away  from  them, 
for  the  very  world  that  day  seemed 
blue  and  yellow,  nor  did  the  third  color, 
red,  adopted  by  both  sides  afford  any 
clear  assurance  that  either  could  see 
virtue  in  the  other;  rather,  it  seemed  to 
symbolize  the  desire  of  each  to  have 
his  enemy's  blood.  But  Courtier  soon 
observed  by  the  looks  cast  at  his  own 
detached,  and  perhaps  sarcastic,  face, 
that  even  more  hateful  to  either  soul 
than  its  antagonist,  was  the  philosophic 
eye.  Unanimous  was  the  longing  to 
heave  half  a  brick  at  it  whenever  it 
showed  itself.  With  its  d d  impar- 
tiality, its  habit  of  looking  through  the 
integument  of  things,  to  see  if  there 
was  anything  inside,  he  felt  that  they 
regarded  it  as  the  real  adversary,  the 
eternal  foe  to  all  the  little  fat  'facts' 
who,  dressed  in  blue  and  yellow,  were 
swaggering  and  staggering,  calling 
each  other  names,  wiping  each  other's 
eyes,  blooding  each  other's  noses. 

To  these  little  solemn  delicious  crea- 
tures, all  front  and  no  behind,  the 
philosophic  eye,  with  its  habit  of  look- 
ing round  the  corner,  was  clearly  de- 
testable. The  very  yellow  and  very 
blue  bodies  of  these  roistering  small 
warriors,  with  their  hands  on  their  tin 
swords  and  their  lips  on  their  tin  trum- 
pets, started  up  in  every  window  and 
on  every  wall,  confronting  each  citizen 
in  turn,  persuading  him  that  they  and 
they  alone  were  taking  him  to  West- 
minster. Nor  had  they  apparently 
for  the  most  part  much  trouble  with 
citizens,  who,  finding  uncertainty 
distasteful,  passionately  desired  to  be 
assured  that  the  country  could  at  once 
be  saved  by  little  yellow  facts  or  little 
blue  facts,  as  the  case  might  be;  who 
had,  no  doubt,  a  dozen  other  good  rea- 
sons for  being  on  the  one  side  or  the 
other;  as,  for  instance,  that  their  father 
had  been  so  before  them;  that  their 


bread  was  buttered  yellow  or  buttered 
blue;  that  they  had  been  on  the  other 
side  last  time;  that  they  had  thought  it 
over  and  made  up  their  minds;  that 
they  had  innocent  blue  or  naive  yellow 
beer  within;  that  his  lordship  was  the 
man ;  or  that  the  words  proper  to  their 
mouths  were  'Chilcox  for  Buckland- 
bury';  and,  above  all,  the  one  really 
creditable  reason,  that,  so  far  as  they 
could  tell  with  the  best  of  their  in- 
tellect and  feelings,  the  truth  at  the 
moment  was  either  blue  or  yellow. 

The  narrow  high  street  was  thronged 
with  voters.  Tall  policemen  stationed 
there  had  nothing  to  do.  The  certainty 
of  all  that  they  were  going  to  win, 
kept  every  one  in  good  humor.  There 
was  as  yet  no  need  to  break  any  one's 
head;  for  though  the  sharpest  look-out 
was  kept  for  any  signs  of  the  philo- 
sophic eye,  it  was  only  to  be  found  - 
outside  Courtier  —  in  the  perambulat- 
ors of  babies,  in  one  old  man  who 
rode  a  bicycle  waveringly  along  the 
street  and  stopped  to  ask  a  policeman 
what  was  the  matter  in  the  town,  and 
in  two  rather  green-faced  fellows  who 
trundled  barrows  full  of  favors  both 
blue  and  yellow. 

But  though  Courtier  eyed  the  '  facts ' 
with  such  suspicion,  the  keenness  of 
every  one  about  the  business  struck 
him  as  really  splendid.  They  went  at 
it  with  a  will.  Having  looked  forward 
to  it  for  months,  they  were  going  to 
look  back  on  it  for  months.  It  was  evi- 
dently a  religious  ceremony,  summing 
up  most  high  feelings;  and  this  seemed 
to  one  who  was  himself  a  man  of  action, 
natural,  perhaps  pathetic,  but  certain- 
ly no  matter  for  scorn. 

It  was  already  late  in  the  afternoon 
when  there  came  debouching  into  the 
high  street  a  long  string  of  sandwich- 
men,  each  bearing  before  and  behind 
him  a  poster  containing  these  words 
in  large  dark-blue  letters  against  a  pale 
blue  ground :  — 


248 


THE  PATRICIANS 


Danger  not  Past 

Vote  for  Milton  and  the  Government 

And  Save 

The  Empire 

Courtier  stopped  to  look  at  them 
with  indignation  and  surprise.  Not 
only  did  this  poster  tramp  in  again  on 
his  convictions  about  peace,  but  he 
saw  in  it  something  more  than  met  the 
unphilosophic  eye.  It  symbolized  for 
him  all  that  was  catch-penny  in  the 
national  life,  —  an  epitaph  on  the  grave 
of  generosity,  unutterably  sad.  Yet 
from  a  party  point  of  view  what  could 
be  more  justifiable?  Was  it^not  de- 
sperately important  that  every  blue 
nerve  should  be  strained  that  day  to 
turn  yellow  nerves,  if  not  blue,  at  all 
events  green,  before  night  fell.  Was  it 
not  perfectly  true  that  the  Empire  could 
only  be  saved  by  voting  blue?  Could 
they  help  a  blue  morning  paper  print- 
ing these  words,  'Fresh  Crisis,'  which 
he  had  read  that  morning?  No  more 
than  the  yellows  could  help  a  yellow 
journal  printing  the  words,  '  Lord  Mil- 
ton's Evening  Adventure.'  Their  only 
business  was  to  win,  ever  fighting  fair. 
The  yellowrs  had  not  fought  fair,  they 
never  did,  and  one  of  their  most  unfair 
tactics  was  the  way  they  had  of  always 
accusing  the  blues  of  unfair  fighting, 
an  accusation  truly  ludicrous.  As  for 
truth!  That  which  helped  the  world 
to  be  blue,  was  obviously  true;  that 
which  did  n't,  as  obviously  not.  There 
was  no  middle  policy!  The  man  who 
saw  things  green  was  a  softy,  and  no 
proper  citizen.  As  f$r  giving  the  yel- 
lows credit  for  sincerity,  the  yellows 
never  gave  them  credit!  For  all  that, 
the  poster  seemed  to  Courtier  damn- 
able, and  raising  his  stick,  he  struck 
one  of  the  sandwich-boards  a  resound- 
ing thwack.  The  noise  startled  a 
butcher's  pony  standing  by  the  pave- 


ment. It  reared,  then  bolted  with 
Courtier,  who  had  seized  the  rein,  hang- 
ing on.  A  dog  dashed  past,  and  Cour- 
tier tripped,  still  clinging  to  the  rein. 
The  pony,  passing  over  him,  struck 
him  on  the  forehead  with  a  hoof.  For 
a  moment  he  lost  consciousness;  but 
coming  to  himself  quickly,  refused  as- 
sistance, and  went  to  his  hotel.  He 
felt  very  giddy,  and  after  bandaging 
a  nasty  cut,  lay  down  on  his  bed. 

It  was  here  that  Milton,  returning 
from  that  necessary  exhibition  of  him- 
self, the  crowning  fact,  at  every  poll- 
ing centre,  found  him. 

'That  last  poster  of  yours!'  Cour- 
tier began,  at  once. 

'I'm  having  it  withdrawn.' 
'  It 's  done  the  trick  no  doubt  —  con- 
gratulations —  you'll  get  in!' 

'When  there  is  a  desert  between 
a  man  and  the  sacred  city,  he  does  n't 
renounce  his  journey  because  he  has 
to  wash  in  dirty  water  on  the  way. 
But  I  knew  nothing  of  that  poster.' 

'My  dear  fellow,  I  never  supposed 
you  did.' 

'The  mob,'  said  Milton;  'how  I 
loathe  it!' 

There  was  such  pent-up  fury  in  those 
words  as  to  astonish  even  one  whose 
life  had  been  passed  in  conflict  with 
majorities. 

'I  hate  its  mean  stupidities,  I  hate 
the  sound  of  its  voice,  and  the  look  on 
its  face  —  it 's  so  ugly,  it 's  so  little. 
Courtier,  I  suffer  purgatory  from  the 
thought  that  I  shall  scrape  in  by  the 
votes  of  the  mob.  If  there  is  sin  in  using 
this  creature  I  have  expiated  it.' 

To  this  strange  outburst  Courtier  at 
first  made  no  reply. 

'You've  been  working  too  hard,'  he 
said  at  last;  'you 're  off  your  balance. 
After  all,  the  mob's  made  up  of  men 
like  you  and  me.' 

'No,  Courtier,  the  mob  is  not  made 
up  of  men  like  you  and  me.  If  it  were, 
it  would  not  be  the  mob.' 


THE   PATRICIANS 


249 


'It  looks,'  Courtier  answered  grave- 
ly, 'as  if  you  had  no  business  in  this 
galley.  I  Ve  always  steered  clear  of  it 
myself.' 

'You  follow  your  feelings.  I  have 
not  that  happiness.' 

So  saying,  he  turned  to  the  door. 

Courtier  hastened  after  him. 

'Drop  your  politics,  —  if  you  feel 
like  this  about  them;  don't  waste  your 
life  following  —  whatever  it  is  you  fol- 
low; don't  waste  hers!' 

But  Milton  did  not  answer. 

It  was  a  wondrous  still  night,  when, 
a  few  minutes  before  twelve,  with  his 
forehead  bandaged  under  his  hat, 
Courtier  left  the  hotel  and  made  his 
way  towards  the  Grammar  School  for 
the  declaration  of  the  poll.  A  sound  as 
of  some  monster  breathing  guided  him, 
till,  from  a  steep  deserted  street,  he 
came  in  sight  of  a  surging  crowd  that 
spread  over  the  town  square,  a  dark 
carpet  patterned  by  splashes  of  lamp- 
light. Above,  high  up  on  the  little 
peaked  tower  of  the  Grammar  School, 
presided  a  brightly  lighted  clock-face; 
and  over  the  passionate  hopes  and 
aspirations  in  those  thousands  of  hearts 
knit  by  suspense,  the  sky  had  lifted, 
and  showed  no  cloud  between  them  and 
the  purple  fields  of  air.  To  Courtier, 
walking  down  towards  the  square,  the 
swaying  white  faces,  turned  all  one 
way,  seemed  like  the  heads  of  giant 
wild  flowers  in  a  dark  field,  shivered  by 
the  wind.  The  night  had  charmed 
away  the  blue  and  yellow  facts,  and 
breathed  down  into  that  crowd  the 
spirit  of  emotion.  And  he  realized  the 
beauty  and  the  meaning  of  this  scene, 
this  expression  of  the  quivering  force, 
whose  perpetual  flux,  controlled  by  the 
Spirit  of  Balance,  was  the  soul  of 
the  world ;  thousands  of  hearts  with  the 
thought  of  self  lost  in  one  overmaster- 
ing excitement! 

An  old  man  with  a  long  gray  beard, 
standing  close  to  his  elbow,  murmured, 


'  'T  is  anxious  work  —  I  would  n't  ha' 
missed  this  for  anything  in  the  world.' 

'Yes,'  answered  Courtier,  'it's  fine.' 

'Ay,'  said  the  old  man,  'it  is  fine. 
I  Ve  not  seen  the  like  o'  this  since  the 
great  year  —  forty-eight.  There  they 
are  —  the  aristocrats! ' 

Following  the  direction  of  that  skinny 
hand,  Courtier  saw  on  a  balcony  Lord 
and  Lady  Valleys,  side  by  side,  look- 
ing steadily  down  at  the  crowd.  There 
too,  leaning  against  a  window  and  talk- 
ing to  some  one  behind,  was  Barbara. 
Courtier  heard  the  muttering  of  the 
old  man,  whose  eyes  had  grown  very 
bright,  whose  whole  face  seemed  trans- 
figured by  intense  hostility;  and  he  felt 
drawn  to  this  old  creature,  thus  moved 
to  the  very  soul.  Then  he  saw  Barbara 
looking  down  at  him,  with  her  hand 
raised  to  her  temple  to  show  that  she 
saw  his  bandaged  head.  Courtier  had 
the  presence  of  mind  not  to  lift  his 
hat.  Harbinger's  figure  moved  up  be- 
side her. 

The  old  man  spoke  again. 

'AH!  you  don't  remember  forty- 
eight,'  he  said;  'there  was  a  feeling  in 
the  people  then  —  we  should  ha'  died 
for  things  in  those  days.  I'm  eighty- 
four,'  and  he  held  his  shaking  hand  up 
to  his  breast, '  but  the  spirit 's  alive  here 
yet!  God  send  the  Radical  gets  in!' 

There  was  wafted  from  him  a  scent 
as  of  the  earth. 

Far  behind,  at  the  very  edge  of  the 
vast  dark  throng,  some  voices  began 
to  sing,  'Way  down  upon  the  Swanee 
Ribber.'  Taken  up  here  and  there,  the 
tune  floated  forth,  above  the  shuffling 
and  talk. 

It  ceased  suddenly,  spurted  up  once 
more,  and  died,  drowned  by  shouts  of 
'Up  Chilcox!'  'Milton  forever!' 

Then,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  square, 
a  stentorian  baritone  roared  forth, 
'Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot!' 

The  song  swelled,  till  every  kind  of 
voice,  from  treble  to  the  old  Chartist's 


250 


THE   PATRICIANS 


quavering  bass,  was  chanting  it;  and 
the  dark  human  field  heaved  with  the 
movement  of  linked  arms.  Courtier 
found  the  soft  fingers  of  a  young  wo- 
man in  his  right  hand,  the  old  Chart- 
ist's dry,  trembling  paw  in  his  left.  He 
himself  sang  loudly.  The  grave  and 
fearful  music  sprang  straight  up  into 
the  air,  rolled  out  right  and  left,  and 
was  lost  amongst  the  hills.  But  it  had 
no  sooner  died  away  than  the  same 
huge  baritone  yelled,  'God  save  the 
King! '  The  stature  of  the  crowd  seem- 
ed to  leap  up  two  feet,  and  from  under 
that  platform  of  raised  hats  rose  a 
stupendous  shouting. 

'  This,'  thought  Courtier, '  is  religion ! ' 

They  were  singing  even  on  the  bal- 
conies; by  the  lamplight  he  could  see 
Lord  Valleys's  mouth  not  opened  quite 
enough,  as  though  his  voice  were  just 
a  little  ashamed  of  coming  out,  and 
Barbara,  with  her  head  flung  back 
against  the  pillar,  pouring  out  her 
heart.  No  mouth  in  all  the  crowd  was 
silent.  It  was  as  though  the  soul  of  the 
English  people  were  escaping  from  its 
dungeon  of  reserve,  on  the  pinions  of 
that  song. 

But  suddenly,  like  a  shot  bird  clos- 
ing wings,  the  song  fell  silent  and  dived 
headlong  back  to  earth.  Out  from 
under  the  clock-face  had  moved  a  thin 
dark  figure.  More  came  behind  it. 
Courtier  could  see  Milton.  A  voice 
far  away  cried,  'Up  Chilcox!'  A  huge 
'Hush!'  followed;  then  such  a  silence 
that  the  sound  of  an  engine  shunting 
a  mile  away  could  be  plainly  heard. 

The  dark  figure  moved  forward,  anda 
tiny  square  of  paper  gleamed  out  white 
against  the  black  of  his  frock  coat. 

'Ladies  and  gentlemen.  Result  of 
the  poll:  — 

'Milton:  Four  thousand  eight  hun- 
dred and  ninety-eight. 

'Chilcox:  Four  thousand  eight  hun- 
dred and  two.' 

The  silence  seemed  to  fall  to  earth, 


and  break  into  a  thousand  pieces. 
Through  the  pandemonium  of  cheers 
and  groaning,  Courtier  with  all  his 
strength  forced  himself  towards  the 
balcony.  He  could  see  Lord  Valleys 
leaning  forward  with  a  broad  smile; 
Lady  Valleys  passing  her  hand  across 
her  eyes;  Barbara,  with  her  hand  in 
Harbinger's,  looking  straight  into  his 
face.  He  stopped.  The  old  Chartist 
was  still  beside  him,  tears  rolling  down 
his  cheeks  into  his  beard. 

Courtier  saw  Milton  come  forward, 
and  stand  unsmiling,  deathly  pale. 

XXIII 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of 
the  19th  of  July  little  Ann  Shropton 
commenced  the  ascent  of  the  main 
staircase  of  Valleys  House,  London. 
She  climbed  slowly,  in  the  very  middle, 
an  extremely  small  white  figure  on 
those  wide  and  shining  stairs,  counting 
them  aloud.  Their  number  was  never 
alike  two  days  running,  which  made 
them  attractive  to  one  for  whom  nov- 
elty was  the  salt  of  life. 

Coming  to  that  spot  where  they 
branched,  she  paused  to  consider  which 
of  the  two  flights  she  had  used  last, 
and  unable  to  remember,  sat  down. 
She  was  the  bearer  of  a  message.  It  had 
been  new  when  she  started,  but  was 
already  comparatively  old,  and  likely 
to  become  older,  in  view  of  a  design 
now  conceived  by  her  of  traveling  the 
whole  length  of  the  picture-gallery. 
And  while  she  sat  maturing  this  plan, 
sunlight  flooding  through  a  large  win- 
dow drove  a  white  refulgence  down 
into  the  heart  of  the  wide  polished 
space  of  wood  and  marble  whence  she 
had  come.  The  nature  of  little  Ann 
habitually  rejected  fairies  and  all  fan- 
tastic things,  finding  them  quite  too 
much  in  the  air,  and  devoid  of  suf- 
ficient reality  and  'go';  and  this  re- 
fulgence, almost  unearthly  in  its  travel- 


THE   PATRICIANS 


251 


ing  glory,  passed  over  her  small  head 
and  played  strangely  with  the  pillars 
in  the  hall,  without  exciting  in  her  any 
fancies  or  any  sentiment.  The  inten- 
tion of  discovering  what  was  at  the 
end  of  the  picture-gallery  absorbed 
the  whole  of  her  essentially  practical 
and  active  mind. 

Taking  the  left-hand  flight  of  stairs, 
she  entered  that  immensely  long,  nar- 
row, and,  with  blinds  drawn,  rather 
dark  saloon.  She  walked  carefully,  be- 
cause the  floor  was  very  slippery  here, 
and  with  a  kind  of  seriousness  due  partly 
to  the  darkness  and  partly  to  the  pic- 
tures. They  were  indeed,  in  this  light, 
rather  formidable,  those  old  Caradocs 
—  dark,  armored  creatures,  some  of 
them,  who  seemed  to  eye  with  a  sort  of 
burning,  grim,  defensive  greed  the  small 
white  figure  of  their  descendant  passing 
along  between  them.  But  little  Ann, 
who  knew  they  were  only  pictures, 
maintained  her  course  steadily,  and 
every  now  and  then,  as  she  passed  one 
who  seemed  to  her  rather  uglier  than  the 
others,  wrinkled  her  sudden  little  nose. 
At  the  end,  as  she  had  thought,  there 
was  a  door.  She  opened  it,  and  passed 
on  to  a  landing. 

There  was  a  stone  staircase  in  the 
corner,  and  there  were  two  doors.  It 
would  be  nice  to  go  up  the  staircase, 
but  it  would  also  be  nice  to  open  the 
doors.  Going  towards  the  first  door, 
with  a  little  thrill,  she  turned  the  han- 
dle. It  was  one  of  those  rooms,  neces- 
sary in  houses,  for  which  she  had  no 
great  liking;  and  closing  the  door  rather 
loudly,  she  opened  the  other  door,  find- 
ing herself  in  a  chamber  not  resembling 
the  rooms  downstairs,  which  were  all 
high  and  nicely  gilded,  but  more  like 
where  she  had  lessons,  low,  and  filled 
with  books  and  leather  chairs.  From 
the  end  of  the  room  which  she  could 
not  see,  she  heard  a  sound  as  of  some 
one  kissing  something,  and  instinct 
had  almost  made  her  turn  to  go  away 


when  the  word  'Hallo!'  seemed  to 
open  her  lips.  And  almost  directly  she 
saw  that  granny  and  grandpapa  were 
standing  by  the  fireplace.  Not  know- 
ing quite  whether  they  were  glad  to  see 
her,  she  went  forward  and  began  at 
once: — 

'Is  this  where  you  sit,  grandpapa?' 

'It  is.' 

'It's  nice,  isn't  it,  granny?  Where 
does  the  stone  staircase  go  to?' 

'To  the  roof  of  the  tower,  Ann.' 

'Oh!  I  have  to  give  a  message,  so  I 
must  go  now.' 

'Sorry  to  lose  you.' 

'Yes;  good-bye!' 

Hearing  the  door  shut  behind  her, 
Lord  and  Lady  Valleys  looked  at  each 
other  with  a  dubious  smile. 

The  little  interview  which  she  had 
interrupted,  had  arisen  in  this  way. 

Accustomed  to  retire  to  this  quiet 
and  homely  room,  which  was  not  his 
official  study  where  he  was  always  li- 
able to  the  attacks  of  secretaries,  Lord 
Valleys  had  come  up  here  after  lunch 
to  smoke  and  chew  the  cud  of  a  worry. 

The  matter  was  one  in  connection 
with  his  estate,  Pendridny,  in  Corn- 
wall. It  had  long  agitated  both  his 
agent  and  himself,  and  had  now  come 
to  him  for  final  decision.  The  question 
affected  two  villages  to  the  north  of 
the  property,  whose  inhabitants  were 
solely  dependent  on  the  working  of  a 
large  quarry,  which  had  for  some  time 
been  losing  money. 

A  kindly  man,  he  was  extremely 
averse  to  any  measure  which  would 
plunge  his  tenants  into  distress,  and  es- 
pecially in  cases  where  there  had  been 
no  question  of  opposition  between  him- 
self and  them.  But,  reduced  to  its  es- 
sentials, the  matter  stood  thus:  apart 
from  that  particular  quarry  the  Pen- 
dridny estate  was  not  only  a  going,  but 
even  a  profitable  concern,  supporting 
itself  and  supplying  some  of  the  sinews 
of  war  towards  Valleys  House  and  the 


252 


THE  PATRICIANS 


racing  establishment  at  Newmarket, 
and  other  general  expenses;  with  this 
quarry  still  running,  allowing  for  the 
upkeep  of  Pendridny,  and  the  provi- 
sion of  pensions  to  superannuated  serv- 
ants, it  was  a  little  the  other  way. 

Sitting  there,  that  afternoon,  smok- 
ing his  favorite  pipe,  he  had  at  last  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  close  down.  He  had  not 
made  this  resolution  lightly;  though, 
to  do  him  justice,  the  knowledge  that 
the  decision  would  be  bound  to  cause 
an  outcry  in  the  local,  and  perhaps 
the  national,  press  had  secretly  rather 
spurred  him  on  to  the  resolve  than  de- 
terred him  from  it.  He  felt  as  if  he  were 
being  dictated  to  in  advance,  and  he 
did  not  like  dictation.  Knowing  that 
having  to  deprive  these  poor  people  of 
their  immediate  living  was  a  good  deal 
more  irksome  to  him  than  to  those  who, 
he  knew,  would  make  a  fuss  about  it, 
his  conscience  was  clear,  and  he  could 
discount  that  future  outcry  as  mere 
party  spite. 

He  had  quite  honestly  tried  to  look 
at  the  thing  all  round,  and  had  reason- 
ed thus :  '  If  I  keep  this  quarry  open, 
I  am  really  admitting  the  principle 
of  pauperization,  since  I  naturally  look 
to  each  of  my  estates  to  support  its 
own  house,  grounds,  shootings,  and 
contribute  towards  the  support  of  this 
house,  and  my  family,  and  racing  sta- 
ble, and  all  the  people  employed  about 
them  both.  To  allow  any  business  to 
be  run  on  my  estates  which  does  not 
contribute  to  the  general  upkeep,  is  to 
protect  and  really  pauperize  a  portion 
of  my  tenants  at  the  expense  of  the 
rest;  it  is  false  economics,  and  secretly 
a  sort  of  socialism.  Further,  if  logical- 
ly followed  out,  it  might  end  in  my 
ruin;  and  to  allow  that,  though  I  might 
not  personally  object,  would  be  to  im- 
ply that  I  do  not  believe  that  I  am,  by 
virtue  of  my  traditions  and  training, 
the  best  machinery  through  which  the 


state  can  work  to  secure  the  welfare  of 
the  people.' 

When  he  had  reached  that  point  in 
his  consideration  of  a  question,  to 
which,  in  his  position,  he  ought  not  per- 
haps to  have  been  asked  to  supply  an 
answer,  his  mind,  or  rather  perhaps,  his 
essential  self,  had  not  unnaturally  risen 
up  and  said,  '  Which  is  absurd ! ' 

Impersonality  was  in  fashion,  and  as 
a  rule  he  believed  in  thinking  imper- 
sonally. There  was  a  point,  however, 
where  the  possibility  of  doing  so  ceased 
without  treachery  to  one's  self,  one's 
order,  and  the  country.  And  to  the 
argument  which  he  was  quite  shrewd 
enough  to  put  to  himself,  sooner  than 
have  it  put,  that  it  was  disproportion- 
ate for  a  single  man  by  a  stroke  of  the 
pen  to  be  able  to  dispose  of  the  liveli- 
hood of  hundreds  whose  senses  and 
feelings  were  similar  to  his  own,  he 
had  answered,  'If  /  did  n't,  some 
plutocrat  would  —  or,  worse  still,  the 
state!'  Cooperative  enterprise  was,  in 
his  opinion,  foreign  to  the  spirit  of  the 
country,  and  there  was,  so  far  as  he 
knew,  no  other  alternative.  Facts  were 
facts,  and  not  to  be  got  over. 

For  all  that,  the  necessity  for  this 
decision  made  him  sorry,  for  if  he  had 
no  great  sense  of  cosmic  humor,  he  was 
at  least  human,  even  humane. 

He  was  sitting  smoking  his  pipe 
and  still  staring  at  a  sheet  of  paper 
covered  with  small  figures  when  Lady 
Valleys  entered. 

Though  she  had  come  to  ask  his 
advice  on  a  very  different  subject,  she 
saw  at  once  that  he  was  vexed,  and 
said,  'What's  the  matter,  Geoff?' 

Lord  Valleys  rose,  went  to  the  hearth, 
deliberately  tapped  out  his  pipe,  then 
held  out  to  her  the  sheet  of  paper. 

'That  quarry!  There's  nothing  for 
it  —  it  must  go ! ' 

Lady  Valleys's  face  changed. 

'Oh,  no!  It  will  mean  such  dreadful 
distress.' 


THE  PATRICIANS 


253 


Lord  Valleys  stared  at  his  nails.  '  It 's 
putting  a  drag  on  the  whole  estate,' 
he  said. 

'I  know,  but  how  could  we  face  the 
people,  —  I  should  never  be  able  to  go 
down  there.  And  most  of  them  have 
such  enormous  families.' 

Lord  Valleys  continued  to  bend  on 
his  nails  a  slow,  thought-forming  stare; 
and  Lady  Valleys  went  on  earnestly,  — 

'Rather  than  that  I'd  make  sacri- 
fices. I  'd  sooner  it  were  let,  than  throw 
all  those  people  out  of  work.  I  suppose 
it  would  let.' 

'  Let  ?  Best  woodcock  shooting  in  the 
world.' 

Lady  Valleys,  pursuing  her  thoughts, 
went  on,  'In  time  we  might  get  the 
people  drafted  into  other  things.  Have 
you  consulted  Milton?' 

'No, '  said  Lord  Valleys  shortly,  'and 
don't  mean  to  —  he's  too  unpractical.' 

'He  always  seems  to  know  what  he 
wants  very  well.' 

'I  tell  you,'  repeated  Lord  Valleys, 
'  Milton  's  no  good  in  a  matter  of  this 
sort;  he  and  his  ideas  throw  back  to 
the  Middle  Ages!' 

Lady  Valleys  went  closer,  and  took 
him  by  the  lapels  of  his  collar. 

'Geoff  —  really,  to  please  me;  some 
other  way!' 

Lord  Valleys  frowned,  and  stared  at 
her  for  some  time;  at  last  he  answered 
without  moving,  'That's  another 
thing.  To  please  you  —  I  '11  leave  it 
over  another  year.' 

'You  think  that's  better  than  let- 
ting?' 

'  I  don't  like  the  thought  of  some  out- 
sider there.  Time  enough  to  come  to 
that  if  we  must.  Take  it  as  my  Christ- 
mas present.  You'll  be  late  for  your 
meeting.' 

Lady  Valleys,  rather  flushed,  bent 
forward  and  kissed  his  ear. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  little  Ann 
had  entered. 

When  she  had  gone,  and  they  had 


exchanged  that  dubious  look,  Lady 
Valleys  said,  'I  don't  get  much  time 
to  talk  to  you.  I  came  about  Babs.  I 
don't  know  what  to  make  of  her  since 
we  came  up.  She's  not  putting  her 
heart  into  things.' 

Lord  Valleys  answered  almost  sulk- 
ily, '  It 's  the  heat,  I  should  think  —  or 
love.'  For  all  his  easy-going  parental- 
ism,  he  disliked  the  thought  of  losing 
the  child  for  whom  he  really  had  a  love 
and  admiration. 

'Yes,'  said  Lady  Valleys  slowly, '  but 
with  whom?' 

'Claud  Harbinger,  of  course.' 

'I  don't  know.  There's  something 
queer  about  her.  I'm  not  at  all  sure 
she  has  n't  got  some  sort  of  feeling  for 
that  Mr.  Courtier.' 

'What!'  said  Lord  Valleys. 

'Exactly!' 

Her  husband  had  grown  very  red. 

'Confound  it,  Gertrude,  this  is  past 
a  joke  —  Milton's  business  was  quite 
enough  for  one  year.' 

'For  twenty,'  murmured  Lady  Val- 
leys. ' I 'm  watching  her.  I'm  told  he's 
going  to  Persia.' 

'And  leaving  his  confounded  bones 
there,  I  hope,'  muttered  Lord  Valleys. 
'  Really,  it 's  too  much.  I  should  think 
you're  all  wrong,  though.' 

Lady  Valleys's  face  bubbled  a  little. 
Men  were  very  queer  about  such  things ! 
Very  queer  and  worse  than  helpless. 

'Well,'  she  said,  'I  must  go  to  my 
meeting.  I  '11  take  her,  and  see  if  I  can 
get  at  something.  I  shall  be  late.'  And 
she  went  away. 

It  was  the  inaugural  meeting  of  the 
Society  for  the  Promotion  of  the  Birth- 
Rate,  at  which  she  had  to  preside  that 
afternoon.  The  scheme  was  one  in 
which  she  had  been  prominent  from  the 
start,  appealing  as  it  did  to  her  large 
and  full-blooded  nature.  Many  move- 
ments, to  which  she  found  it  impos- 
sible to  refuse  her  name,  had  in  them- 
selves but  small  attraction  for  her;  and 


254 


THE  PATRICIANS 


it  was  a  real  comfort  to  feel  something 
approaching  enthusiasm  for  one  branch 
of  her  public  work.  Not  that  there  was 
any  academic  consistency  about  her  in 
the  matter,  for.  in  private  life  amongst 
her  friends  she  was  not  narrowly  dog- 
matic on  the  duty  of  wives  to  multiply 
exceedingly.  She  thought  imperially 
on  the  subject,  without  bigotry.  Large 
healthy  families,  in  all  cases  save  in- 
dividual ones!  The  prime  idea  at  the 
back  of  her  mind  was  —  national  ex- 
pansion. Her  motto,  and  she  intended 
if  possible  to  make  it  the  motto  of  the 
League,  was:  De  I'audace,  et  encore 
de  Uaudace  I  It  was  a  question  of  the 
full  realization  of  the  nation.  She  had 
a  real,  and  in  a  sense  touching,  belief  in 
'the  flag,'  apart  from  what  it  might 
cover.  It  was  her  idealism.  '  You  may 
talk,'  she  would  say,  'as  much  as  you 
like  about  directing  national  life  in  ac- 
cordance with  social  justice !  What  does 
the  nation  care  about  social  justice? 
The  thing  is  much  bigger  than  that. 
It 's  sentimental.  We  must  expand ! ' 

On  the  way  to  the  meeting,  occupied 
with  her  speech,  she  made  no  attempt 
to  draw  Barbara  into  conversation.  The 
child  was  very  languid  and  pale;  still 
that  must  wait!  And  at  any  rate  she 
was  looking  so  beautiful  that  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  have  her  support. 

In  a  little  dark  room  behind  the  hall 
the  committee  were  already  assembied, 
and  they  went  at  once  on  to  the  plat- 
form. 

XXIV 

Unmoved  by  the  stares  of  the  audi- 
ence, Barbara  sat  absorbed  in  her 
moody  thoughts. 

Into  the  three  weeks  since  Milton's 
election  there  had  been  crowded  such 
a  multitude  of  functions  that  she  had 
found,  as  it  were,  no  time,  no  energy 
to  know  where  she  stood  with  herself. 
Since  that  morning  in  the  stable,  when 
he  had  watched  her  with  the  horse  Hal, 


Harbinger  had  seemed  to  live  only  to 
be  close  to  her.  And  the  consciousness 
of  his  passion  gave  her  a  tingling  sense 
of  pleasure.  She  had  been  riding  and 
dancing  with  him,  and  sometimes  this 
had  been  almost  blissful.  But  there 
were  times  too  —  more  frequent  as  her 
energy  ebbed  in  the  heat  and  glare  of 
the  season  —  when  she  felt  —  though 
always  with  a  certain  contempt  of  her- 
self, as  under  that  sunny  wall  below 
the  tor  —  a  queer  dissatisfaction,  a 
longing  for  something  outside  a  world 
where  she  had  to  invent  her  own  starv- 
ations and  simplicities,  to  make-believe 
in  earnestness. 

She  had  seen  Courtier  three  times. 
Once  he  had  come  to  dine  in  response 
to  an  invitation  from  Lady  Valleys, 
worded  in  that  charming,  almost  wist- 
ful style,  which  she  had  taught  herself 
to  use  to  those  below  her  in  social  rank, 
especially  if  they  were  intelligent;  once 
at  the  Valleys  House  garden  party; 
and,  next  day,  having  told  him  what 
time  she  would  be  riding,  she  had 
found  him  in  the  Row,  not  mounted, 
but  standing  by  the  rail  just  where  she 
must  pass,  with  that  look  on  his  face  of 
mingled  deference  and  ironic  self-con- 
tainment, of  which  he  was  a  master.  It 
appeared  that  he  was  leaving  England ; 
and  to  her  questions  why,  and  where, 
he  had  only  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Up  on  this  dusty  platform,  in  the 
hot  bare  hall,  facing  all  those  people, 
listening  to  speeches  whose  sense  she 
was  too  languid  and  preoccupied  to 
take  in,  the  whole  medley  of  thoughts 
and  faces  round  her  and  the  sound  of 
the  speakers'  voices  formed  a  kind 
of  nightmare,  out  of  which  she  noted 
with  extreme  exactitude  the  color  of 
her  mother's  neck  under  its  large  black 
hat,  and  a  committee  man  to  the  right, 
biting  his  fingers  under  cover  of  a  large 
blue  paper.  She  realized  that  some  one 
was  speaking  amongst  the  audience, 
speaking,  as  it  were,  in  little  bunches 


THE    PATRICIANS 


255 


of  words.  She  could  see  him,  a  small 
man  in  a  black  coat,  with  a  white  face 
whiclj  kept  jerking  up  and  down. 

'I  feel  that  this  is  terrible,'  she 
heard  him  say;  'I  feel  that  this  is  blas- 
phemy. That  we  should  try  to  tamper 
with  the  greatest  force,  the  greatest 
and  the  most  sacred  and  secret  — 
force,  that  —  that  moves  in  the  world, 
is  to  me  horrible.  I  cannot  bear  to 
listen;  it  seems  to  make  everything 
so  little!' 

She  saw  him  sit  down,  his  features 
twitching  uncontrollably;  and  her 
mother  rise  to  answer:  — 

'We  must  all  sympathize  with  the 
sincerity,  and  to  a  certain  extent  with 
the  intention,  of  our  friend  in  the  body 
of  the  hall.  But  we  must  ask  ourselves, 
Have  we  the  right  to  allow  ourselves 
the  luxury  of  private  feelings  in  a  mat- 
ter which  concerns  the  national  expan- 
sion? We  must  not  give  way  to  senti- 
ment. Our  friend  in  the  body  of  the 
hall  spoke  —  he  will  forgive  me  for 
saying  so  —  like  a  poet,  rather  than  a 
serious  reformer.  I  am  afraid  if  we  let 
ourselves  drop  into  poetry,  the  birth- 
rate of  this  country  will  very  soon  drop 
into  poetry  too.  And  that  I  think  it  is 
impossible  for  us  to  contemplate  with 
folded  hands.  The  resolution  I  was 
about  to  propose  when  our  friend  in 
the  body  of  the  hall  - 

But  Barbara's  attention  had  wan- 
dered off  again  into  that  queer  medley 
of  thoughts  and  feelings,  out  of  which 
the  little  man  had  so  abruptly  roused 
her.  Then  she  realized  that  the  meet- 
ing was  breaking  up,  and  her  mother 
saying,  — 

'Now,  my  dear,  it's  hospital  day. 
We've  just  time.' 

When  they  were  once  more  in  the 
car,  she  leaned  back  very  silent,  watch- 
ing the  traffic. 

Lady  Valleys  eyed  her  sidelong. 

'  What  a  little  bombshell ! '  she  said, 
'  from  that  small  person !  He  must  have 


got  in  by  mistake.  I  hear  Mr.  Cour- 
tier has  a  card  for  Ellen  Gloucester's 
ball  to-night,  Babs.' 

'  Poor  man ! ' 

'  You  will  be  there,'  said  Lady  Val- 
leys dryly. 

Barbara  drew  back  into  her  corner. 

'Don't  tease  me,  mother!' 

An  expression  of  compunction 
crossed  Lady  Valleys's  face;  she  tried  to 
possess  herself  of  Barbara's  hand.  But 
that  languid  hand  did  not  return  her 
squeeze. 

'I  know  the  mood  you're  in,  Babs. 
It  wants  all  one's  pluck  to  shake  it  off; 
don't  let  it  grow  on  you.  You'd  better 
go  down  to  Uncle  Dennis  to-morrow. 
You've  been  overdoing  it.' 

Barbara  sighed. 

'I  wish  it  were  to-morrow.' 

The  car  had  stopped,  and  Lady  Val- 
leys said,  'Will  you  come  in,  or  are  you 
too  tired?  It  always  does  them  good 
to  see  you.' 

'You're  twice  as  tired  as  me,'  Bar- 
bara answered;  'of  course  I'll  come.' 

At  the  entrance  of  the  two  ladies, 
there  rose  at  once  a  faint  buzz  and 
murmur.  Lady  Valleys,  whose  ample 
presence  radiated  suddenly  a  business- 
like and  cheery  confidence,  went  to  a 
bedside  and  sat  down.  But  Barbara 
stood  in  a  thin  streak  of  the  July 
sunlight,  uncertain  where  to  begin, 
amongst  the  faces  turned  towards  her. 
The  poor  dears  looked  so  humble,  and 
so  wistful,  and  so  tired.  There  was  one 
lying  quite  flat,  who  had  not  even 
raised  her  head  to  see  who  had  come 
in.  That  slumbering,  pale,  high-cheek- 
boned  face  had  a  frailty  as  if  a  touch,  a 
breath,  would  shatter  it;  a  wisp  of  the 
blackest  hair,  finer  than  silk,  lay  across 
the  forehead;  the  closed  eyes  were 
deep  sunk;  one  hand,  scarred  almost 
to  the  bone  with  work,  rested  above 
her  breast.  She  breathed  between  lips 
which  had  no  color.  About  her,  sleep- 
ing, was  a  kind  of  beauty.  And  there 


256 


THE  PATRICIANS 


came  over  the  girl  a  queer  longing  to 
bend  down  and  pay  her  reverence.  The 
sleeper  seemed  so  apart  from  every- 
thing there,  from  all  the  formality  and 
stiffness  of  the  ward.  To  look  at  her 
swept  away  the  languid,  hollow  feeling 
with  which  she  had  come  in;  it  made 
her  think  of  the  tors  at  home,  when  the 
wind  was  blowing,  and  all  was  bare, 
and  grand,  and  sometimes  terrible. 
There  was  something  elemental  in  that 
still  sleep. 

An  old  lady  in  the  next  bed,  with  a 
brown  wrinkled  face  and  bright  black 
eyes  brimful  of  life,  seemed  almost 
vulgar  beside  such  remote  tranquillity, 
while  she  explained  carefully  to  Bar- 
bara that  a  little  bunch  of  heather  in 
the  better  half  of  a  soap-dish  on  the 
window-sill  had  come  from  Wales,  be- 
cause 'my  mother  was  born  in  Stir- 
ling, dearie;  so  I  likes  a  bit  of  heather, 
though  I  never  been  out  o'  Bethnal 
Green  meself.' 

But  when  Barbara  again  passed,  the 
sleeping  woman  was  sitting  up,  and 
looked  but  a  poor  ordinary  thing  — 
her  strange  fragile  beauty  all  with- 
drawn. 

It  was  a  relief  when  Lady  Valleys 
said,  '  My  dear,  my  Naval  Bazaar  at 
five-thirty;  and  while  I'm  there  you 
must  go  home  and  have  a  rest,  and 
freshen  yourself  up  for  the  ball.  We 
dine  at  Plassey  House.' 

The  Duchess  of  Gloucester's  ball,  a 
function  which  no  one  could  very  well 
miss,  had  been  fixed  for  this  late  date 
owing  to  the  duchess's  announced  de- 
sire to  prolong  the  season  and  so  help 
the  hackney  cabmen;  and  though 
everybody  sympathized,  it  had  been 
felt  by  most  that  it  would  be  simpler  to 
go  away,  motor  up  on  the  day  of  the 
ball,  and  motor  down  again  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  And  throughout  the 
week  by  which  the  season  was  thus 
prolonged,  in  long  rows  at  the  railway 
stations,  and  on  their  stands,  the  hack- 


ney cabmen,  unconscious  of  what  was 
being  done  for  them,  waited,  patient  as 
their  horses.  But  since  everybody  was 
making  this  special  effort,  an  excep- 
tionally large,  exclusive,  and  brilliant 
company  reassembled  at  Gloucester 
House. 

In  the  vast  ball-room,  over  the  med- 
ley of  entwined  revolving  couples, 
punkahs  had  been  fixed,  to  clear  and 
freshen  the  languid  air;  and  these  huge 
fans,  moving  with  incredible  slowness, 
drove  a  faint  refreshing  draught  down 
over  the  sea  of  white  shirt-fronts  and 
bare  necks,  and  freed  the  scent  from 
innumerable  flowers. 

Late  in  the  evening,  close  by  one  of 
the  great  clumps  of  bloom,  a  very  pret- 
ty woman  stood  talking  to  Bertie.  She 
was  his  cousin,  Lily  Malvezin,  sister  of 
Geoffrey  Winlow,  and  wife  of  a  Lib- 
eral peer, — a  charming  creature,  whose 
pink  cheeks,  bright  eyes,  quick  lips,  and 
rounded  figure  endowed  her  with  the 
prettiest  air  of  animation.  And  while 
she  spoke  she  kept  stealing  sly  glances 
at  her  partner,  trying  as  it  were  to 
pierce  the  armor  of  that  self-contained 
young  man. 

'No,  my  dear,'  she  was  saying  in 
her  mocking  voice,  'you'll  never  per- 
suade me  that  Milton  is  going  to  catch 
on.  II  est  trop  intransigeant.  Ah! 
there's  Babs!' 

For  the  girl  had  come  gliding  by,  her 
eyes  wandering  lazily,  her  lips  just 
parted ;  her  neck,  hardly  less  pale  than 
her  white  frock;  her  face  pale,  and 
with  marked  languor,  under  the  heavy 
coil  of  her  tawny  hair;  and  her  sway- 
ing body  seeming  with  each  turn  of 
the  waltz  to  be  caught  by  the  arms 
of  her  partner  from  out  of  a  swoon. 

With  that  immobility  of  lips  learned 
by  all  imprisoned  in  society,  Lily  Mal- 
vezin murmured,  'Who's  that  she's 
dancing  with?  Is  it  the  dark  horse?' 

Through  lips  no  less  immobile,  Bertie 
answered,  'Forty  to  one,  no  takers.' 


THE   PATRICIANS 


257 


But  those  inquisitive  bright  eyes  still 
followed  Barbara,  drifting  in  the  dance 
like  a  great  water-lily  caught  in  the 
swirl  of  a  mill-pool;  and  the  thought 
passed  through  that  pretty  head, 
'She's  hooked  him.  It's  naughty  of 
Babs,  really!'  And  then  she  saw  lean- 
ing against  a  pillar  another  whose  eyes 
also  were  following  these  two,  and  she 
thought, '  Claud  Harbinger —  No  won- 
der he's  looking  like  that.  O  Babs!' 

By  one  of  the  statues  on  the  terrace 
Barbara  and  her  partner  stood,  where 
trees,  disfigured  by  no  gaudy  lanterns, 
offered  the  refreshment  of  their  dark- 
ness and  serenity. 

Wrapped  in  her  new  pale  languor, 
still  breathing  deeply  from  the  waltz, 
she  seemed  to  Courtier  too  utterly 
moulded  out  of  loveliness.  To  what 
end  should  a  man  frame  speeches  to  a 
vision!  She  was  but  an  incarnation  of 
beauty  imprinted  on  the  air,  and  would 
fade  out  at  a  touch  —  like  the  sudden 
ghosts  of  enchantment  that  come  to 
one  under  the  blue,  and  the  star-lit 
snow  of  a  mountain  night,  or  in  a  birch 
wood  all  wistful  golden !  Speech  seem- 
ed but  desecration!  Besides,  what  of 
interest  was  there  for  him  to  say  in 
this  world  of  hers,  so  bewildering  and 
of  such  glib  assurance  —  this  world 
that  was  like  a  building  whose  every 
window  was  shut  and  had  a  blind  drawn 
down;  a  building  that  admitted  none 
who  had  not  sworn,  as  it  were,  to  be- 
lieve it  the  whole  world,  outside  which 
were  but  the  rubbled  remains  of  what 
had  built  it;  this  world  of  society,  in 
which  he  felt  like  one  traveling  through 
a  desert,  longing  to  meet  a  fellow  crea- 
ture! 

The  voice  of  Harbinger  behind  them 
said,  'Lady  Babs!' 

Long  did  the  punkahs  waft  their 
breeze  over  that  brave-hued  wheel  of 
pleasure,  and  the  sound  of  the  violins 
quaver  and  wail  out  into  the  morning. 
Then  quickly,  as  the  spangles  of  dew 
VOL.  107 -NO.? 


vanish  off  grass  when  the  sun  rises,  all 
melted  away;  and  in  the  great  rooms 
were  none  but  flunkeys  presiding  over 
the  polished  surfaces,  like  flamingos  by 
some  lake-side  at  dawn. 

XXV 

A  brick  dower-house  of  the  Fitz- 
Harolds,  just  outside  the  little  seaside 
town  of  Nettlefold,  sheltered  the  tran- 
quil days  of  Lord  Dennis.  In  that 
south-coast  air,  sanest  and  most  heal- 
ing in  all  England,  he  aged  very  slowly, 
taking  little  thought  of  death,  and  much 
quiet  pleasure  in  his  life.  Like  the  tall 
old  house  with  its  high  windows  and 
squat  chimneys,  he  was  marvelously 
self-contained.  His  books,  for  he  some- 
what passionately  examined  into  old 
civilizations,  and  described  their  habits 
from  time  to  time  with  a  dry  and  not 
too  poignant  pen  in  a  certain  old-fash- 
ioned magazine;  his  microscope,  for  he 
studied  infusoria;  and  the  fishing-boat 
of  his  friend  John  Bogle,  who  had  long 
perceived  that  Lord  Dennis  was  the 
biggest  fish  he  ever  caught;  all  these, 
with  occasional  visitors,  and  little  runs 
to  London,  to  Monkland,  and  other 
country-houses,  made  up  the  sum  of  a 
life  which,  if  not  desperately  beneficial, 
was  uniformly  kind  and  harmless,  and, 
by  its  notorious  simplicity,  had  a  cer- 
tain negative  influence,  not  only  on  his 
own  class,  but  on  the  relations  of  that 
class  with  the  country  at  large.  It  was 
commonly  said  in  Nettlefold  that  he 
was  a  gentleman;  if  they  were  all  like 
him  there  was  n't  much  in  all  this  talk 
against  the  lords.  The  shop  people 
and  lodging-house  keepers  felt  that  the 
interests  of  the  country  were  safer  in 
his  hands  than  in  the  hands  of  people 
who  wanted  to  meddle  with  everything 
for  the  good  of  those  who  were  only 
anxious  to  be  let  alone.  A  man  too 
who  could  so  completely  forget  that 
he  was  the  son  of  a  duke  that  other 


258 


THE   PATRICIANS 


people  never  forgot  it,  was  the  man 
for  their  money.  It  was  true  that  he 
had  never  had  a  say  in  public  affairs; 
but  this  was  overlooked,  because  he 
could  have  had  it  if  he  liked,  and  the 
fact  that  he  did  not  like,  only  showed 
once  more  that  he  was  a  gentleman. 

Just  as  he  was  the  personality  of  the 
little  town  against  whom  practical- 
ly nothing  was  ever  said,  so  was  his 
house  the  one  house  which  defied  criti- 
cism. Time  had  made  it  utterly  suit- 
able. The  ivied  walls,  and  purplish 
roof  lichened  yellow  in  places,  the  quiet 
meadows  harboring  ponies  and  kine, 
reaching  from  it  to  the  sea,  —  all  was 
mellow.  In  truth,  it  made  all  the  other 
houses  of  the  town  seem  shoddy  — 
standing  alone  beyond  them,  like  its 
master,  perhaps  a  little  too  aesthetical- 
ly remote  from  common  wants. 

He  had  practically  no  near  neigh- 
bors of  whom  he  saw  anything,  except 
once  in  a  way  young  Harbinger,  three 
miles  distant  at  Whitewater.  But  since 
he  had  the  faculty  of  not  being  bored 
with  his  own  society,  this  did  not  wor- 
ry him.  Of  local  charity,  especially  to 
the  fishers  of  the  town,  whose  winter 
months  were  nowadays  very  bare  of 
profit,  he  was  prodigal  to  the  verge  of 
extravagance,  for  his  income  was  not 
great.  But  in  politics,  beyond  acting* 
as  the  figurehead  of  certain  municipal 
efforts,  he  took  little  or  no  part.  His 
Toryism  indeed  was  of  a  mild  order 
that  had  little  belief  in  the  regenera- 
tion of  the  country  by  any  means  but 
those  of  kindly  feeling  between  the 
classes.  When  asked  how  that  was  to 
be  brought  about,  he  would  answer, 
with  his  dry,  slightly  malicious  suav- 
ity, that  if  you  stirred  hornets'  nests 
with  sticks  the  hornets  would  come 
forth.  Having  no  land,  he  was  shy  of 
expressing  himself  on  that  vexed  ques- 
tion; but  if  resolutely  attacked  would 
give  utterance  to  some  such  sentiment 
as  this:  'The  land  's  best  in  our  hands 


on  the  whole,  but  we  want  fewer  dogs 
in  the  manger  among  us.' 

He  had,  as  became  one  of  his  race, 
a  feeling  for  land,  tender  and  protect- 
ive, and  could  not  bear  to  think  of  its 
being  put  out  to  farm  with  that  cold 
mother,  the  state.  But  though  iron- 
ical over  the  views  of  Radicals  or  So- 
cialists, he  disliked  to  hear  such  people 
personally  abused  behind  their  backs. 
It  must  be  confessed  that  if  contra- 
dicted he  increased  considerably  the 
ironical  decision  of  his  sentiments. 
Withdrawn  from  all  chance  of  enforc- 
ing its  views  on  others  in  public  life,  the 
natural  decisiveness  within  was  forced 
to  find  private  expression  at  times. 

Each  year,  towards  the  end  of  July, 
he  placed  his  house  at  the  service  of 
Lord  Valleys,  who  found  it  a  conven- 
ient centre  for  attending  Goodwood. 

It  was  on  the  morning  after  the 
Duchess  of  Gloucester's  ball,  that  he 
received  a  note  which  ran  as  follows: 

VALLEYS  HOUSE. 
DEAREST  UNCLE  DENNIS,  — 

May  I  come  down  to  you  a  little 
before  time  and  rest?  London  is  aw- 
fully hot.  Mother  has  three  functions 
still  to  stay  for,  and  I  shall  have  to 
come  back  again  for  our  last  evening, 
the  political  one,  —  so  I  don't  want  to 
go  all  the  way  to  Monkland;  and  any- 
where else,  except  with  you,  would  be 
racketty.  Eustace  looks  so  seedy.  I  '11 
try  and  bring  him,  if  I  may.  Granny  is 
terribly  well. 

Best  love,  dear,  from  your 

BABS. 

The  same  afternoon  she  came,  but 
without  Milton,  driving  up  from  the 
station  in  a  fly.  Lord  Dennis  met  her 
at  the  gate,  and  having  kissed  her, 
looked  at  her  somewhat  anxiously,  ca- 
ressing his  white  peaked  beard.  He 
had  never  yet  known  Babs  sick  of  any- 
thing, except  when  he  took  her  out  in 
John  Bogle's  boat.  She  was  certainly 


THE    PATRICIANS 


259 


looking  pale,  and  her  hair  was  done 
differently,  —  a  fact  disturbing  to  one 
who  did  not  discover  it.  Slipping  his 
arm  through  hers,  he  led  her  out  into  a 
meadow  still  full  of  buttercups,  where 
an  old  white  pony,  who  had  carried  her 
in  the  Row  twelve  years  ago,  came  up 
to  them  and  rubbed  his  muzzle  against 
her  waist.  And  suddenly  there  rose  in 
Lord  Dennis  the  thoroughly  discom- 
forting and  strange  suspicion  that, 
though  the  child  was  not  going  to  cry, 
she  wanted  time  to  get  over  the  feeling 
that  she  was.  Without  appearing  to 
separate  himself  from  her,  he  walked 
to  the  wall  at  the  end  of  the  field,  and 
stood  looking  at  the  sea. 

The  tide  was  nearly  up:  the  south 
wind  driving  over  it  brought  to  him 
the  scent  of  the  sea-flowers,  and  the 
crisp  rustle  of  little  waves  swimming 
almost  to  his  feet.  Far  out  where  the 
sunlight  fell,  the  smiling  waters  lay 
white  and  mysterious  in  July  haze,  re- 
minding him  of  far  things.  But  Lord 
Dennis,  though  he  had  his  moments  of 
poetic  feeling,  was  on  the  whole  quite 
able  to  keep  the  sea  in  its  proper  place; 
for  after  all  it  was  the  English  Chan- 
nel, and  like  a  good  Englishman  he  re- 
cognized that  if  you  once  let  things  get 
away  from  their  names,  they  ceased  to 
be  facts,  and  if  they  ceased  to  be  facts, 
they  became  —  the  devil! 

In  truth,  he  was  not  thinking  of  the 
sea  at  all,  but  of  Barbara.  It  was  plain 
that  she  was  in  trouble  of  some  kind. 
And  the  notion  that  Babs  could  find 
trouble  in  life  was  extraordinarily 
queer;  for  he  felt,  subconsciously,  what 
a  great  driving  force  of  disturbance 
was  necessary  to  penetrate  the  hundred 
folds  of  the  cloak  enwrapping  one  so 
young  and  fortunate.  It  was  not  death, 
therefore  it  must  be  love;  and  he 
thought  at  once  of  that  fellow  with  the 
red  moustaches.  Ideas  were  all  very 
well,  no  one  would  object  to  as  many 
as  you  liked,  in  their  proper  place,  — 


the  dinner-table,  for  example.  But  to 
fall  in  love,  if  indeed  it  were  so,  with 
a  man  who  not  only  had  ideas,  but  an 
inclination  to  live  up  to  them,  seemed 
to  Lord  Dennis  outrS. 

She  had  followed  him  to  the  wall, 
and  he  looked  at  her  dubiously. 

'  Come  to  rest  in  the  waters  of  Lethe, 
Babs?  By  the  way,  seen  anything  of 
our  friend  Mr.  Courtier?  Very  pictur- 
esque, that  Quixotic  theory  of  life! ' 

And  in  saying  that,  his  voice  (like  so 
many  refined  voices  which  have  turned 
their  backs  on  speculation)  was  triple- 
toned,  mocking  at  ideas,  mocking  at 
itself  for  mocking  at  ideas,  yet  showing 
plainly  that  at  bottom  it  only  mocked 
at  itself  for  mocking  at  ideas,  because  it 
would  be,  as  it  were,  crude  not  to  do  so. 

But  Barbara  did  not  answer  his  ques- 
tion, and  began  to  speak  of  other  things. 
And  all  that  afternoon  and  evening, 
she  talked  away  so  lightly  that  Lord 
Dennis,  but  for  his  instinct,  would  have 
been  deceived. 

That  wonderful  smiling  mask  — 
the  inscrutability  of  youth  —  was  laid 
aside  by  her  at  night.  Sitting  at  her 
window,  under  the  moon,  'a  gold- 
bright  moth  slow-spinning  up  the  sky,' 
she  watched  the  darkness  hungrily,  as 
though  it  were  a  great  thought  into 
whose  heart  she  was  trying  to  see.  Now 
and  then  she  stroked  herself,  getting 
strange  comfort  out  of  the  presence  of 
her  body.  She  had  that  old  unhappy 
feeling  of  having  two  selves  within  her. 
And  this  soft  night,  full  of  the  quiet  stir 
of  the  sea,  and  of  dark  immensity, 
woke  in  her  a  terrible  longing  to  be 
at  one  with  something,  somebody,  out- 
side herself.  At  last  night's  ball  the 
'  flying  feeling '  had  seized  on  her  again, 
and  was  still  there,  a  queer  manifesta- 
tion of  the  reckless  streak  in  her.  And 
this  strange  result  of  her  contacts  with 
Courtier,  this  cacoethes  volandi,  and 
feeling  of  clipped  wings,  hurt  her  —  as 
being  forbidden  hurts  a  child. 


260 


THE    PATRICIANS 


She  remembered  how  in  the  house- 
keeper's room  at  Monkland  there  lived 
a  magpie  who  had  once  sought  shelter 
in  an  orchid-house  from  some  pursuer. 
As  soon  as  they  thought  him  wedded 
to  civilization,  they  had  let  him  go,  to 
see  whether  he  would  come  back.  For 
hours  he  had  sat  up  in  a  high  tree,  and 
at  last  come  down  again  to  his  cage; 
whereupon,  fearing  lest  the  rooks  should 
attack  him  when  he  next  took  this  voy- 
age of  discovery,  they  clipped  one  of 
his  wings.  After  that  the  twilight  bird, 
though  he  lived  happily  enough,  hop- 
ping about  his  cage  and  the  terrace 
which  served  him  for  exercise-yard, 
would  seem  at  times  restive  and  fright- 
ened, moving  his  wings  as  if  flying  hi 
spirit,  and  sad  that  he  must  stay  on 
earth. 

So,  too,  at  her  window,  Barbara  flut- 
tered her  wings;  then,  getting  into  bed, 
lay  sighing  and  tossing.  A  clock  struck 
three;  and  seized  by  an  intolerable  im- 
patience at  her  own  discomfort,  she 
slipped  a  motor-coat  over  her  night- 
gown, put  on  slippers,  and  stole  out 
into  the  passage.  The  house  was  very 
still.  She  crept  downstairs,  smother- 
ing her  footsteps.  Groping  her  way 
through  the  hall,  inhabited  by  the  thin 
ghosts  of  would-be  light,  she  slid  back 
the  chain  of  the  door,  and  ran  fowards 
the  sea.  She  made  no  more  noise  run- 
ning in  the  dew,  than  a  bird  following 
the  paths  of  air;  and  the  two  ponies, 
who  felt  her  figure  pass  in  the  darkness, 
snuffled,  sending  out  soft  sighs  of  alarm 
amongst  the  closed  buttercups.  She 
climbed  the  wall  over  to  the  beach. 
While  she  was  running,  she  had  fully 
meant  to  dash  into  the  sea  and  cool 
herself,  but  it  was  so  black,  with  just  a 
thin  edging  scarf  of  white,  and  the  sky 
was  black,  bereft  of  lights,  waiting  for 
the  day! 

She  stood,  and  looked.  And  all  the 
leapings  and  pulsings  of  flesh  and  spir- 
it slowly  died  in  that  wide,  dark  lone- 


liness, where  the  only  sound  was  the 
wistful  breaking  of  small  waves.  She 
was  well  used  to  these  dead  hours,  — 
only  last  night,  at  this  very  time,  Har- 
binger's arm  had  been  round  her  in  a 
last  waltz.  But  here  the  dead  hours  had 
such  different  faces,  wide-eyed,  solemn; 
and  there  came  to  Barbara,  staring  out 
at  them,  a  sense  that  the  darkness  saw 
her  very  soul,  so  that  it  felt  little  and 
timid  within  her.  She  shivered  in  her 
fur-lined  motoring  coat,  as  if  almost 
frightened  at  finding  herself  so  marvel- 
ously  nothing  before  that  black  sky  and 
dark  sea,  which  seemed  all  one,  relent- 
lessly great.  And  crouching  down,  she 
waited  for  the  dawn  to  break. 

It]  came  from  over  the  downs, 
sweeping  a  rush  of  cold  air  on  its 
wings,  flighting  toward  the  sea.  With 
it  the  daring  soon  crept  back  into  her 
blood.  She  stripped,  and  ran  down 
into  the  dark  water,  fast  growing  pale. 
It  covered  her  jealously,  and  she  set  to 
work  to  swim.  The  water  was  warmer 
than  the  air.  She  lay  on  her  back  and 
splashed,  watching  the  sky  flush.  To 
bathe  like  this  in  the  half-dark,  with  her 
hair  floating  out,  arid  no  wet  clothes 
clinging  to  her  limbs,  gave  her  the  joy 
of  a  child  doing  a  naughty  thing.  She 
swam  out  of  her  depth,  then,  scared  at 
her  own  adventure,  swam  in  again  as 
the  sun  rose. 

She  dashed  into  her  two  garments, 
climbed  the  wall,  and  ran  back  to  the 
house.  All  her  dejection  and  feverish 
uncertainty  were  gone;  she  felt  keen 
and  fresh  and  very  hungry,  and  steal- 
ing into  the  dining-room,  began  rum- 
maging for  food.  She  found  biscuits, 
and  was  still  munching,  when  in  the 
open  doorway  she  saw  Lord  Dennis,  a 
pistol  in  one  hand  and  a  lighted  can- 
dle in  the  other.  With  his  carved  fea- 
tures and  white  beard  above  an  old 
blue  dressing-gown,  he  looked  impress- 
ive, having  at  the  moment  a  distinct 
resemblance  to  Lady  Casterley,  as 


THE    PATRICIANS 


261 


though  danger  had  armored  him  in 
steel. 

'You  call  this  resting!'  he  said,  dry- 
ly; then,  looking  at  her  drowned  hair, 
added,  'I  see  you  have  already  in- 
trusted your  trouble  to  the  waters  of 
Lethe.' 

Without  answer,  Barbara  vanished 
into  the  dim  hall  and  up  the  stairs. 

XXVI 

While  Barbara  was  swimming  to 
meet  the  dawn,  Milton  was  bathing  in 
those  waters  of  mansuetude  and  truth 
which  roll  from  wall  to  wall  in  the  Brit- 
ish House  of  Commons. 

In  that  long  debate  on  the  land 
question,  for  which  he  had  waited  to 
make  his  first  speech,  he  had  already 
risen  nine  times  without  catching  the 
Speaker's  eye,  and  slowly  a  sense  of  un- 
reality was  creeping  over  him.  Surely 
this  great  chamber,  where  without  end 
rose  the  small  sound  of  a  single  human 
voice,  and  queer  mechanical  bursts  of 
approbation  and  resentment,  did  not 
exist  at  all  save  as  a  gigantic  fancy  of 
his  own!  And  all  these  figures  were 
figments  of  his  brain.  And  when  he  at 
last  spoke,  it  would  be  himself  alone 
that  he  addressed!  The  torpid  at- 
tainted with  human  breath,  the  un- 
winking stare  of  the  countless  lights, 
the  long  rows  of  seats,  the  queer  dis- 
tant rounds  of  pale  listening  flesh 
perched  up  so  high,  they  were  all  ema- 
nations of  himself!  Even  the  coming 
and  going  in  the  gangway  was  but  the 
coming  and  going  of  little  willful  parts 
of  him.  And  rustling  deep  down  in 
this  Titanic  creature  of  his  fancy  was 
the  murmuration  of  his  own  unspoken 
speech,  sweeping  away  the  puff-balls  of 
words  flung  up  by  that  far-away,  small, 
varying  voice. 

Then,  suddenly,  all  that  dream  crea- 
ture had  vanished;  he  was  on  his  feet, 
with  a  thumping  heart,  speaking. 


Soon  he  had  no  tremors,  only  a  dim 
consciousness  that  his  words  sounded 
strange,  and  a  queer  icy  pleasure  in 
flinging  them  out  into  the  silence. 
Round  him  there  seemed  no  longer 
men,  only  mouths  and  eyes.  And  he 
had  enjoyment  in  the  feeling  that  with 
his  own  mouth  and  eyes  he  was  holding 
those  hungry  mouths  and  eyes  dumb 
and  unmoving.  Then  he  knew  that  he 
had  reached  the  end  of  what  he  had  to 
say,  and  sat  down,  remaining  motion- 
less in  the  centre  of  a  various  sound, 
staring  at  the  back  of  the  head  in  front 
of  him,  with  his  hands  clasped  round 
his  knee.  And  soon,  when  another  lit- 
tle far-away  voice  was  once  more 
speaking,  he  took  his  hat,  and  glancing 
neither  to  right  nor  left,  went  out. 

Instead  of  that  sensation  of  relief 
and  wild  elation  which  fills  the  heart  of 
those  who  have  taken  the  first  plunge, 
Milton  had  nothing  in  his  deep,  dark 
well  but  the  waters  of  bitterness.  In 
truth,  with  the  delivery  of  that  speech 
he  had  but  parted  with  what  had  been 
a  sort  of  anodyne  to  suffering.  He  had 
only  put  the  fine  point  on  his  feeling  of 
how  vain  was  his  career  now  that  he 
could  not  share  it  with  Audrey  Noel. 
He  walked  slowly  towards  the  Temple, 
along  the  river-side,  where  the  lamps 
were  paling  into  nothingness  before 
that  daily  celebration  of  Divinity,  the 
meeting  of  dark  and  light. 

For  Milton  was  not  one  of  those  who 
take  things  lying  down ;  he  took  things 
desperately,  deeply,  and  with  revolt. 
He  took  them  like  a  rider  riding  him- 
self, plunging  at  the  dig  of  his  own 
spurs,  chafing  and  wincing  at  the  cruel 
tugs  of  his  own  bit;  bearing  in  his 
friendless,  proud  nature  all  the  burden 
of  struggles  which  shallower  or  more 
genial  natures  shared  with  others. 

He  looked  hardly  less  haggard,  walk- 
ing home,  than  some  of  those  homeless 
ones  who  slept  nightly  by  the  river,  as 
though  they  knew  that  to  lie  near  one 


THE   PATRICIANS 


who  could  so  readily  grant  oblivion, 
alone  could  save  them  from  seeking 
that  consolation.  He  was  perhaps  un- 
happier  than  they,  whose  spirits,  at  all 
events,  had  long  ceased  to  worry  them, 
having  oozed  out  from  their  bodies  un- 
der the  foot  of  life. 

Now  that  Audrey  Noel  was  lost  to 
him,  her  loveliness  and  that  indescrib- 
able quality  which  made  her  lovable, 
floated  before  him,  the  very  torture- 
flowers  of  a  beauty  never  to  be  grasped, 
yet  that  he  could  grasp,  if  he  only 
would !  He  was  suffering,  too,  physic- 
ally, from  a  kind  of  slow  fever,  the  re- 
sult of  his  wetting  on  the  day  when  he 
last  saw  her.  And  through  that  latent 
fever,  things  and  feelings,  like  his  sen- 
sations in  the  House  before  his  speech, 
were  all  as  it  were  muffled  in  a  horrible 
way,  as  if  they  all  came  to  him  wrapped 
in  a  sort  of  flannel  coating,  through 
which  he  could  not  cut.  And  all  the 
time  there  seemed  to  be  within  him  two 
men  at  mortal  grips  with  one  another; 
the  man  of  faith  in  divine  sanction  and 
authority,  on  which  all  his  beliefs  had 
hitherto  hinged,  and  a  desperate,  warm- 
blooded, hungry  creature.  He  was  very 
miserable,  craving  strangely  the  society 
of  some  one  who  could  understand  what 
he  was  feeling,  but,  from  long  habit 
of  making  no  confidants,  not  knowing 
how  to  satisfy  that  craving. 

It  was  dawn  when  he  reached  his 
rooms;  and,  sure  that  he  would  not 
sleep,  he  did  not  even  go  to  bed,  but 
changed  his  clothes,  made  himself  some 
coffee,  and  sat  down  at  the  window 
which  overlooked  the  flowered  court- 
yard. 

In  Middle  Temple  Hall  a  ball  was 
still  in  progress,  though  the  glamour 
from  its  Chinese  lanterns  was  already 
darkened  and  gone.  Milton  saw  a  man 
and  a  girl,  sheltered  by  an  old  foun- 
tain, sitting  out  their  last  dance.  Her 
head  had  sunk  on  his  shoulder;  their 
lips  were  joined.  And  there  floated  up 


to  the  window  the  scent  of  heliotrope, 
with  the  tune  of  the  waltz  that  those 
two  should  have  been  dancing.  This 
couple,  so  stealthily  enlaced,  the  gleam 
of  their  furtively  turned  eyes,  the 
whispering  of  their  lips,  that  stony 
niche  below  the  twittering  sparrows, 
so  cunningly  sought  out  —  it  was  the 
world  he  had  abjured!  When  he 
looked  again,  they  —  like  a  vision  seen 
—  had  stolen  away  and  gone;  the 
music  too  had  ceased,  there  was  no 
scent  of  heliotrope.  In  the  stony  niche 
crouched  a  stray  cat  watching  the 
twittering  sparrows. 

Milton  went  out,  and,  turning  into 
the  empty  Strand,  walked  on  without 
heeding  where,  till  towards  five  o'clock 
he  found  himself  on  Putney  Bridge. 

He  rested  there,  leaning  over  the 
parapet,  looking  down  at  the  gray  wa- 
ter. The  sun  was  just  breaking  through 
the  heat  haze;  early  wagons  were  pass- 
ing, and  already  men  were  conr  ng  in  to 
work.  To  what  end  did  the  river  wan- 
der up  and  down?  and  a  human  river 
flow  across  it  twice  every  day?  To 
what  end  were  men  and  women  suffer- 
ing? In  all  the  full  current  of  this  life 
Milton  could  see  no  more  aim  than  in 
the  wheeling  of  the  gulls  in  the  early 
sunlight. 

Leaving  the  bridge,  he  made  towards 
Barnes  Common.  The  night  was  still 
ensnared  there  on  the  gorse-bushes, 
gray  with  cobwebs  and  the  starry  dew- 
drops.  He  passed  a  tramp  family  still 
sleeping,  huddled  all  together.  Even 
the  homeless  lay  in  each  others'  arms! 

From  the  Common  he  emerged  on 
the  road  near  the  gates  of  Ravensham, 
and  turning  in  there,  found  his  way  to 
the  kitchen-garden,  and  sat  down  on 
a  bench  close  to  the  raspberry  bushes. 
They  were  protected  from  thieves,  but 
at  Milton's  approach  two  blackbirds 
flustered  out  through  the  netting  and 
flew  away. 

His  long  figure  resting  so  motionless 


THE    PATRICIANS 


263 


impressed  itself  on  the  eyes  of  a  gar- 
dener, who  caused  a  report  to  be  cir- 
culated that  his  young  lordship  was  in 
the  fruit-garden.  It  reached  the  ears  of 
Clifton,  who  himself  came  out  to  see 
what  this  might  mean.  The  old  man 
took  his  stand  in  front  of  Milton  very 
quietly. 

'You  have  come  to  breakfast,  my 
lord?' 

'If  my  grandmother  will  have  me, 
Clifton.' 

'I  understand  your  lordship  was 
speaking  last  night.' 

'I  was.' 

'You  find  the  House  of  Commons 
satisfactory,  I  hope.' 

'Fairly,  thank  you,  Clifton.' 

'They  are  not  what  they  were  in  the 
great  days  of  your  grandfather,  I  be- 
lieve. He  had  a  very  good  opinion  of 
them.  They  vary,  no  doubt.' 

'Tempora  mutantur.' 

'That  is  so.  I  find  quite  a  new  spirit 
towards  public  affairs.  The  ha'penny 
Press;  one  takes  it  in,  but  one  hardly 
approves.  I  shall  be  anxious  to  read 
your  speech.  They  say  a  first  speech  is 
a  great  strain.' 

'It  is,  rather.' 

'But  you  had  no  reason  to  be  anxi- 
ous. I  'm  sure  it  was  beautiful.' 

Milton  saw  that  the  old  man's  thin 
sallow  cheeks  had  flushed  to  a  deep 
orange  between  his  snow-white  whis- 
kers. 

'I  have  looked  forward  to  this  day,' 
he  stammered,  'ever  since  I  knew  your 
lordship  —  twenty-eight  years.  It  is 
the  beginning.' 

'Or  the  end,  Clifton.' 

The  old  man's  face  fell  in  a  look  of 
deep  and  concerned  astonishment. 

'No,  no,'  he  said;  'with  your  ante- 
cedents, never.' 

Milton  took  his  hand. 

'Sorry,  Clifton,  didn't  mean  to 
shock  you.' 

And   for  a  minute  neither   spoke, 


looking  at  their  clasped  hands  as  if  sur- 
prised. 

'Would  your  lordship  like  a  bath? 
her  ladyship  breakfasts  at  eight.  I  can 
procure  you  a  razor.' 

When  Milton  entered  the  breakfast- 
room,  his  grandmother,  with  a  copy  of 
the  Times  in  her  hands,  was  seated  be- 
fore a  grape-fruit,  which,  with  a  shred- 
ded-wheat biscuit,  constituted  her  first 
meal.  Her  appearance  hardly  warrant- 
ed Barbara's  description  of  'terribly 
well ' ;  in  truth,  she  looked  a  little  white, 
as  if  she  had  been  feeling  the  heat.  But 
there  was  no  lack  of  animation  in  her 
little  dark  gray  eyes,  nor  of  decision  in 
her  manner. 

'I  see,'  she  said,  'that  you've 
taken  a  line  of  your  own,  Eustace.  I  've 
nothing  to  say  against  that;  in  fact, 
quite  the  contrary.  But  remember  this, 
my  dear,  however  you  may  change, 
you  must  n't  wobble.  Only  one  thing 
counts  in  that  place,  hitting  the  same 
nail  on  the  head  with  the  same  hammer 
all  the  time.  You  are  n't  looking  at  all 
well.' 

Milton,  bending  to  kiss  her,  mur- 
mured, 'Thanks,  I'm  all  right.' 

'Nonsense,'  replied  Lady  Casterley. 
'They  don't  look  after  you.  Was  your 
mother  in  the  House?' 

'I  don't  think  so.' 

'Exactly.  And  what  is  Barbara 
about?  She  ought  to  be  seeing  to  you.' 

'  Barbara  is  down  with  Uncle  Dennis.' 

Lady  Casterley  set  her  jaw;  then, 
looking  her  grandson  through  and 
through,  said,  'I  shall  take  you  down 
there  this  very  day.  I  shall  have  the 
sea  to  you.  What  do  you  say,  Clifton?' 

'His  lordship  does  look  pale.' 

'Have  the  carriage,  and  we'll  go 
from  Clapham  Junction.  Thomas  can 
go  in  and  fetch  you  some  clothes.  Or, 
better,  though  I  dislike  them,  we  can 
telephone  to  your  mother  for  a  car. 
It 's  very  hot  for  trains.  Arrange  that, 
please,  Clifton!' 


264 


THE    PATRICIANS 


To  this  project  Milton  raised  no  ob- 
jection. And  all  through  the  drive  he 
remained  sunk  in  an  indifference  and 
lassitude  which  to  Lady  Casterley 
seemed  in  the  highest  degree  ominous. 
For  lassitude,  to  her,  was  the  strange, 
the  unpardonable,  state.  The  little 
great  lady  —  casket  of  the  aristocratic 
principle  —  was  permeated  to  the  very 
backbone  with  the  instinct  of  artificial 
energy,  of  that  alert  vigor  which  those 
who  have  nothing  socially  to  hope  for 
are  forced  to  develop,  lest  they  should 
decay  and  be  again  obliged  to  hope. 
To  speak  honest  truth,  she  could  not 
forbear  an  itch  to  run  some  sharp  and 
foreign  substance  into  her  grandson,  to 
rouse  him  somehow,  for  she  knew  the 
reason  of  his  state,  and  was  tempera- 
mentally out  of  patience  with  such  a 
cause  for  backsliding.  Had  it  been  any 
other  of  her  grandchildren  she  would 
not  have  hesitated ;  but  there  was  that 
in  Milton  which  held  even  Lady  Cas- 
terley in  check,  and  only  once  during 
the  four  hours  of  travel  did  she  at- 
tempt to  break  down  his  reserve.  She 
did  it  in  a  manner  very  soft  for  her,  — 
was  he  not  of  all  living  things  the  hope, 
the  pride,  and  the  beloved  of  her  heart  ? 
Tucking  her  little  thin  sharp  hand  un- 
der his  arm,  she  said  quietly,  >My  dear, 
don't  brood  over  it.  That  will  never  do.' 

But  Milton  removed  her  hand  gen- 
tly, and  laid  it  back  on  the  dust-rug; 
nor  did  he  answer,  or  show  other  sign 
of  having  heard. 

And  Lady  Casterley,  deeply  wound- 
ed, pressed  her  faded  lips  together,  and 
said  sharply,  '  Slower,  please,  Frith ! ' 

XXVII 

It  was  to  Barbara  that  Milton  un- 
folded, if  ever  so  little,  the  trouble  of 
his  spirit,  lying  out  that  same  afternoon 
under  a  tamarisk  hedge  with  the  tide 
far  out.  He  could  never  have  done  this 
if  there  had  not  been  between  them  the 


accidental  revelation  of  that  night  at 
Monkland;  nor  even  then  perhaps  had 
he  not  felt  in  this  young  sister  of  his 
the  warmth  of  life  for  which  he  was 
yearning.  In  such  a  matter  as  love  Bar- 
bara was  the  elder  of  these  two.  For, 
besides  the  motherly  knowledge  of  the 
heart  peculiar  to  most  women,  she  had 
the  inherent  woman-of-the-worldliness 
to  be  expected  of  a  daughter  of  Lord 
and  Lady  Valleys.  If  she  herself  were 
in  doubt,  it  was  not  as  with  Milton,  on 
the  score  of  the  senses  and  the  heart, 
but  on  the  score  of  her  spirit  and  cu- 
riosity, which  Courtier  had  awakened 
and  caused  to  flap  their  wings  a  little. 
She  worried  over  Milton's  forlorn  case, 
and  it  hurt  her  to  think  of  Mrs.  Noel 
eating  her  heart  out  in  that  lonely  cot- 
tage. Then,  too,  a  sister  so  good  and 
earnest  as  Agatha  had  ever  inclined 
Barbara  to  a  rebellious  view  of  morals, 
and  disinclined  her  altogether  to  re- 
ligion. If  those  two  could  not  be  happy 
apart,  let  them  be  happy  together,  in 
the  name  of  all  the  joy  there  is  in  life! 

And  while  her  brother  lay  face  to 
the  sky  on  the  tamarisk  bank,  she  kept 
trying  to  think  how  to  mother  him, 
conscious  that  she  did  not  in  the  least 
understand  the  way  he  thought  about 
things.  Over  the  fields  behind,  the 
larks  were  hymning  the  promise  of  the 
unripe  corn;  the  foreshore  was  painted 
all  colors,  from  vivid  green  to  mush- 
room pink;  by  the  edge  of  the  blue  sea 
little  black  figures  were  stooping.  The 
air  smelled  sweet  in  the  shade  of  the 
tamarisk;  there  was  ineffable  peace. 
And  Barbara,  covered  by  the  network 
of  the  sunlight,  could  not  help  a  cer- 
tain impatience  with  a  suffering  which 
seemed  to  her  so  corrigible  by  action. 
At  last  she  ventured :  — 

'Life  is  short,  Eusty!' 

Milton's  answer,  given  without 
movement,  startled  her. 

'Persuade  me  that  it  is,  Babs,  and 
I'll  bless  you.  If  the  singing  of  these 


THE  PATRICIANS 


265 


larks  means  nothing,  if  that  blue  up 
there  is  a  morass  of  our  invention,  if  we 
are  pettily  creeping  on,  furthering  no- 
thing, if  there 's  no  purpose  in  our  lives, 
persuade  me  of  it,  for  God's  sake!' 

Carried  suddenly  beyond  her  depth, 
Barbara  could  only  put  out  her  hand, 
and  say,  'Oh!  don't  take  it  so  hard!' 

'Since  you  say  that  life  is  short,'  Mil- 
ton muttered,  with  his  smile,  'you 
should  n't  spoil  it  by  feeling  pity!  In 
old  days  we  went  to  the  Tower  for  our 
convictions.  We  can  stand  a  little 
private  roasting,  I  hope;  or  has  the 
sand  run  out  of  us  altogether?' 

Stung  by  his  tone,  Barbara  answered 
in  rather  a  hard  voice,  '  What  we  must 
bear,  we  must,  I  suppose.  But  why 
should  we  make  trouble?  That 's  what  I 
can't  stand,  and  there's  so  much  of  it! ' 

'  O  profound  wisdom ! ' 

Barbara  flushed. 

'I  love  life!'  she  said. 

The  galleons  of  the  westering  sun 
were  already  sailing  in  a  broad  gold 
fleet  straight  for  that  foreshore  where 
the  little  black  stooping  figures  had  not 
yet  finished  their  toil;  the  larks  still  sang 
over  the  unripe  corn,  when  Harbinger, 
galloping  along  the  sands  from  White- 
water to  Sea  House,  came  on  that 
silent  couple  walking  home  to  dinner. 

It  would  not  be  safe  to  say  of  this 
young  man  that  he  readily  diagnosed  a 
spiritual  atmosphere,  but  this  was  the 
less  his  demerit,  since  everything  from 
his  cradle  up  had  conspired  to  keep  the 
spiritual  thermometer  of  his  surround- 
ings at  sixty  in  the  shade.  And  the  fact 
that  his  own  spiritual  thermometer  had 
now  run  up  so  that  it  threatened  to 
burst  the  bulb,  rendered  him  less  likely 
than  ever  to  see  what  was  happening 
with  other  people's.  Yet  he  did  notice 
that  Barbara  was  looking  pale,  and  — 
it  seemed  —  sweeter  than  ever.  With 
her  eldest  brother  he  always  somehow 
felt  ill  at  ease.  He  could  not  exactly 
afford  to  despise  the  uncompromising 


spirit  of  one  of  his  own  order;  but  he 
was  no  more  impervious  than  others 
to  Milton's  caustic,  thinly-veiled  con- 
tempt for  the  commonplace;  and  hav- 
ing the  full-blooded  belief  in  himself 
usual  with  men  of  fine  physique,  whose 
lots  are  so  cast  that  this  belief  can  never 
or  almost  never  be  really  shaken,  he 
greatly  disliked  the  feeling  he  had,  in 
Milton's  presence,  of  being  a  little 
looked-down  on.  It  was  an  intense  re- 
lief when,  saying  that  he  wanted  a  cer- 
tain magazine,  Milton  strode  off  into 
the  town. 

For  Harbinger,  no  less  than  for  Mil- 
ton and  Barbara,  last  night  had  been 
bitter  and  restless.  The  sight  of  that 
pale  swaying  figure,  with  the  parted 
lips,  whirling  round  in  Courtier's  arms, 
had  clung  to  his  vision  ever  since.  In 
his  own  last  dance  with  her  he  had  been 
almost  savagely  silent,  and  only  by  a 
great  effort  restrained  his  tongue  from 
biting  allusions  to  that '  prancing,  red- 
haired  fellow,'  as  he  secretly  called  the 
champion  of  lost  causes.  In  fact,  his 
sensations  then  and  since  had  been  a 
revelation  to  himself,  or  would  have 
been  if  he  could  have  stood  apart 
to  see  them.  True,  he  went  about  next 
day  with  his  usual  cool,  off-hand  man- 
ner, because  one  naturally  did  n't  let 
people  see  things;  but  it  was  with  such 
an  inner  aching,  and  rage  of  want,  and 
jealousy,  as  really  to  merit  pity.  Men  of 
his  physically  big,  rushing  type,  are  the 
last  to  possess  their  souls  in  patience. 

Walking  home  after  the  ball,  he  had 
determined  to  follow  her  down  to  the 
sea,  where  she  had  said,  with  a  sort  of 
malice  it  seemed,  that  she  was  going. 
After  a  second  almost  sleepless  night 
he  had  no  longer  any  hesitation.  He 
must  see  her!  He  had  a  right  after  all 
to  go  to  his  own  place;  besides,  he  did 
not  care  even  if  it  was  a  pointed  thing 
to  do.  The  more  pointed  the  better! 
There  was  beginning  to  be  roused  in 
him  an  ugly  stubbornness  of  male  de- 


266 


THE    PATRICIANS 


termination.  She  was  not  going  to  es- 
cape him. 

But  now  that  he  was  walking  at  her 
side,  all  that  determination  and  assur- 
ance melted  into  a  perplexed  humility; 
and  he  marched  along  by  his  horse 
with  his  head  down,  just  feeling  the 
ache  of  being  so  close  to  her  and  yet 
so  far;  angry  with  his  own  silence  and 
awkwardness,  almost  angry  with  her 
for  her  loveliness,  and  the  pain  it  made 
him  suffer.  When  they  reached  the 
house,  and  she  left  him  at  the  stable 
yard,  saying  she  was  going  to  get  some 
flowers,  he  jerked  the  beast's  bridle 
and  swore  at  it  for  its  slowness  in  en- 
tering the  stable.  He  was  terrified  that 
she  would  be  gone  before  he  could  get 
into  the  garden,  and  yet  half-afraid  of 
finding  her  there.  But  she  had  not  yet 
gone  in;  she  was  plucking  carnations 
by  the  ragged  box-hedge  which  led  to 
the  glass-houses.  And  as  she  rose  from 
gathering  them,  almost  before  he 
knew  what  he  was  doing,  Harbinger 
had  thrown  his  arm  round  her,  held  her 
in  a  vise,  kissed  her  unmercifully. 

She  seemed  to  offer  no  resistance, 
her  smooth  cheeks  growing  warmer 
and  warmer,  even  her  lips  passive;  but 
suddenly  he  recoiled,  and  his  heart 
stood  still  at  his  own  outrageous  dar- 
ing. What  had  he  done?  And  he  saw 
her  leaning  back  almost  buried  in  the 
ragged  box-hedge,  and  heard  her  say, 
with  a  sort  of  faint  mockery,  'Well!' 

He  would  have  flung  himself  down 
on  his  knees  to  ask  for  pardon  but  for 
the  thought  that  some  one  might  come. 
He  said  hoarsely, '  By  God,  I  was  mad ! ' 
and  stood  glowering  at  her  in  a  sullen 
suspense  between  hardihood  and  fear. 

And  he  heard  her  say,  quietly,  'Yes, 
you  were  —  rather.' 

Then  seeing  her  put  her  hand  up  to 
her  lips  as  if  he  had  hurt  them,  he  mut- 
tered brokenly, '  Forgive  me,  Babs! ' 


There  was  a  full  minute's  silence 
while  he  stood  there,  not  daring  to 
look  at  her,  beaten  all  over  by  his  emo- 
tions. Then,  with  a  sort  of  bewilder- 
ment, he  heard  her  say,  'I  did  n't 
mind  it  —  for  once!' 

He  looked  up  at  that.  How  could 
she  love  him,  and  speak  so  coolly!  How 
could  she  not  mind,  if  she  did  not  love 
him!  She  was  passing  her  hands  over 
her  face  and  neck  and  hair,  repairing 
the  damage  of  his  kisses. 

'Now  shall  we  go  in?'  she  said. 

Harbinger  took  a  step  forward. 

'I  love  you  so,'  he  said;  'I  will  put 
my  life  in  your  hands,  and  you  shall 
throw  it  away.' 

At  these  words,  of  whose  exact  nat- 
ure he  had  very  little  knowledge,  he 
saw  her  smile. 

'  If  I  let  you  come  within  three  yards, 
will  you  be  good?' 

He  bowed;  and,  silently,  they  walked 
towards  the  house. 

It  was  a  strange  dinner  that  evening. 
But  its  comedy,  too  subtly  played  for 
Milton  and  Lord  Dennis,  seemed  trans- 
parent to  the  eyes  of  Lady  Casterley; 
for,  when  Harbinger  had  sallied  forth 
to  ride  back  along  the  sands,  she  took 
her  candle  and  invited  Barbara  to 
retire.  Then,  having  admitted  her 
granddaughter  to  the  apartment  al- 
ways reserved  for  herself,  and  specially 
furnished  with  practically  nothing,  she 
sat  down  opposite  that  tall,  young, 
solid  figure,  as  it  were  taking  stock  of 
it,  and  said, '  So  you  are  coming  to  your 
senses,  at  all  events.  Kiss  me!' 

Barbara,  stooping,  saw  a  tear  steal- 
ing down  the  carved  fine  nose.  Know- 
ing that  to  notice  it  would  be  too  dread- 
ful, she  rose,  and  went  to  the  window. 
There,  looking  over  the  dark  fields  and 
sea,  by  the  side  of  which  Harbinger  was 
riding  home,  she  thought  for  the  hun- 
dredth time,  'So  that's  what  it's  like!' 


(To  be  continued.) 


THE   POETRY  OF  WILLIAM  WATSON 


BY   HAROLD   WILLIAMS 


WHETHER  we  are  to  regard  history 
as  an  analysis  of  tendencies  or  as  a 
biography  of  individuals  is  ultimately 
a  question,  not  of  absolute  truth  and 
falsehood,  but  of  relative  tempera- 
ment. If  the  question  ever  occurs  to 
the  mind  of  the  man  gifted  with  imag- 
ination, mysticism,  and  poetry,  the 
answer  can  hardly  remain  doubtful:  it 
comes  in  the  defiant  dictum  of  Emer- 
son: 'All  history  resolves  itself  very 
easily  into  the  biography  of  a  few 
stout  and  earnest  persons.'  This  is 
the  triumphant  consciousness  of  indi- 
viduality which  belongs  to  the  man  of 
genius,  and  even  Emerson,  with  all  his 
pure  trust  in  the  general  average  of 
human  nature,  was  betrayed  for  a 
moment  into  flinging  his  challenge  in 
the  face  of  a  world  which  looks,  at  a 
superficial  glance,  like  a  collection  of 
similar  units.  But  the  philosopher,  or 
man  of  scientific  mood,  will  either 
reverse  the  statement  of  Emerson  and 
sink  the  individual  in  the  prevailing 
Zeitgeist,  or  he  will  speak  with  hesita- 
tion. Lotze  has  expressed  the  com- 
promise when  he  writes  of  'those 
mighty  men  who  through  inventive 
genius  or  obstinate  constancy  of  will 
have  had  a  decided  influence  upon  the 
course  of  history ';  who  are  not,  we  are 
told  in  conclusion,  'merely  the  off- 
spring and  the  outcome  of  their  age.' 
The  word  'merely'  would  never  have 
crossed  the  field  of  Emerson's  thought. 

The  unqualified  statement  may  com- 
mand our  emotions  and  our  actions, 
but  not  our  reason,  which  soon  detects 
a  flaw  in  the  baking.  But  the  vase  is 


none  the  less  beautiful,  except  for  the 
connoisseur.  If  we  ask  why  the  poetry 
and  literature  of  Athens  in  her  great- 
ness have  never  been  surpassed  as  a  per- 
fect whole,  the  answer  is  easy,  —  be- 
cause the  world  has  never  seen  again 
within  an  equally  short  period  such  a 
pageant  of  individual  intellect.  But 
the  philosophical  thinker  steps  in 
again  and  bids  us  remember  that  the 
literature  of  Greece  lives,  not  because 
it  was  written  for  the  future  and  dis- 
sociates itself  from  contemporary  life, 
but  because  it  is  inspired  and  limited 
by  the  national  ideals  of  one  small  city- 
state.  Nobody  would  care  to  deny 
that  Sophocles,  ^Eschylus,  and  Plato 
are  'the  offspring  and  the  outcome  of 
their  age,'  though  with  differing  de- 
grees of  emphasis  we  may  preface  the 
admission  with  the  words  'not  merely.' 
But  Emerson  restricts  his  dictum  to 
the  'few';  and  whether  they  are  the 
writers  of  the  hundred  best  books, 
supplemented  by  a  selection  from  the 
world's  men  of  action,  or  the  greater 
saints  of  the  Positivist  calendar,  mat- 
ters very  little.  The  statement  is 
rigidly  aristocratic;  and  when  we  drop 
to  the  ranks  of  the  'minor,'  it  has 
little  application.  But,  even  here,  an 
evident  differentiation  presents  itself. 
Among  the  writers  of  a  day,  who  can- 
not claim  a  place  with  the  famous 
men  for  whom  we  reserve  a  special  kind 
of  praise,  there  are  degrees  of  sub- 
serviency to  contemporary  tendency. 
Poets  may  follow  the  tradition  of  a  day 
or  a  school  and  yet  be  something  more 
than  servile  copyists;  or  they  may 

267 


268 


exhibit  a  markedly  self-centred  devel- 
opment, tinged,  of  course,  with  the 
inevitable  admixture  of  influences  flow- 
ing from  their  time  and  place.  The 
broad  and  general  characteristics  which 
belong  to  the  poetry  of  the  beginning  of 
the  twentieth  and  the  later  decades 
of  the  last  century  are  not  cut  in  hard 
lines,  but  do  not  altogether  elude  de- 
finition. In  the  first  place,  if  we  take, 
as  a  supreme  test  and  comparison,  two 
periods  in  the  annals  of  English  poetry, 
which  display  in  the  highest  degree 
what  Milton  meant  by  'native  wood- 
notes  wild,'  that  is,  natural  emotion  and 
music  in  poetry,  the  age  of  Elizabeth 
and  the  Romantic  Revival,  we  need  not 
hesitate  to  call  these  few  decades  a 
period  of  true  if  not  great  poetry.  And 
the  comparison  carries  a  suggestion  of 
definition  with  it. 

In  the  form  of  poetry  the  past  fifty 
years  have  exhibited  a  love  for  the 
pure  music  of  words  and  for  metrical 
experiment.  The  science  of  verse  has 
been  abundantly  analyzed  and  ex- 
pounded (witness  Professor  Saints- 
bury's  recently  completed  History  of 
English  Prosody],  but  the  influence  of 
mere  technique  has  not  excluded  poet- 
ical content  or  elaborated  it  to  vanish- 
ing point.  Neither  in  content  nor  in 
form  has  the  age  been  one  of  formalism 
or  of  convention.  We  have  everything, 
from  the  perfect  art  of  Tennyson  and 
the  metrical  ingenuities  of  Swinburne 
to  the  recitative  of  Walt  Whitman; 
and  the  subject  of  poetry  has  been  all 
things  in  heaven  and  earth.  But,  if  the 
content  and  form  of  poetry  have  been 
infinitely  diversified,  the  spirit  ani- 
mating it  has  been  distinctly  lyrical. 
The  epic  can  appear  only  occasionally, 
but,  under  the  influence  of  Tennyson 
and  Browning,  even  the  narrative 
poem  has  been  cast  in  the  form  of  dra- 
matic monologue,  and  this  is  a  com- 
promise with  the  subjectivism  of  the 
lyric.  A  human,  romantic,  and  mystical 


lyrical  quality  pervades  the  greater 
part  of  the  poetry  of  the  last  fifty  years, 
whatever  its  merely  external  form  and 
purpose  may  have  been, — epic,  nar- 
rative, didactic,  philosophical. 

Perhaps  there  is  only  one  broad  and 
characteristic  difference  between  the 
spirit  of  the  eighteenth  and  that  of  the 
nineteenth  century  which  can  be  made 
to  hold  at  every  point  of  comparison  — 
we  are  introspective  and  subjective 
to  a  degree  which  would  have  shocked 
the  company  which  used  to  meet  at  the 
Turk's  Head  Tavern.  Indefinite  and 
introspective  lyrical  feeling  belongs  to 
almost  every  poet,  either  living  or  not 
long  dead,  whom  we  may  classify  as 
minor.  A  catalogue  of  names,  at  this 
point,  in  justification  of  the  argument, 
would  occupy  too  much  space.  A  list, 
by  no  means  full,  covering  nearly  two 
pages,  may  be  found  in  the  preface  to 
the  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse. 

It  is  usual  to  dismiss  one  of  the  poets 
whose  name  appears  in  that  list,  Mr. 
William  Watson,  as  non-lyrical;  but 
this  is  only  partially  true,  and  the 
judgment  calls  for  qualification.  Mr. 
Watson  has,  no  doubt,  a  strongly- 
marked  objective  method,  but  nobody 
would  deny  that  he  is,  at  the  same 
time,  introspective.  The  distinction 
lies  rather  in  this,  that,  whereas  the 
emotion  of  the  pure  lyric  should  be 
unpremeditated  and  spring  from  the 
heart,  the  emotion  which  inspires  the 
poetry  of  Mr.  Watson  is,  broadly 
speaking,  of  the  intellect  and  mind. 
That  is  why  he  tends  naturally  to  the 
elegiac,  philosophical,  and  didactic 
poem :  and,  more  than  any  poet  of  our 
time,  he  voices  himself  in  epigram,  a 
form  which  stamps  itself  upon  the  in- 
tellectual rather  than  upon  the  emo- 
tional sympathy  of  the  reader. 

A  supreme  contrast  in  philosophical 
poetry  may  be  obtained  by  placing 
In  Memoriam  against  Pope's  Essay  on 
Man.  Tennyson's  poem  is  the  fruit  of 


THE  POETRY  OF  WILLIAM  WATSON 


269 


long  years  of  thought,  mingled  with 
emotion  and  poignant  regret;  the  Es- 
say on  Man  is  a  string  of  jottings  from 
the  philosophy  of  Bolingbroke  skill- 
fully tagged  together.  In  the  one  poem 
the  emotional  beauty  of  thought  and 
language  carries  us  along,  and  the  doc- 
trine or  sentiment  may  very  often 
count  for  little  enough;  in  the  other 
we  are  conscious  that  Pope  was  him- 
self unmoved,  and  we  are  merely  at- 
tracted or  repelled  by  the  marvelous 
facility  with  which  he  succeeds  in  ex- 
pressing exactly  what  he  wants  to  say 
in  a  chain  of  polished  epigrams. 

It  is  no  disparagement  to  say  of  the 
elegiac  and  philosophical  poems  of 
Mr.  Watson  that  they  often  suggest 
an  analogy  with  the  manner  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  rather  than  with 
that  of  Tennyson  and  the  nineteenth 
century  in  general.  If  Pope  was  want- 
ing in  poetic  vision,  he  was  something 
more  than  an  admirably  constructed 
machine  for  turning  out  neat  iambic 
couplets;  he  did  not  see  much  of  life, 
but  what  he  saw  he  saw  clearly  and 
in  the  whole.  I  have  even  heard  of  the 
lady,  now  living,  who  always  turns  to 
Pope  for  courage  and  inspiration  in 
her  moments  of  depression  and  gloom. 
Obviously  there  must  be  something 
more  in  his  verse  than  most  of  us  give 
the  time  or  trouble  to  discover.  But 
this  by  the  way.  The  vision  of  a  poet 
like  Mr.  Watson  goes  much  further, 
and  is  more  genuinely  poetical,  than 
that  of  the  eighteenth  century  as  a 
whole;  but  in  lucidity,  in  fondness  for 
antithesis  and  epigram,  he  approxi- 
mates to  the  age  of  logic  and  reason. 
As  an  example  of  antithesis,  take  his 
contrast  of  the  two  great  singers  of  the 
Victorian  era:  — 

Lo,  one  with  empty  music  floods  the  ear, 
And  one,  the  heart  refreshing,  tires  the  brain. 

And  in  the  next  stanza  of  the  same 
poem  we  have  a  passage  against  the  in- 


competent scribblers  of  the  day,  that 
suggests  the  satire  of  The  Dunciad:  — 

And  idly  tuneful,  the  loquacious  throng 
Flutter  and  twitter,  prodigal  of  time, 

And  little  masters  make  a  toy  of  song 

Till  grave  men  weary  of  the  sound  of  rhyme. 

A  comparison  such  as  that  which 
has  just  been  made  is  naturally  a 
comparison  of  suggestion,  and  nothing 
more.  In  music,  in  comprehensiveness, 
in  emotion,  in  vocabulary,  and  in  phil- 
osophy of  life,  Mr.  Watson  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  eighteenth  century. 
But  the  lyric  emotion  of  the  last  few 
decades  has  been  vague,  an  undefined 
yearning  for  inexpressible  things  — 

The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 
Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 

The  devotion  to  something  afar 
From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow. 

Mr.  Watson  has  felt  the  Weltschmerz, 
but  there  is  nothing  vague  or  indefinite 
in  his  thought  or  expression.  From  the 
first  he  has  set  before  himself  the  high 
ideal  of  sculptured  lucidity  in  language, 
and  a  logical  and  perfectly  intelligible 
sequence  in  thought. 

Perhaps  the  words  'from  the  first' 
call  for  a  slight  qualification.  The  vol- 
ume containing  The  Prince's  Quest  ap- 
peared thirty  years  ago.  Oddly  enough, 
as  it  is  one  of  Mr.  Watson's  earliest, 
it  is  also  his  longest  poem.  The  motif 
is  that  underlying  the  Hymn  of  Bardai- 
san,  Shelley's  Alastor,  and  many  anoth- 
er of  the  world's  poems  —  the  quest 
of  the  soul's  ideal.  It  is  Mr.  Watson's 
only  poem  which  exhibits  any  vague- 
ness in  thought  or  form,  and  it  is  ob- 
viously inspired  by  Shelley,  while  be- 
traying echoes  from  Tennyson.  The 
metre  employed  —  five-foot  iambic 
couplets  —  moves  slowly,  and  we  are 
conscious  that  the  poet  is  not  wholly 
at  his  ease  in  it:  he  suggests  nothing 
of  the  fresh  possibilities  for  the  metre 
which  Swinburne  has  shown  in  Tris- 
tram of  Lyonesse.  The  poem  is  imma- 


270 


THE  POETRY  OF  WILLIAM  WATSON 


ture,  and  from  it  we  could  hardly  have 
guessed  the  future  development  of  the 
author  of  Wordsworth's  Grave. 

Far  more  characteristic  of  his  future 
style  were  the  two  fine  sonnets,  Van- 
ishings  and  To  Beethoven,  which  were 
first  published  in  the  notes  to  Main's 
Treasury  of  English  Sonnets.  These 
two  sonnets  have  been  included  in  the 
collected  edition  of  Mr.  Watson's 
poems  (1905),  but  the  sestet  of  the 
sonnet  To  Beethoven  has  been  re- 
written; and,  if  the  metre  has  been 
improved,  the  imagery  has  been  de- 
cidedly weakened. 

But  Mr.  Watson's  genius  first  found 
definite  expression  four  years  later  in 
his  Epigrams  of  Art,  Life  and  Nature 
(1884).  The  terse  and  chiseled  form  of 
the  epigram  was  scarcely  the  favorite 
child  of  the  times,  and  its  revival  by  a 
young  man  showed  at  least  a  courage 
to  stand  aloof  and  work  out  his  own 
salvation.  There  have  been  two  periods 
of  the  epigram  in  English  literature :  the 
one  represented  most  prominently  by 
the  names  of  Ben  Jonson,  Herrick,  and 
Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  and  the 
second  the  eighteenth  century  gener- 
ally, from  Pope  onward.  In  that  cen- 
tury we  had  a  plethora  of  the  epigram, 
and  the  form  became  little  less  than 
a  plague  and  a  pestilence.  Goldsmith 
has  a  neat  gibe  at  the  overworked  sa- 
tirical epigram  of  his  day:  — 

'There  was  a  time  when  folio  was 
brought  to  oppose  folio.  ...  At  pre- 
sent the  controversy  is  decided  in  a 
summary  way :  an  epigram  or  an  acros- 
tic finishes  the  debate,  and  the  com- 
batant, like  the  incursive  Tartar,  ad- 
vances and  retires  with  a  single  blow.' 

The  epigram  as  an  instrument  of 
satirical  invective  became  tiresome  in 
time  and  dropped  out  of  sight.  In  a 
fine  prose  note,  appended  to  his  orig- 
inal volume  of  Epigrams,  which  is  now 
out  of  print,  Mr.  Watson  disclaims  all 
intention  of  conforming  to  the  popu- 


larly accepted  conception  of  the  epi- 
gram, and  chooses  rather  in  his  volume 
to  emulate  'the  nobler  sort  of  Epi- 
gram,' —  that  is,  the  single  thought 
on  art,  life,  or  nature,  pointedly  and 
concisely  expressed.  In  this  sense,  of 
course,  all  great  poetry  (and  all  great 
prose)  will  contain  epigrams;  though 
the  epigram  in  itself  can  never  be  a 
high  form  of  the  poetic  art.  But  the 
interest  of  Mr.  Watson's  venture,  so 
far  as  he  is  concerned,  is  that  it  has 
given  to  all  his  subsequent  writing  a 
terse  and  sententious  character. 

The  original  volume  held  a  century 
of  epigrams,  and  of  these  just  over  half 
have  been  reprinted  in  the  collected 
edition  of  the  poems.  A  selection  is, 
under  any  conditions,  difficult,  and  the 
compiler  of  an  anthology,  if  he  has 
given  some  little  care  and  thought  to 
his  task,  will  probably  be  more  dissat- 
isfied with  the  result  than  anybody. 
Though  Mr.  Watson  does  not  aim  at 
satire,  he  has  a  fine  satirical  gift,  and 
the  exclusion  of  one  or  two  of  the 
satirical  epigrams  is  a  pity.  Why 
should  we  not  have  LXXI,  on  Charles 
Lamb's  proposal  for  a  club  of  damned 
authors? 

What!  our  inspired  dyspeptic  must  select 
*        Thee  too,  my  heart's  own  Elia,  to  revile? 
Avenge  thee,  gentle  ghost!  Rise,  and  project 
A  club  of  authors  all  damned  by  Carlyle. 

But  it  is  epigrams  of '  the  nobler  sort ' 
which  make  the  value  of  this  little 
volume,  epigrams  such  as 

The  statue  —  Buonarroti  said  —  doth  wait, 
Thrall'd  in  the  block  for  me  to  emancipate. 
The  poem  —  saith  the  poet  —  wanders  free 
Till  I  betray  it  to  captivity. 

This  is  true  poetry,  and  it  would  be 
difficult  to  compress  more  thought 
into  four  short  lines. 

With  his  Epigrams  Mr.  Watson  be- 
gan to  walk  unassisted  on  his  own 
road.  Since  that  time  he  has  consist- 
ently maintained  a  high  ideal  of  Ian- 


THE  POETRY  OF   WILLIAM  WATSON 


271 


guage  and  form;  and  he  has  been 
content  to  follow  the  sculptured  and 
epigrammatic  manner  in  elegiac  and 
philosophical  poetry,  showing  little 
tendency  to  diverse  experiment  or  sub- 
serviency to  contemporary  influence. 

The  Prince's  Quest,  and  the  shorter 
poems  of  that  volume,  together  with 
the  book  of  Epigrams,  gave  evidence 
of  a  genuine  poetical  faculty  combined 
with  a  fine  and  reserved  command  of 
dignified  English,  which  it  was  good 
to  see  at  a  time  when  the  tendency 
ran,  as  it  still  does,  toward  a  careless 
enlargement  of  the  borders  of  poetical 
vocabulary.  In  English,  poetry  has 
not  only  its  diction,  but  its  idiom  and 
grammar  of  thought,  which,  far  from 
being  a  convention  and  artifice,  are  as 
natural  as  the  language  of  everyday 
intercourse.  And  to  depart  widely 
from  poetical  language,  however  true 
may  be  the  poetical  content  of  the 
writer's  mind,  is  to  become  common- 
place, to  fail  in  the  essential  object 
of  conveying  to  the  mind  of  the  reader 
the  peculiar  emotion  which  belongs  to 
poetry.  Gray  recognized  this,  protest- 
ing against  the  commonplace  verse  of 
his  time:  "Our  poetry  .  .  .  has  a  lan- 
guage peculiar  to  itself."  And  at  a 
later  period  Coleridge  was  compelled  to 
enter  the  same  protest  in  the  face  of 
Wordsworth's  attempt  to  write  poetry 
in  the  vernacular.  If  any  man  could 
have  done  it,  it  was  Wordsworth:  and 
his  practice  has  long  been  cited  as  the 
argument  against  his  precept.  | 

Mr.  Watson  early  realized  this  truth, 
and  his  ideal  of  poetic  form  and  diction 
was  from  the  first  rigidly  exacting.  His 
early  volumes  displayed  a  self-control 
and  reserve  which  were  remarkable 
in  a  young  man.  But,  as  a  poet  of 
wider  reach  and  feeling,  he  first  showed 
the  range  of  his  powers  with  Words- 
worth's Grave,  written  between  1884 
and  1887,  an  elegiac  poem  which  at- 
tracted universal  admiration,  both  in 


England  and  America,  for  its  perfect 
artistic  form  and  simple  grandeur. 
The  comparison  with  Milton  which  the 
poem  suggested  to  more  than  one 
critic  was  something  more  than  the 
mere  overflow  of  contemporary  feeling. 

In  Wordsworth's  Grave  we  find  the 
same  intellectual  passion  for  the  com- 
manding word  or  phrase,  and  the  in- 
evitable epithet,  which  belonged  to 
Milton;  and  the  lines  move  slowly  like 
'a  solemn  music.'  The  manner,  the 
diction,  and  the  music  of  the  poem  are 
exactly  fitted  to  the  subject,  and,  de- 
spite the  contrary  opinion  of  the  few, 
in  the  judgment  of  the  majority  of 
those  who  read  poetry  at  all  it  will 
probably  remain  as  Mr.  Watson's  fin- 
est poem. 

It  is  noteworthy  that  the  poem  is 
written  in  quatrains  with  alternately 
rhyming  iambic  lines,  and  thus  follows 
the  exact  pattern  of  a  number  of  the 
epigrams.  Many  of  the  stanzas  might 
easily  stand  by  themselves,  embodying, 
as  they  do,  a  single  and  pregnant 
thought,  complete  in  itself.  By  far  the 
larger  proportion  of  the  forty-seven 
stanzas  which  compose  the  poem  end 
in  a  full  stop;  and  a  very  substantial 
fraction  of  the  whole  number  may  be 
fairly  said  to  show  little  if  any  over- 
flow of  thought  into  the  next  stanza. 
And  yet  the  elegy  is  a  harmonious 
whole,  not  a  broken  series  of  isolated 
thoughts  tagged  together;  it  impresses 
us  with  a  sense  of  unity.  The  poem  is 
much  more  than  an  elegy  on  Words- 
worth the  poet,  and  its  emotion  is 
intellectual  rather  than  personal;  it 
deals  with  abstract  ideas  rather  than 
with  concrete  objects.  The  hills,  the 
lakes,  the  streams  of  Wordsworth's 
chosen  country,  where  he  now  sleeps, 
are  only  -named,  and  provide  a  text 
from  which  the  poet  departs  to  pour 
out  his  feelings  on  the  relationship  of 
Wordsworth's  poetry  to  the  poetry 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  poetry  of 


272 


THE  POETRY  OF  WILLIAM  WATSON 


the  Romantic  Revival,  and  the  poetry 
of  our  own  time.  But  Wordsworth's 
Grave  is  not  that  most  deplorable  of  all 
things,  criticism  thrown  into  poetic 
form;  it  is  the  statement  of  a  faith  and 
belief  which  is  much  more  than  dogma 
—  the  impassioned  conviction  upon 
which  the  soul  rests.  There  is  little  of 
the  lyric  emotion  which  marks  In 
Memoriam;  but  we  carry  away  from 
the  poem  a  consciousness  that  abstract 
and  intellectual  enthusiasms  may  be 
as  genuine  a  source  of  impassioned 
poetry  as  human  love  and  regret.  The 
feeling  is  profound;  but  the  poet  is 
less  moved  than  we,  for  he  is  express- 
ing far  more  than  the  mood  of  a  mo- 
ment —  the  faith  which  is  himself. 

The  abstracted  emotion  of  Mr. 
Watson's  poetry  has  prompted  the 
comment,  which  often  appears  in 
print,  and  is  no  less  often  heard  from 
the  average  reader,  that  he  has  not 
enough  passion  for  a  poet.  This  is 
not  only  false  in  itself  but  it  displays 
an  extraordinary  ineptness.  It  is  true 
that  poetry  is  in  danger  when  it  loses 
touch  with  physical  life  and  strays 
into  the  region  of  things  purely  intel- 
lectual; but  the  lyric  of  the  mind  may 
be  as  genuinely  moving  and  real  as  the 
lyric  of  human  passion,  hope,  or  dis- 
illusion. Perhaps  the  finest  lyric  in  our 
language,  Milton's  ode  On  Time  (why  is 
it  omitted  from  the  Golden  Treasury  ?) , 
has  no  single  concrete  idea  on  which 
we  can  seize,  —  time  is  only  a  conven- 
tion of  the  mind,  —  and  the  sphere  in 
which  the  thought  moves  is  purely 
mental;  yet  few  poems  are  more  pro- 
foundly moving.  Mr.  Watson's  own 
Apologia  shows  a  fine  power  of  self- 
criticism.  To  those  who  level  at  him 
the  accusation  that  his  art  is  cold,  he 
retorts  that 

in  man's  life 

Is  room  for  great  emotions  unbegot 
Of  dalliance  and  embracement,  unbegot 
Ev'n  of  the  purer  nuptials  of  the  soul. 


In  the  order  of  elegiac  poetry  Mr. 
Watson  followed  Wordsworth's  Grave 
with  In  Laleham  Churchyard  and 
Lacrimce  Musarum,  the  latter  written 
after  the  death  of  Tennyson.  It  is 
perhaps  his  most  beautiful,  warmly- 
colored,  and  melodious  poem.  The 
loose  metre  of  the  ode  is  used  with  that 
seeming  artlessness  which  is  the  fruit 
of  perfect  art;  and  imagery  combines 
with  thought  to  sustain  the  poem  on  a 
plane  worthy  of  'the  splendour  of  its 
theme.'  It  is  not,  as  the  poet  humbly 
claims,  the  theme  alone  which  gives 
the  poem  an  enduring  place  in  any 
anthology  of  English  elegiac  poetry. 
The  natural  tendency  of  Mr.  Watson 
to  finished  terseness  and  rounded  com- 
pleteness in  short  phrases  disappears, 
and  the  falling  music  of  the  lines  flows 
across  the  mind,  conveying  the  direct 
and  subtle  communication  of  emotion. 
We  do  not  stop,  as  we  are  inclined 
to  do  in  Wordsworth's  Grave,  to  dwell 
upon  the  single  thought  or  isolated 
image.  And  this  is  as  it  should  be. 
The  opening  passage  of  the  elegy  could 
not  be  bettered,  not  only  in  the  poetic 
imagery  of  its  thought,  but  in  the  fit- 
ting stress  it  lays  upon  the  oneness  of 
Tennyson  and  his  poetry  with  the 
racial  consciousness  of  the  land  to 
which  he  belonged. 

Low,  like  another's,  lies  the  laurelled  head: 
The  life  that  seemed  a  perfect  song  is  o'er: 
Carry  the  last  great  bard  to  his  last  bed. 
Land  that  he  loved,  thy  noblest  voice  is  mute. 
Land  that  he  loved,  that  loved  him!  nevermore 
Meadow  of  thine,  smooth  lawn  or  wild  sea-shore, 
Gardens  of  odorous  bloom  and  tremulous  fruit, 
Or  woodlands  old,  like  Druid  couches  spread, 
The  master's  feet  shall  tread. 
Death's  little  rift  hath  rent  the  faultless  lute: 
The  singer  of  undying  songs  is  dead. 

In  In  Laleham  Churchyard  and  The 
Tomb  of  Burns,  Mr.  Watson,  though 
he  adopts  a  different  metre,  returns  to 
the  concise  and  epigrammatic  manner. 
In  these  poems  he  employs  the  metre 
which  Wordsworth  used  in  At  the 


THE  POETRY  OF  WILLIAM  WATSON 


273 


Grave  of  Burns,  though  his  diction  is 
hardly  as  simple. 

It  is  in  the  elegy,  the  ode,  and  the 
quasi-philosophical  poem  that  Mr. 
Watson's  muse  finds  her  fittest  sphere 
of  song;  it  is  in  these  that  he  stands 
markedly  differentiated  from  other 
poets  of  his  tune;  and  for  this  reason, 
too,  the  common  comparison  with 
Wordsworth  has  its  meaning,  though 
Mr.  Watson  is  utterly  wanting  in  the 
simplicity  of  Wordsworth  and  his  love 
for  the  apparently  commonplace.  As 
Lowell  amusingly  remarks,  everything 
was  a  phenomenon  for  Wordsworth, 
he  could  write  poems  on  how  he  one 
day  saw  an  old  woman  and  the  next 
day  did  not,  but  a  cow  instead.  Mr. 
Watson  is  not  obsessed  with  this  be- 
lief in  the  enormous  importance  of 
little  things,  but  inclines  to  display,  on 
the  contrary,  a  manner  which  is  almost 
irritatingly  superior.  General  concep- 
tions rather  than  everyday  trifles  ap- 
pear in  the  mirror  which  he  holds  up 
to  life. 

But  that,  after  a  short  discipleship 
to  Shelley,  Mr.  Watson  conceived  a 
deep  and  lasting  reverence  for  Words- 
worth, it  is  needless  to  say.  The  reason 
is  not  far  to  seek.  If  the  emotion' of 
the  pure  lyric  is  spontaneous  and 
unsought,  the  inspiration  of  elegiac 
poetry,  using  the  words  in  their  widest 
connotation,  is  thought  touched  with 
emotion.  And  it  is  here  that  Mr.  Wat- 
son finds  a  point  of  contact  with  Words- 
worth. Beneath  the  slightest  of  Words- 
worth's lyrics,  however  trivial  it  may 
appear  at  a  superficial  glance,  lies 
genuine  thought.  Wordsworth  was  not 
one  for  whom  poetry  was  an  inrush 
which  came  to  him  wholly  unbidden; 
poetry  was  for  him  'emotion  recol- 
lected in  tranquillity,'  and  that  is  why 
he  was  never  able  wholly  to  distinguish 
between  his  hours  of  true  inspiration 
and  the  days  when  he  wrote  poetry  as  a 
poet  by  profession.  Mr.  Watson  knows 

VOL.  107  -NO.  2 


that  his  is  not '  facile  largess  of  a  stint- 
less muse,'  but 

A  fitful  presence  seldom  tarrying  long, 
Capriciously  she  touches  me  to  song. 

The  character  of  the  larger  part  of 
Mr.  Watson's  poetry  is  'emotion  recol- 
lected in  tranquillity.'  Apart  from  the 
elegies,  the  ode,  the  philosophical 
poem,  and  the  sonnet  with  its  exacting 
rules  are  the  forms  most  naturally 
fitted  to  the  character  of  his  genius. 
On  another  plane  we  may  add  his 
political  poetry,  which  can  hardly  have 
more  than  an  ephemeral  interest,  and 
his  few  short  satires,  which,  for  point 
and  venom,  can  hardly  be  surpassed. 

Among  the  odes  come  the  splendidly 
sonorous  Hymn  to  the  Sea  and  England 
my  Mother.  The  first  is  undoubtedly 
one  of  the  finest  poems  ,which  Mr. 
Watson  has  ever  written.  The  lilt  and 
sound  of  the  long  lines  fall  on  the  ear 
like  the  beat  of  a  rolling  swell  on  a 
broad  beach;  and  the  command  of 
phrase  can  hardly  fall  short  of  his  own 
high  ideal  in  these  things.  A  few  de- 
tached quotations  will  serve  to  illus- 
trate the  last  point.  The  poet  'from 
the  commune  of  air  cages  the  volatile 
song,'  while  'through  the  veins  of  the 
Earth  riots  the  ichor  of  spring ';  man, 
'born  too  great  for  his  ends,  never  at 
peace  with  his  goal,'  looks  out  from 
prison-windows  'ample  of  purview'; 
Summer  sits  at  a  banquet '  purple  and 
drowsed  with  repletion ' ;  and  the  moon 
is  described  'zoning  her  ruins  with 
pearl,'  leaning  toward  the  sea  from 
'the  balconied  night.'  It  would  be 
hard  to  surpass  phrases  like  these  for 
their  sudden  and  inevitable  picture- 
making  quality;  and  one  great  test  of 
poetry  is  its  power  to  summon  these 
imaginative  glimpses  of  a  world  which 
is  something  other  than  the  region  of 
everyday  prose.  The  ode  is  not  merely 
an  address  to  the  sea. 

Mr.  Watson  cannot,  like  Swinburne 


274 


THE  POETRY  OF  WILLIAM  WATSON 


in  By  the  North  Sea  or  On  the  South 
Coast,  pour  out  pages  hymning  the 
foam-flecked  expanse  of  the  sea  and  the 
gray  shores  without  introducing  an  alien 
thought.  Swinburne  saw  the  sea*and 
nothing  more,  and  he  sang  of  nothing 
more;  but  for  Mr.  Watson  the  sea  sug- 
gests analogies  and  meanings  which 
have  to  do  with  the  problems  of  life.  His 
passion  for  nature  is  not  the  instinctive 
and  unthinking  communion  of  the 
merely  poetical  or  primitive  being,  but 
the  feeling  of  the  egotistic  and  cult- 
ured mind,  for  whom  earth,  sky,  and 
sea  are  the  environment  in  and  through 
which  the  mystery  of  life  evolves  itself. 
He  would  never  have  been  satisfied, 
like  Swinburne,  to  chant  nothing  more 
than  'the  light  and  sound  and  dark- 
ness of  the  sea,'  or  content  to  offer  his 
song  to  the  winds  and  the  ocean  as  a 
lyric  tribute  of  praise :  — 

Time  gives  what  he  gains  for  the  giving 
Or  takes  for  his  tribute  of  me; 

My  dreams  to  the  wind  everliving, 
My  song  to  the  sea. 

Mr.  Watson's  last  volume,  New 
Poems  (1909),  cannot  be  said  to  have 
added  anything  of  real  importance  to 
his  earlier  work,  but  it  is  there,  per- 
haps, that  we  must  look,  among  his 
poems,  for  an  ode  which  approaches  the 
plan  of  his  achievement  in  the  Hymn 
to  the  Sea.  The  unrhymed  lines  of 
Wales :  A  Greeting  have  an  impressive 
gravity  which  is  something  altogether 
different  from  the  lilt  of  the  earlier 
ode,  but  we  meet  here  again  the  same 
descriptive  power  in  sounding  words. 
Those  who  know  Wales  will  appreciate 
the  marvelous  compression  and  power 
of  description  in  the  few  lines  — 

From  Gwent  to  far  Demetia  by  the  sea; 
Or  northward  unto  cloud-roof 'd  Gwynedd,  where 
The  mountains  sit  together  and  talk  with  heaven, 
While  Mona  pushing  forth  into  the  deep 
Looks  back  for  ever  on  their  musing  brows: 
By  silent  mound  and  menhir,  camp  and  cairn, 
Leaf-hidden  stream,  and  cataract's  thunderous 
plunge: 


In  summer  calms,  or  when  the  storming  North 
Whitens  Eryi's  crest  and  Siabod's  cone. 

The  character  of  Mr.  Watson's  phil- 
osophical poetry  might  be  described  in 
the  phrase  with  which  a  contempor- 
ary periodical  attempts  to  explain  its 
attitude  —  '  denominational,  not  sec- 
tarian.' Mr.  Watson  belongs  to  no 
small  sect,  but  he  virtually  accepts  the 
doctrines  of  a  church  which  has  grown 
steadily  in  numbers  since  the  time  of 
Schopenhauer.  The  theory  of  any 
upward  and  ameliorative  movement 
operating  throughout  nature  Mr.  Wat- 
son regards  as  wanting  in  confirmation. 
But,  even  if  we  accept  this  standpoint, 
it  is  difficult  to  understand  why  hope- 
lessness is  logically  a  more  courageous 
attitude  to  adopt  than  hopefulness. 
Yet  this  appears  as  the  whole  argu- 
ment of  a  very  finely-expressed  poem 
of  fifteen  stanzas,  The  Hope  of  the 
World.  If  we  are  faced  with  a  world 
'signifying  nothing'  so  far  as  we  can 
see,  there  seems  no  reason  why  the 
'heroic  course'  is  to  reject  'instinctive 
hope.' 

Perhaps  Mr.  Watson  meant,  and 
should  have  said,  that  to  act  fully  and 
consistently  without  hope  is  the  more 
'difficult  course  of  the  two;  and  there 
most  will  agree  with  him;  though 
Nietzsche  maintained  that  pessimism 
had  a  fine  tonic  effect.  But  the  want  of 
collusiveness  and  value  in  the  argu- 
ment does  not  detract  from  the  sombre 
power  of  the  poem. 

In  a  companion  poem,  The  Unknown 
God,  Mr.  Watson  does  not  wander  into 
the  field  of  argument,  but  confesses  his 
inability  to  find  a  place  in  the  universe 
for  that  personal  power  whom  men 
name  God.  In  one  of  the  stanzas  he 
skillfully  incorporates  the  saying  of 
Christ  discovered  a  few  years  ago  by 
Messrs.  Greenfell  and  Hunt  among  the 
Oxyrhynchus  papyri. 

The  God  I  know  of,  I  shall  ne'er 
Know,  though  he  dwells  exceeding  nigh. 


THE  POETRY  OF  WILLIAM  WATSON 


275 


Raise  thou  the  stone  and  find  me  there. 
Cleave  thou  the  wood  and  there  am  1. 
Yea,  in  my  flesh  his  spirit  doth  flow, 
Too  near,  too  far,  for  me  to  know. 

And  in  the  category  of  reflective  and 
didactic  poems  'the  things  that  are 
more  excellent,'  though  slighter  in 
theme  and  less  ambitious  in  form,  ought 
not  to  be  passed  over.  There  is  in  the 
keynote  and  feeling  of  the  poem  less 
harshness  and  superiority  in  mental 
attitude  than  we  are  generally  led  to 
associate  with  the  work  of  Mr.  Watson. 
In  a  moment  of  sympathy  he  can  see 
that  even  the  crude  and  trivial  things 
of  life  do  not 

wholly  lack 
The  things  that  are  more  excellent. 

The  poem  seems  to  flow  from  a 
happy  moment  of  the  poet's  mind, 
when,  for  a  brief  instant,  he  catches  a 
transient  glimpse  of  the  mere  zest  of 
life  which  so  many  of  his  fellows  know, 
which  is  yet  strange  and  foreign  to 
his  nature  and  habitual  mood.  For  he 
has  confessed  himself  that  in  the  world 
to  which  he  belongs,  he  has 

never  felt  at  home, 
Never  wholly  been  at  ease. 

One  of  the  most  striking  defects  of 
Mr.  Watson's  verse  is  an  absence  of  tol- 
erance, comprehensiveness,  and  sym- 
pathy. He  walks  through  life  for  the 
greater  part  of  his  time  wearing  blink- 
ers which  shut  out  everything  but  the 
road  directly  before  him.  He  is  a  rebel, 
not  so  much  against  the  order  of 
society,  though  that  too  obsesses  him 
in  his  political  verse,  but  against  the 
order  of  the  universe  and  the  cramp- 
ing limitations  within  which  the  human 
soul  is  confined.  He  is  at  war  with 
invisible  principalities  and  powers.  A 
contrast  with  Shelley  will  explain  Mr. 
Watson's  attitude.  Shelley  was  a  born 
revolutionary,  but  he  lived  in  a  world 
of  beneficence  and  beauty,  which  man 
alone  made  vile.  Shelley  believed  that 


men  could  be  happy,  but  that  institu- 
tions and  religions  had  vitiated  the 
very  fountains  of  their  life.  Let  these 
be  cast  away,  and  all  would  be  well. 

Shelley  was  an  altruistic  revolution- 
ary. Mr.  Watson  is  an  egotistic  rebel. 
He  defies  the  order  of  the  world,  as 
commonly  understood,  on  his  own 
account.  And  this  is  a  mistake,  for, 
as  Epictetus  pointed  out  long  ago,  it  is 
better  for  a  man  to  confine  himself  to 
the  things  which  lie  in  his  own  power. 
It  is  this  self-centred  attitude  which 
hampers  Mr.  Watson  as  a  poet.  He 
is  not  lyrical  because  he  cannot  place 
himself  in  other  situations  with  a  sub- 
jective and  imaginative  sympathy. 
And  this  faculty  lies  at  the  root  of  all 
dramatic  and  lyrical  achievement. 
But,  though  his  genius  does  not  express 
itself  naturally  in  the  lyric,  he  has 
written  a  few  short  lyrics  of  supreme 
beauty.  The  following  stanzas,  which 
bear  no  title,  form  a  lyric  poem  with 
the  integral  purity  of  clear  crystal :  — 

Thy  voice  from  inmost  dreamland  calls; 

The  wastes  of  sleep  thou  makes t  fair; 
Bright  o'er  the  ridge  of  darkness  falls 

The  cataract  of  thy  hair. 

The  morn  renews  its  golden  birth : 

Thou  with  the  vanquished  night  dost  fade; 

And  leav'st  the  ponderable  earth 
Less  real  than  thy  shade. 

And  there  are  a  few  other  short 
poems  of  the  genuine  lyrical  order. 

Mr.  Watson's  last  volume  came  as 
something  of  a  disappointment  to  the 
many  who  knew  and  admired  the  dis- 
tinctive qualities  of  his  earlier  achieve- 
ment. Apart  from  political  poetry  and 
a  formal  ode  on  the  coronation  of 
Edward  VII,  he  had  published  no 
volume  of  new  work  for  eleven  years. 
The  last  collection  contains  a  few 
poems  which  approach  the  austere 
strength  of  his  best  work,  but  auster- 
ity, in  the  worst  significance  of  the 
word,  is  painfully  evident.  The  lines 


276 


THE  AMERICAN   SPIRIT 


are  parched  and  dry;  rapture  there 
is  hardly  any;  emotion  of  any  kind  is 
often  difficult  to  find.  Mr.  Watson  has 
driven  his  own  ideal  of  sculptured  and 
statuesque  beauty  in  form  and  diction 
to  an  extreme  point,  and  anything  like 
vital  emotion  has  been  strangled  in  the 
birth.  In  tranquillity  Mr.  Watson  has 
evidently  found  it  difficult  to  remem- 
ber his  moments  of  emotion.  Apart 
from  one  poem  already  named,  and 
one  or  two  others,  the  sonnets  of  the 
last  volume  contain  more  true  poetry 
than  the  rest  of  the  book.  But  sonnets 
are  a  separate  study  in  themselves,  and 
have  hardly  been  more  than  named 
in  this  brief  sketch  of  Mr.  Watson's 
work.  The  form  is  one  which  adapts 
itself  to  the  character  of  his  genius, 
and  not  a  few  of  Mr.  Watson's  sonnets 
are  worthy  of  a  place  in  any  rigidly 
exclusive  anthology  of  English  sonnets. 
Among  living  English  poets  Mr. 
Watson  holds  a  unique  place.  He 


stands  by  himself,  with  a  collection  of 
poetry  which  is  not  closely  comparable 
in  character  with  that  of  any  of  his 
contemporaries.  The  distinctive  posi- 
tion he  has  won  for  himself  he  owes  to 
the  consistent  faith  with  which  he  has 
pursued  a  method,  style,  and  ideal  he 
evolved  in  early  youth.  That  style  was 
hardly  in  the  ascendant  when  he 
adopted  it;  but  he  followed  it  with 
individual  conviction.  He  has  written 
slowly,  at  intervals,,  and  with  elaborate 
care,  refusing  to  print  a  line  which  did 
not  satisfy  his  own  ideals  of  artistic 
form  and  the  traditions  of  great  poetry. 
We  do  not  look  in  his  work  for  color, 
warmth,  and  lyric  passion;  for  the  emo- 
tion of  his  poetry  is  abstract  and  intel- 
lectual, of  the  mind  rather  than  the 
heart.  The  inspiration  of  his  work  is, 
none  the  less,  superlatively  poetical, 
and,  perhaps  more  than  any  poet  now 
living,  he  has  enriched  English  poetry 
with  a  contribution  of  the  highest  order. 


THE  AMERICAN   SPIRIT 


BY  ARTHUR    CHRISTOPHER   BENSON 


HANS  ANDERSEN,  in  one  of  his  books 
of  travel,  tells  a  story  of  a  monstrous 
Englishman  who  was  his  fellow  pilgrim 
for  a  few  days,  and  who  appropriated 
to  himself,  as  by  a  natural  right,  all 
the  conveniences  meant  for  the  entire 
party  of  travelers.  When  the  others 
were  sitting  round  the  solitary  fire  of 
an  inn,  the  Englishman,  who  had  got 
wet,  came  and  hung  his  clothes  to 
dry  inside  the  circle,  saying  that  he 
must  give  his  garments  a  good  steam- 
ing. Andersen  shared  a  room  with  him, 


and  when  he  went  to  bed,  found  that 
the  Englishman  had  taken  his  bolster, 
pillow,  and  blankets,  saying  in  explan- 
ation, when  Andersen  entered,  'You 
see  I  never  can  sleep  unless  my  head 
is  very  high  and  my  feet  are  very 
warm.'  When  the  party  left  a  little 
inn,  where  the  landlord  had  done  his 
best,  under  great  difficulties,  to  enter- 
tain them,  and  stood  hat  in  hand  before 
the  Englishman,  expressing  a  hope  that 
he  was  satisfied,  the  Englishman  re- 
plied, '  No,  I  am  not !  I  am  dissatisfied 


THE  AMERICAN  SPIRIT 


277 


with  the  house,  the  beds,  the  food,  the 
attendance.  I  shall  give  no  gratuities, 
and  no  one  shall  have  a  word  of  thanks 
from  me.' 

Set  side  by  side  with  that  a  pleasant 
fiction,  supposed  to  have  happened  to 
Matthew  Arnold.  He  was  sitting  in  his 
study  one  morning  when  the  butler 
showed  in  an  American  lady  and  a 
small  boy.  The  lady  said,  'Glad  to 
make  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Arnold; 
I  have  often  heard  of  you.  No,  don't 
trouble  to  speak,  sir!  I  know  how  valu- 
able your  time  is!'  Then,  turning  to 
the  boy,  she  said,  'This  is  him,  Lenny, 
the  leading  critic  and  poet.  Somewhat 
fleshier  than  we  had  been  led  to  expect! ' 

The  two  stories  illustrate  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  tendency  to  frank  appropri- 
ation, but  with  this  difference.  The 
Englishman  gathers  in  with  equanim- 
ity, and  with  no  sense  of  injustice,  the 
material  conveniences  that  are  meant 
for  society;  the  American  lays  an  equal- 
ly firm  hand  on  the  higher  influences 
and  associations,  and  with  less  injust- 
ice; for  in  the  case  of  material  posses- 
sions, the  fact  that  one  person  has 
them  makes  it  impossible  for  others  to 
enjoy  them;  while  every  one  can  share 
cultured  influences  and  traditions  with- 
out any  diminution  of  the  stock. 

It  is  a  curious  and  instructive  fact 
that  Americans,  who  are  in  the  fore- 
front of  commercial  enterprise,  are  so 
determined  at  the  present  time  not  to 
live  by  bread  alone,  so  resolved  to  touch 
and  taste  and  feel  the  culture  of  the 
world,  so  passionately  bent  on  seeing 
whatever  is  famous  or  beautiful  or 
ancient;  and  this  not  in  the  spirit  of 
the  dilettante  or  the  connoisseur,  but 
in  the  spirit  of  the  man  of  business 
and  the  pioneer.  Europe  is  required 
to  bring  out  her  old  culture  and  to  let 
America  take  stock  of  it.  If  culture  is, 
as  it  seems  to  be,  a  force  of  any  kind, 
then  America  is  going  to  test  it  and 
experience  it  and  use  it. 


Now  I  am  not  in  any  way  disapprov- 
ing of  this  attitude,  and  still  less  derid- 
ing it.  I  feel  that  it  is  a  fine  spirit,  and 
none  the  less  fine  because  it  does  not 
quite  capture  the  thing  of  which  it 
goes  in  search.  As  far  as  knowledge,  in- 
formation, selection,  division,  subdivi- 
sion go,  the  Americans  certainly  have 
it  all  at  their  fingers'  ends.  They  cer- 
tainly do  take  stock  of  it;  but  what  they 
are  in  search  of,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
is  a  thing  that  cannot  be  thus  captured 
at  all,  because  it  is  not  a  tangible  thing, 
but  an  atmosphere,  and  an  attitude  of 
mind.  It  can  no  more  be  conquered, 
ravished,  or  brought  away,  than  Rome 
could  carry  off  Greek  culture  by  taking 
away  the  statues  and  pictures  of  Greece. 
It  is  really  a  tradition  and  a  nurture, 
and  Americans  brought  up  in  Europe, 
among  European  influences, —  if  they 
are  real  influences,  and  not  only  the 
influences  reached  by  the  colonist  and 
the  resident  alien, — gain  the  tradition 
readily  and  naturally. 

The  thing,  no  doubt,  which  secretly 
vexes  the  spirit  of  the  American,  with 
all  his  mastery  of  purchase  and  his 
commercial  enterprise,  is  to  feel  that 
there  is  something  which  he  would 
like  to  possess,  but  which  cannot  be 
exploited.  I  do  not  rank  European 
culture  very  high  among  social  forces. 
It  is  in  one  sense  an  artificial  thing, 
and  depends  upon  a  subordination  of 
classes  and  an  organized  social  system. 
It  is  just  as  impossible  a  thing  to  ob- 
tain in  Europe  by  a  European  who  is 
not  born  in  a  certain  grade,  unless  he 
be  the  sort  of  genius  that  oversteps  all 
distinctions.  But  it  is  a  beautiful  and 
charming  thing,  a  delicate  and  graceful 
plant,  which  flourishes  quite  natural- 
ly under  certain  conditions,  and  may 
very  likely  disappear  under  new  social 
arrangements. 

It  is  just  the  same  in  literature,  and 
even  in  art.  It  may  be  only  the  fact 
that  I  cannot,  owing  to  my  own  nur- 


278 


THE  AMERICAN  SPIRIT 


ture,  appreciate  new  forces  in  art  and 
literature;  but  I  should  be  inclined  to 
believe  that  Walt  Whitman  is  the  only 
absolutely  first-rate  authentic  product 
of  American  literature  at  present.  I 
am  not  praising  Whitman  in  his  en- 
tirety; he  has  colossal  faults  of  aim,  of 
conception,  of  execution,  of  taste;  but 
at  his  best,  he  is  an  absolutely  new  and 
vital  force  in  expression  and  thought, 
which  one  cannot  gainsay  or  explain 
away.  I  do  not  mean  that  there  are 
not  many  American  writers  who  have 
reached  a  high  level  of  accomplishment. 
Mr.  Henry  James  I  leave  on  one  side, 
because  his  is  not  an  authentic  product 
of  America.  But  Hawthorne,  Lowell, 
Mr.  Howells,  Miss  Mary  Wilkins,  Ol- 
iver Wendell  Holmes,  to  mention  just 
a  few  of  many,  are  very  accomplished, 
beautiful,  expressive  writers,  who  have 
their  due  place  in  the  great  proces- 
sion, 'where  none  is  first  or  last.'  The 
reason  why  America  has  not  at  pre- 
sent, in  my  belief,  established  a  great 
literature  of  her  own,  is  simply  and 
solely  because  she  has  not  had  the  time. 
The  energy  is  all  there,  the  view  of  life 
is  fresh,  eager,  and  vital;  but  the  tradi- 
tion must  grow  up,  and  it  cannot  be 
manufactured,  even  with  the  most  ap- 
proved machinery.  Of  course,  I  have 
not  the  least  doubt  that  it  will  appear; 
but  though  I  have  a  great  admiration 
for  the  American  temperament,  its 
sturdiness,  its  curiosity,  its  energy,  it 
would  be  insincere  to  pretend  that  I 
think  that  this  particular  thing  has  yet 
appeared. 

I  think,  however,  that  Americans  are 
going  the  right  way  to  work,  in  the  sense 
that  they  are  getting  experience  and 
trying  experiments.  But  I  do  not  believe 
that  culture  can  be  got  in  Europe,  or 
transplanted  from  Europe,  or  even  bot- 
tled in  Europe  for  American  consump- 
tion. It  will  have  to  grow  up  on  Ameri- 
can soil  and  out  of  American  conditions. 
One  of  the  most  hopeful  signs  of  pro- 


mise is  the  rich,  racy,  vigorous  knack 
of  conversational  expression  Ameri- 
cans possess.  It  is  not  always  grateful 
to  the  European  ear  and  taste,  but  I 
feel  its  vitality  and  its  quality,  and  I 
believe  that  it  may  be  the  seed  of  a 
great  literature,  because  it  is  the  sign 
that  thought  -is  taking  its  own  shape 
and  crystallizing  itself,  even  though  it 
be  in  bizarre  forms.  And  then  too,  as 
I  said,  the  appetite  for  things  of  inter- 
est and  beauty,  for  information,  for 
knowledge,  is  so  strong — a  sign  of  im- 
maturity, perhaps,  like  the  hunger  of 
the  growing  boy,  who  has  got  to  make 
muscle  before  he  can  use  it  dexterous- 
ly and  gracefully. 

The  point  is  that  one  cannot  have 
everything,  and  doubtless  Europe  in  her 
age  has  lost  qualities  which  America 
possesses,  while  she  has  inherited  qual- 
ities which  America  has  not  yet  made. 
The  thing  that  is  really  out  of  place  on 
either  side  is  the  note  of  contempt.  One 
knows  the  note  of  American  derision 
for  the  backwardness,  the  faintness, 
the  decadence,  the  softness  of  Euro- 
pean views  and  ways;  and  one  knows 
too  the  European  timidity  and  deco- 
rum, shocked  as  a  maiden  aunt  might 
'be  at  the  vagaries  of  a  schoolboy,  at 
the  noisiness,  the  ebullition,  the  ob- 
streperousness,  the  outrageousness  of 
American  buoyancy  and  disrespect. 
But  that  is  all  a  mistake,  especially  as 
the  maiden  aunt  is  much  more  likely  to 
be  fscared  by  the  schoolboy  than  the 
schoolboy  by  the  maiden  aunt.  He  may 
even  submit  contentedly  to  a  little  ten- 
der slapping,  because  he  has  youth  and 
hope  on  his  side.  And  after  all  there  is 
a  sincere  attachment  between  them, 
and  an  unconfessed  admiration  for  the 
other's  strong  points. 

What  I  do  not  desire  to  see  is  any 
attempt  at  mutual  imitation.  Europe 
has  made  her  bed,  and  must  lie  in  it. 
The  American  bed  has  still  to  be  made, 
and  meanwhile  the  youthful  occupant 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


279 


prefers  to  use  his  pillows  for  a  bolster- 
fight. 

American  culture  will  grow  up  and 
develop  in  its  own  way  and  in  its  own 
time.  America  contains,  of  course,  an 
abundance  of  cultured  and  well-in- 
structed persons,  with  fine  discrimin- 
ation and  appreciation,  but  it  has  not 
got  its  own  tradition  yet,  as  older  na- 
tions have,  for  good  or  evil,  got  theirs. 


The  American  spirit,  as  I  have  said,  is 
in  many  ways  admirable,  were  it  not 
for  the  slight  tendency  to  claim  the 
thing,  on  one  hand,  and  to  deride  it 
on  the  other;  and  everything  may  be 
hoped  from  the  intellectual  energy  and 
curiosity  of  a  nation  whose  natural  and 
instinctive  cry  of  surprise,  at  anything 
which  shakes  the  mental  equilibrium, 
is,  'I  want  to  know!' 


TOLERATION 

ONE  of  the  life  lessons  that  I  carried 
with  me  from  my  Andover  home, 
strange  as  it  may  seem  to  those  who 
think  of  Andover  Hill  as  an  arena 
of  strife,  was  toleration  of  other  de- 
nominations. This  spirit  was  fostered 
in  me  by  a  certain  experience  of  my 
childhood.  With  some  of  my  school- 
mates I  had  once  run  away  from  home 
to  hear  a  sermon  by  Elizabeth  Fry. 
The  escapade  of  which  I  write  was 
similar  in  its  object.  We  Hill  children 
never  ran  away  to  go  to  the  circus,  — 
oh,  no :  only  to  go  to  meeting. 

To  understand  the  episode  you  must 
realize  how  hot  was  the  controversy 
between  the  so-called  Orthodox  Con- 
gregationalists  and  the  Unitarians. 
Nowadays  members  of  the  two  sects 
can  hardly  be  told  apart,  —  even,  I 
sometimes  suspect,  by  themselves. 
But  matters  were  very  different  then. 
Andover  Seminary  had  been  founded 
just  after  Unitarian  influences  had  got 
the  upper  hand  at  Harvard  College, 
on  purpose  to  combat  what  many  good 
ministers  considered  a  manifestation 
of  the  Evil  One.  Articles  and  pam- 
phlets had  been  written  back  and  forth 


by  our  Dr.  Woods  and  by  Professor 
Ware  of  Harvard,  in  a  debate  called 
the  'Wood  'n'  Ware  Controversy.'  Dr. 
Channing,  the  Unitarian  leader,  had 
preached  sermons  and  published  arti- 
cles in  which  he  had  charged  the  other 
side  with  being  as  bad  as  the  Inquisi- 
tion. And  my  own  father  had  written 
an  answer  to  Dr.  Channing,  which 
proved  —  to  the  satisfaction  of  An- 
dover, at  least  —  that  Dr.  Channing 
was  entirely  in  the  wrong.  If  we  child- 
ren had  been  asked  which  we  should 
less  dislike  to  be,  a  heathen  or  a  Uni- 
tarian, I  fancy  that  we  should  have 
decided  to  join  the  interesting  heathen, 
in  whose  behalf  the  sympathies  of  the 
community  were  so  fully  enlisted. 

As  a  little  girl  just  entering  my  teens, 
I  was  a  wide-awake  and  silent  listener 
at  spirited  discussions  in  which  the 
name  of  Channing  frequently  recurred. 
For  months  I  longed  to  hear  this  great 
and  dreadful  preacher,  who  was  set- 
ting so  many  Boston  people  on  the  way 
to  hell.  At  last  there  came  an  oppor- 
tunity. 

My  mother  went  to  Boston  to  visit 
friends,  taking  me  with  her,  as  she 
often  did.  On  our  walks  about  the 
town,  they  pointed  out  to  us  the 


280 


church  where  Dr.  Channing  preached; 
and  a  seemingly  careless  question 
brought  the  assurance  that  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday  would  be  no  exception. 

The  next  Sunday,  accordingly,  I 
asked  to  be  excused  from  going  to 
church  with  the  others.  My  mother 
looked  surprised  and  grieved;  but  she 
did  not  urge  me  to  go.  We  were  never 
obliged  to  go  to  church;  we  were  only 
expected  to.  As  everybody  in  the  com- 
munity went  regularly,  except  in  case 
of  illness,  it  no  more  occurred  to  us 
children  to  stay  away  than  to  absent 
ourselves  from  our  meals.  The  shadow 
on  my  mother's  sweet  face  half-tempted 
me  to  give  up  my  cherished  plan;  but 
I  turned  away  my  eyes  and  thought  of 
Channing. 

.  When  from  the  window  I  had 
watched  the  party  down  the  street, 
I  fetched  my  hat,  and  stole  softly 
past  the  loud-ticking  eight-day  clock, 
through  the  empty  house,  and  out  the 
door.  As  I  walked  all  by  myself  along 
the  streets,  I  heard  the  church-bells 
slowly  tolling.  Presently,  after  several 
quick  strokes,  they  stopped.  A  few 
belated  church-goers  hastened  by;  and 
still  I  had  not  reached  Federal  Street. 
I  was  going  to  be  late!  But  I  thought 
of  Channing,  and  kept  on. 

Sure  enough,  when  I  pushed  open 
the  door  from  the  vestibule  into  the 
church,  the  congregation  were  singing. 
And  what  hymn  do  you  think  they 
sang?  It  was  one  that  I  had  often 
heard  in  the  chapel  at  Andover,  and 
the  very  last  that  I  should  have  ex- 
pected to  hear  in  a  church  of  the  heret- 
ical Unitarians.  It  was,  — 

There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood, 
Drawn  from  Immanuel's  veins; 

And  sinners  plunged  beneath  that  flood 
Lose  all  their  guilty  stains. 

I  can  hardly  believe  that  they  sang 
that  hymn  very  often  in  Dr.  Chan- 
ning's  church ;  but  they  certainly  sang 
it  that  morning;  and  it  made  a  little 


Andover  girl  feel  much  less  guilty  and 
less  strange. 

Of  the  rest  of  the  meeting  I  can  re- 
member little,  except  the  appearance 
of  the  wonderful  Dr.  Channing.  I  was 
used  to  hearing  at  Andover  preachers 
of  height,  presence,  and  good  looks. 
On  seeing  the  Unitarian  champion,  I 
was  distinctly  disappointed.  He  was 
a  little,  frail  wisp  of  a  man,  I  thought. 
I  wish  I  could  remember  his  sermon, 
but  I  cannot.  I  only  know  that  though 
I  listened  with  the  expectation  of  being 
shocked,  I  was  not  shocked  at  all. 

I  crept  out  at  the  beginning  of  the 
final  hymn  and  ran  back  to  the  house, 
reaching  it  before  the  Orthodox  party 
had  returned.  Why  should  I  distress 
my  dear  gentle  mother  by  telling  her 
about  my  expedition,  especially  as 
there  had  evidently  been  no  harm  in 
it  at  all?  I  did  not  tell  her  what  I  had 
done  until  long  afterwards.  This  ex- 
perience, as  may  easily  be  believed,  did 
much  to  broaden  my  horizon. 

With  a  spirit  of  toleration  grown 
with  the  years,  I  once  went  with  a 
party  of  friends  to  attend  a  camp- 
meeting.  The  ground  was  pleasantly 
'  chosen  on  the  borders  of  a  thick  wood, 
before  which,  at  the  distance  of  only 
a  few  miles,  stretched  out  a  lovely  bit 
of  the  Green  Mountain  range.  It  was 
a  common  Vermont  grove,  full  of  roots, 
low  bushes,  and  general  unevenness, 
but  full  also  of  the  delicious  breath  of 
resinous  trees,  and  of  the  low  buzz 
of  myriad  insects  singing  their  evening 
hymn.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  confess  it 
with  shame  and  repentance,  but  when 
I  found  myself  hurrying  to  the  tented 
ground  with  so  many  cheerful  compan- 
ions, and  was  met  by  old  friends  with 
such  cheerful,  outspoken  gladness  of 
welcome,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  out  for 
something  for  which  the  undignified 
word  'spree'  seems  most  applicable; 
and  I  had  to  hum  snatches  of  holy 
song  to  keep  my  '  vital  spark '  alive. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


281 


Now  you  may  smile,  if  you  will,  but 
it  is  nevertheless  true,  that  when  I 
passed  through  the  entrance  into  the 
camp-ground,  there  came  upon  me  a 
feeling  of  reverence  hardly  second  to 
that  with  which  I  waited  for  the  lifting 
of  the  heavy  leather  curtain  which 
hangs  before  the  door  of  St.  Peter's  hi 
Rome.  And  why  not?  This  temple, 
with  its  dome  covered  with  spangling 
stars,  its  tall  pillars  carved  in  minute 
and  exquisite  tracery,  its  cloistered 
aisles,  and  its  innumerable  arches,  was 
planned  and  executed  by  the  artist 
beside  whom  even  Michael  Angelo  is 
'a  very  little  thing.' 

As  the  twilight  deepened,  people 
began  to  take  their  places  decorously 
upon  the  boards  which  were  closely 
ranged  before  a  rude  pulpit.  A  peculiar 
audience  it  was!  There  were  sunburnt 
men,  with  marked  features,  plainly, 
often  coarsely  dressed,  but  there  for 
an  object.  There  were  women,  —  thin, 
pale,  hard- worked,  with  sharp  faces  and 
wan  eyes,  —  women  who  had  toiled  and 
moiled  a  whole  year,  and  who  had 
now  come  here  to  rest,  and,  some 
might  add,  to  gossip,  but  I  prefer  to 
say,  to  worship.  Do  you  suppose  there 
is  another  being  in  the  wide  world  who 
needs  what  are  technically  called  'the 
comforts  of  religion'  as  much  as  the 
middle-aged,  hard-working  woman?  I 
do  not. 

It  was  refreshing  to  turn  to  the  young 
people.  There  they  were,  whole  bevies 
of  them !  girls  with  red  lips,  rosy  cheeks, 
and  wide-awake  eyes;  and  true  Green 
Mountain  boys,  in  the  poetical  inter- 
pretation of  the  phrase.  For  these 
young  people  I  kept  looking  through 
the  evening,  in  the  changeful,  weird 
light. 

It  was  this  light  that  gave  to  the 
scene  its  chief  picturesqueness.  At  the 
four  corners  of  the  camp-ground  there 
had  been  built  huge  mounds  of  stone; 
and  on  top  of  these,  piles  of  dry  pine- 


knots  had  been  placed.  At  the  ringing 
of  the  first  bell  the  knots  were  lighted; 
and  it  was  as  if  the  scene  had  been 
instantaneously  converted  into  a  great 
picture  by  some  old  Dutch  painter. 
Such  a  wealth  of  chiaroscuro  was  surely 
never  seen  before.  How  the  shadows 
chased  the  lights  around  the  trunks 
of  the  old  trees!  How  the  lights  chased 
the  shadows  among  the  dancing,  flick- 
ering leaves!  How  a  stray  beam,  fall- 
ing on  an  old,  seamed  face,  softened  its 
troubled  look,  as  if  that  beam  had  been 
indeed  the  light  of  God's  countenance! 
How  a  darkening,  like  that  under  an 
outspread  angel's  wing,  rested  upon 
another  face,  hallowing  it!  There  we 
sat,  bathed  in  this  sea  of  light,  its 
waves  sweeping  over  us  in  great  un- 
dulations, as  one  knot  after  another 
yielded  to  the  flames  and  a  fresh  one 
took  its  place. 

I  shall  leave  out  of  this  sketch  any 
account  of  the  preaching  and  praying. 
I  hold  that  if  your  taste  inclines  you 
to  what  is  gentle,  noiseless,  and  very 
reverent,  you  should  go  only  where 
you  are  sure  to  find  it,  or  else  receive 
what  you  meet  in  silence.  Of  the  sing- 
ing, however,  I  can  speak  with  en- 
thusiasm. There  is  no  music  more  stir- 
ring than  these  camp-meeting  songs. 
The  melodies  in  themselves  are  full  of 
spirit;  and  when  hundreds  of  voices 
break  into  them  from  all  parts  of  a 
tented  field,  the  effect  is  wonderful. 
If  I  had  been  tempted  to  utter  any 
ejaculations  of  pious  fervor,  it  would 
have  been  when  a  chorus  came  sud- 
denly to  a  full  stop,  or  a  winged  note 
carried  up  with  it  the  souls  of  the 
audience.  If  they  would  sing  more, 
and  pray  less  —  but,  as  I  said,  I  will 
not  criticise. 

The  intolerant  spirit  that  can  see  no 
good  in  alien  forms  of  religion  is  typi- 
fied for  me  by  an  incident  that  I  wit- 
nessed many  years  ago  in  Rome.  While 
I  was  walking  one  noon  with  a  party 


282 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


of  friends  along  a  narrow  street,  a  cry 
came  sounding  down  that  the  Pope 
was  coming.  Almost  before  we  could 
turn  round,  the  outriders  were  upon 
us.  I  was  separated  from  my  friends, 
and  pushed  near  an  elderly  man,  whom 
I  recognized  as  a  compatriot  whose 
veins  were  blue  with  Puritan  blood. 
As  the  gilded  chariot  drew  near  us, 
every  gentleman  uncovered  his  head, 
and  every  lady  bent  hers  in  kindly 
reverence.  I  said  every  one;  but  there 
was  an  exception.  The  American  at 
my  side  stood  stark  and  stiff,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  but 
straight  before  him.  The  old  man  sit- 
ting there  in  his  'pomp  of  circum- 
stance,' with  his  gentle  smile,  his  flow- 
ing gray  hair,  and  his  faded  eye,  was 
for  this  Puritan  the  representative  of 
the  'scarlet  woman,'  and  an  embodi- 
ment of  the  abominations,  cruelties, 
sins,  sorrows,  and  shames  of  the  relig- 
ious world.  Not  all  the  king's  horses 
and  all  the  king's  men  could  have  bent 
one  of  his  stiff  Puritan  joints  into  any 
attitude  but  that  of  open  defiance.  If 
the  color  mounted  quickly  into  my 
cheeks,  and  my  reverence  was  even 
more  deferential  than  the  occasion  de- 
manded, do  not  blame  me.  The  man's 
demeanor  seemed  to  me  so  little,  that 
I  could  not  help  myself. 

The  thing  by  which  I  have  been  most 
strongly  tempted  to  intolerance  was 
no  feature  of  an  alien  sect,  but  an  out- 
growth of  the  faith  of  my  fathers  in 
its  early  days.  With  one  companion 
I  was  visiting  the  old  burial-ground  at 
Copp's  Hill.  The  superintendent  had 
shown  us  a  vault  on  which,  by  taking 
pains,  we  had  deciphered  the  names 
of  the  'Reverend  Drs.  Increase,  Cot- 
ton, and  Samuel  Mather.'  There  we 
had  stood  reverently,  in  the  shadowy 
presence  of  their  great  souls,  feeling 
that  it  was  no  slight  thing  to  have  lived 
lives  the  memory  of  which  can  never 
die,  —  to  be  sending  down,  over  the 


long,  long  years,  influences  which  still 
tell  upon  the  world. 

Then  we  wandered  about  the  grave- 
yard, studying  the  old  tombstones. 
That  any  one  could  have  been  willing 
to  die,  knowing  that  he  would  be  so 
commemorated,  —  that  any  one  could 
sleep,  with  a  headstone  like  some  of 
these  above  him,  —  remains  a  marvel 
unto  this  day.  In  the  sixteen  hundreds 
they  put  at  the  head  of  every  stone  the 
most  horrible,  grinning  death's  head. 
In  the  seventeen  hundreds  they  carved 
instead  a  cherub,  with  puffy  cheeks, 
fluffy  wings,  and  a  general  air  of  pro- 
sperity in  striking  contrast  to  the  for- 
mer favorite. 

But  I  am  weakly  putting  off  my  tale. 
On  one  side  of  the  graveyard  there  was 
a  mound  encircled  by  an  iron  fence. 
The  grass  there  was  green  and  soft  and 
happy-looking;  so  I  asked,  with  some- 
thing like  relief  in  my  voice,  sure  that 
here  death  had  lost  its  sting,  — 

'Whose  grave  is  that?  ' 

'That,'  answered  the  superintendent, 
looking  as  if  the  words  were  forced  out 
of  him,  'that  is  a  relic  of  the  intoler- 
ance of  the  age  of  Cotton  Mather. 
There  they  buried  the  unbaptized  in- 
fants!' 

'Come,'  I  said,  turning  hastily  to 
my  companion,  'I  have  seen  enough, 
—  too  much.  Let  us  go  home.' 

'I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it/  he 
confided  to  me  quietly,  as  we  walked 
quickly  away.  'And  if  it  was  so,  Cot- 
ton Mather  had  nothing  to  do  with  it! ' 

But  I  answered  not  a  word. 

A   MOMENT   OF    REVOLT 

THE  Contributor  who  protested  re- 
cently against  the  tyranny  of  the  '  Old 
Man  of  the  Sea'  in  the  shape  of  're- 
quired reading'  in  preparation  for  seeing 
Italy,  must  have  given  joy  to  many 
members  of  the  Club  who  have  stag- 
gered under  the  load  but  lacked  the 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


283 


courage  to  throw  it  off.  But  this  is 
only  one  phase  of  the  despotism  of  a 
superstition  generated  in  minds  more 
receptive  than  original.  That  insidi- 
ous and  penetrating  form  of  disease 
known  among  its  victims  as  Culture 
plays  havoc  with  many  who  would  not, 
under  any  circumstances,  enrich  the 
world  for  all  time,  but  who  might,  save 
for  this  paralyzing  disease,  contribute 
to  the  simple  enjoyment  of  living. 

What  is  more  delightful  than  the 
companionship  of  a  fresh,  natural,  un- 
sophisticated mind  in  the  Tribuna  or  at 
Paestum!  What  more  depressing  than 
to  be  caught  in  either  place  with  a  Per- 
son of  Culture!  Woe  betide  the  man 
or  woman  whose  approach  to  the  first 
glimpse  of  an  enchanting  landscape 
with  a  historical  background,  or  of  half 
a  dozen  pictures  of  the  kind  that  make 
windows  in  a  wall,  is  overshadowed 
by  the  instructive  mood  of  a  Person 
of  Culture!  Nature  has  some  rights, 
but  if  one  fall  into  the  hands  of  this 
Person,  Art,  which  is  the  direct  vision 
of  the  beauty  of  the  world,  has  no  right 
to  exist  save  as  educational  material. 
There  are  people  who  have  great  nat- 
ural capacity  for  appreciation  if  they 
could  only  get  a  chance  to  use  it;  but 
they  are  so  dogged  by  Culture  that  they 
never  get  any  simple,  human  happi- 
ness out  of  Art.  They  are  hemmed  in 
on  every  side  by  an  organization  of 
knowledge  more  highly  articulated  and 
arrogant  than  the  Roman  Curia,  and 
they  never  get  a  chance  to  play  with 
things,  which  is  the  very  essence  of  a 
primary  relation  with  Art. 

Culture,  as  commonly  practiced,  is 
a  calculated  determination  to  know, 
rather  than  a  passionate  desire  to  feel 
or  to  enjoy.  There  is  nothing  so  shock- 
ing to  a  Person  of  Culture  as  the  ignor- 
ance of  artists  of  the  things  which 
cultivated  persons  know  about  pictures, 
unless  it  be  their  almost  brutal  indif- 
ference to  these  things.  There  is  some- 


thing inexplicable  in  the  simple-mind- 
edness of  the  men  who  have  created  the 
material  out  of  which  the  sophistica- 
tion of  Culture  has  been  distilled  by  a 
sterilizing  process.  Many  of  them  have 
been  as  rough-handed  and  devoid  of 
the  refinements  of  taste,  which  are  first 
generalized  into  them  and  then  gener- 
alized out  of  them,  as  the  hard-feat- 
ured peasant  who  grows  the  stuff  on 
which  the  Parisian  chef  exercises  his 
skill.  Some  man  of  heroic  temper,  will- 
ing to  face  the  contumely  of  the  society- 
studio  and  the  scorn  of  the  guardians 
of  the  shrine,  ought  to  bring  out  the 
shocking  truth  which  a  deeper-sighted 
age  than  ours  will  no  doubt  face,  that 
Art  is  not  primarily,  or  even  secondar- 
ily, intellectual,  and  that  the  paths 
of  Culture  often  lead  into  a  barren 
wilderness. 

It  is  a  great  misfortune  that  organ- 
ized Culture,  more  alert  than  the  Con- 
servation movement,  has  sequestrated 
Italy  for  its  private  uses,  and  that  only 
the  brave  and  free  really  see  the  coun- 
try as  it  dreams  and  awakens  under 
a  sun  that  woos  it  in  a  rapture  of  per- 
petual Spring.  If  one  can  turn  his  back 
on  ancient  Rome  and  cast  the  Renais- 
sance behind  him,  he  can  fairly  sport 
with  Nature  in  Italy,  and  be  a  child 
again.  And  it  may  be  suspected  that  this 
is  getting  very  near  the  heart  of  Italy, 
whose  most  wonderful  secret  is  her 
youthfulness.  She  has  outlived  more 
and  survived  more  than  any  other  coun- 
try in  the  world;  for,  while  there  are 
countries  with  a  longer  history  than 
hers,  there  is  no  other  that  has  flowered 
and  borne  fruit  so  often  in  renewed  vi- 
tality, and  taken  on  the  form,  and  taken 
up  the  work,  of  so  many  successive 
civilizations. 

Most  people  are  so  absorbed  in  the 
older  Italy  that  they  do  not  see  the 
Italy  of  to-day,  building  itself  on  the 
old  foundations  with  the  audacity 
which  has  rebuilt  the  country  half  a 


284 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


dozen  times.  To  see  this  new  Italy  and 
understand  it,  one  must  get  away  from 
the  idea  that  it  is  an  art  gallery  to  be 
scrupulously  guarded  against  change 
or  enlargement;  a  well-buttressed  ruin 
carefully  preserved  for  travelers  of 
taste  and  means;  a  repository  of  beau- 
tiful things  for  the  restrained  and  mod- 
ulated joy  of  the  Person  of  Culture. 
There  is  a  real  duty  here  which  Italy 
is  not  disposed  to  shirk;  but  the  Ital- 
ians have  a  certain  rough,  everyday 
idea  that  they  have  as  much  right 
to  make  themselves  comfortable  and 
prosperous  as  their  forefathers  had, 
and  they  are  calmly  acting  on  the  con- 
viction that  they  own  the  country. 
They  are  not  always  wise  in  their  act- 
ivities, and  the  blight  of  taste  which 
has  fallen  on  all  Europe  has  not  left 
Italy  unharmed;  but  there  is  much  to 
be  said  for  the  Italian  point  of  view. 
It  is  not  quite  fair  for  Americans,  am- 
ply provided  by  a  prosperous  country 
with  the  means  of  enjoying  Italy,  to  ask 
the  Italians  to  be  content  to  remain 
custodians  of  historical  places  and  art 
collections,  and  to  put  aside  the  chances 
of  fortune  and  action  in  which  modern 
life  abounds.  The  builders  of  every 
age  in  Italy  have  handled  life  without 
gloves,  and  with  a  daring  indifference 
to  their  predecessors;  and  it  may  be 
suspected  that  every  generation  of 
force  and  initiative  will  have  icono- 
clastic moments. 

Such  moments  come  to  persons  of 
normal  mind  in  Italy,  from  time  to 
time,  and  they  come  oftenest  in  Flor- 
ence, where  the  enchantments  not  only 
of  the  Middle  Age,  but  of  the  Renais- 
sance, still  linger,  and  where  Culture 
waits  at  the  gate  like  the  omnipresent 
octroi  and  demands  tribute  from  any 
newcomer.  There  the  Person  of  Cul- 
ture basks  in  the  sense  of  absolute  su- 
periority, and  turns  a  scornful  eye  on 
those  who  profane  the  sanctuary  with 
interests,  emotions,  and  activities  not 


laid  down  in  the  Baedeker  of  the  elect, 
the  unprinted  handbook  of  the  ini- 
tiated. In  the  fair  city  which  painters, 
sculptors,  poets,  and  architects  have 
enriched  for  all  time,  normally  human 
persons  either  revolt,  like  the  Ameri- 
can girl,  and  ask,  out  of  the  unplumbed 
depths  of  gallery-fatigue,  '  When  shall 
we  get  out  of  this  picture-belt?'  or  flee 
to  the  hills  for  refuge.  There  comes  a 
moment  when  quattrocento  and  cinque- 
cento  make  one  long  for  the  ignorance 
of  the  cave-dwellers,  or  the  simplicity 
of  the  Etruscans  who  have  innocently 
furnished  so  much  of  the  apparatus  of 
Culture. 

In  such  an  hour  we  planned  a  picnic 
because  that  seemed  the  most  element- 
ary human  thing  we  could  think  of, 
and  because  it  involved  a  deliberate 
affront  to  Culture.  We  were  driven 
out  of  Florence  as  truly  as  was  Dante, 
but  with  this  difference:  to  our  expul- 
sion could  not  be  added  the  atrocious 
insult  of  a  monument  in  Santa  Croce! 

To  make  our  revolt  against  the  text- 
book, the  art-history,  the  whole  litera- 
ture of  Culture  more  pronounced,  we 
'  took  a  tram  at  the  side  of  the  Duomo 
and  under  the  shadow  of  the  Campa- 
nile, and  we  went  third-class !  The  late 
afternoon  light  was  already  fading  from 
the  hills  when  we  turned  up  a  bit  of 
white  road  that  soon  vanished  in  the 
shade  of  the  woods.  The  gray-green  of 
the  olive  trees  gave  a  restful  tone  to  the 
hillsides,  and  above  the  darker  pines 
were  silently  gathering  the  shadows 
that  give  the  stars  their  chance.  We 
climbed  a  steep  road  into  which  we 
presently  turned,  then  forsook  it,  and 
scrambled  up  the  steeper  slope  until 
we  came  to  one  of  those  little  plateaus 
which  show,  from  the  scientific  point  of 
view,  that  picnics  were  part  of  the  orig- 
inal plan  of  creation.  We  sat  down 
wherever  Nature  had  made  places  for 
us,  and  looked  at  Florence  beginning  to 
blend  its  outlines  in  the  soft  mystery  of 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


285 


a  dream-city.  We  talked  of  everything 
but  the  things  which  the  Baedeker  of 
Culture  prescribes  for  subjects  of  con- 
versation. We  were  not  above  enjoy- 
ing the  hastily  and  happily  improvised 
supper;  we  saw  the  stars  come  out, 
and  we  watched  Florence  silently  de- 
fine itself  in  lines  of  light.  The  brioches 
brought  no  suggestion  of  quattrocento 
with  them,  and  the  delicate  cakes  from 
Giacosa's  had  nothing  in  common  with 
the  cinquecento. 

A  quiet  humanizing  of  Florence  was 
being  wrought  in  us.  We  thought  of  the 
gentle  spirit  of  Fra  Angelico  painting 
those  lovely  poems  of  his  religion  on 
the  walls  of  the  little  cells  in  San  Marco, 
but  we  were  unconcerned  about  the 
significance  of  his  work  in  the  develop- 
ment of  Italian  painting;  we  thought 
of  the  passionate  heart  of  Dante  beat- 
ing against  the  invisible  bars  of  his 
exile,  but  we  did  not  discuss  the  terza 
rima.  We  were  content  with  the  olive 
trees,  blurred  by  the  dusky  wing  of 
night;  we  looked  at  Florence  aglow 
with  light,  and  the  Arno,  invisible,  but 
moving  between  shining  points  of  fire. 
Behind  the  old  town  what  dim  shadows 
of  the  past  swept  by  with  the  '  trailing 
garments  of  the  night';  within,  what 
stirrings  of  a  life  which  emerges  out  of 
great  memories  to  set  its  own  candles 
aflame  by  its  own  hearthstone! 

FOUNDATIONS  OF  SIMPLICITY 

ONCE  at  a  luncheon  I  sat  next  to  a 
lady  who  told  breathlessly  of  an  ex- 
perience she  had  had  the  previous  sum- 
mer. It  seemed  that  she  had  taken 
board  in  a  house  where  there  were  no 
bells  in  any  of  the  rooms;  'And  you 
can't  think,'  she  said,  'what  a  queer 
feeling  it  gave  one.'  'Dear  me!'  as- 
sented another  of  the  guests,  '  I  should 
think  so!'  It  was  plain  to  see  that 
both  ladies  regarded  it  as  a  decidedly 
tremendous  occurrence.  A  flicker  of 


amusement  danced  across  my  mind, 
and  I  was  tempted  to  rise  up  and  say, 
'  My  dear  ladies,  I  went  to  school  in 
a  log  schoolhouse,  and  it  requires  more 
than  the  mere  absence  of  bell-buttons 
in  my  room  to  excite  me!' 

Yes,  I  take  an  infinite  pride  in  the 
fact  of  my  log-schoolhouse  days.  I  fear 
I  am  even  a  little  snobbish  about  it, 
and  am  sometimes  inclined  to  look 
down  on  those  unfortunate  people 
whose  education  has  centred  only  in 
prosaic  city  edifices.  But  after  all,  I 
humble  myself  at  such  times  with  the 
remembrance  that  my  school  itself 
was  in  its  way  somewhat  conventional, 
having  as  it  did  a  board  floor,  real 
benches,  and  the  customary  windows 
of  glass.  I  have  a  friend  who  attended 
a  school  where  the  windows  were  just 
openings  left  for  that  purpose  between 
the  logs;  where  the  floor  was  of  dirt, 
and  the  benches  were  logs  flattened  on 
one  side,  with  pegs  driven  in  on  the 
other  for  legs.  It  is  as  well  that  I  did 
not  go  there,  —  I  know  I  should  have 
been  too  proud  of  it.  And  failing  such 
a  really  primitive  one,  my  own  simple 
school  is  very  good  indeed  to  remem- 
ber, and  the  recollection  of  it  will,  I  am 
sure,  keep  me  from  feeling  the  absence 
of  bell-buttons  too  acutely. 

It  was  just  a  little  one-room  build- 
ing of  gray  logs,  with  strips  of  white 
daubing  between,  giving  to  the  whole 
the  appearance  of  being  clad  in  an 
honest  gray-and-white  hickory  shirt, 
where  the  children  of  the  neighborhood 
congregated  through  the  long  winter 
months,  and  where,  outside,  the  moun- 
tains in  their  serene  naturalness  went 
up  to  the  heaven-blue  of  the  sky  above. 
It  was  known  as  the  Big  Draft  school- 
house  —  draft  in  that  part  of  the  world 
meaning  a  narrow  valley.  In  the  same 
district  there  are  other  schools  with 
no  less  delightful  and  suggestive 
names.  There  is,  for  instance,  the  Blue 
Swamp  schoolhouse,  and  the  one  at  the 


286 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


Wild  Meadows.  Wild  Meadows!  It 
presents  to  my  mind  a  series  of  small 
meadows  that  have  jauntily  flung  off 
the  yoke  of  cultivation  to  return  to  a 
charmingly  unkempt  state  —  a  rich 
tangle  of  weeds  and  flowers  and  swamp 
grass.  Having  escaped  from  the  hand 
of  man,  they  are  no  longer  forced  to  en- 
tertain just  the  one  prosaic  crop,  like 
wheat  or  corn,  with  possibly  the  more 
exciting  round  of  buckwheat  with  all 
its  attendant  bees,  but  may  now  spread 
their  hospitable  bosoms  to  any  little 
seed-tramp  that  may  elect  to  accept 
board  and  lodging  from  them  for  the 
summer  —  and  what  delightfully  un- 
expected visitors  the  wind  must  bring! 
Then  too  there  is  the  Hard  Scrabble 
schoolhouse,  another  name  in  which 
my  soul  delights.  For  take  it  how  you 
will,  whether  between  logs,  or  between 
bricks,  to  the  average  child  education 
is  a  hard  scrabble,  so  why  not  be  frank 
and  say  so  at  once?  I  regret  to  find 
that  the  would-be  sophisticated  ladies 
who  teach  there  now  like  to  ignore  its 
real  name,  and  say  primly,  'I'm  con- 
ducting the  school  this  year  on  the, 
Covington  Road';  thereby  delivering 
themselves  up  to  the  unfortunate 
modern  tendency  to  gloss  things  over, 
and  try  to  pretend  that  they  are  easy 
when  everybody  knows  that  they  are 
n't.  To  these  ladies  I  always  say  quite 
firmly,  'Oh,  yes,  the  Hard  Scrabble 
school,  you  mean.'  For  the  putting 
on  of  airs  is  something  which,  if  one 
has  attended  a  log  schoolhouse  in  the 
right  spirit,  one  must  inevitably  detest. 
And  if  now,  in  the  conventional  city 
surroundings  in  which  I  occasionally 
find  myself,  I  am  tempted  to  pretend 
an  irritation,  which  in  reality  I  do 
not  feel,  over  some  little  hitch  in  lux- 
ury, such  as  the  having  to  wait  for 
one's  carriage,  or  the  not  being  able  to 
secure  just  the  seats  one  could  have 
wished  for  the  opera,  I  see  suddenly 
before  me  the  picture  of  a  little  girl  sit- 


ting in  a  log  schoolhouse,  very  proud  of 
a  nice  new  slate  pencil,  —  the  teacher 
was  the  only  person  in  the  whole  build- 
ing who  possessed  a  lead  pencil,  and 
even  she  had  only  one,  — and  it  comes 
over  me  with  a  rush  of  laughter  and 
of  gladness,  that  while  others  may 
complain  of  crumpled  rose-leaves,  that 
doubtful  privilege  is  never  for  me;  the 
foundations  of  my  being  were  laid  too 
deep  and  sure  in  simplicity,  for  I  went 
to  school  in  a  log  schoolhouse. 

THE  TAILOR'S  PARADOX 

I  AM  not  the  first  to  make  an  ana- 
logy between  our  clothes  and  the  great- 
er realities  of  life.  Indeed,  to  those  of 
us  who  spend  our  days  in  a  fevered  but 
ineffectual  endeavor  to  appear  well 
dressed,  what  more  natural  than  to 
apply  the  lessons,  there  learned,  to 
other  fruitless  aspirations  of  the  soul? 

My  thought  now,  however,  is  not  in 
the  line  of  a  complaint  over  ideals  set 
too  high.  It  is  a  philosophic  compari- 
son I  have  drawn  between  the  fit  of 
clothes  to  figures  for  which  they  were 
not  modeled,  and  the  resemblance  of 
well-wrought  portraits  to  persons  for 
whom  they  were  not  drawn.  To  make 
my  point  wholly  clear  involves  an  ig- 
nominious confession.  I  wear  second- 
hand clothes.  Let  me  state  the  matter 
at  its  very  baldest.  Not  only  do  I  occa- 
sionally deign  to  accept  a  worn  ball- 
gown from  a  rich  friend,  and  wear  it 
with  apologies,  but  my  wardrobe  is 
almost  wholly  composed  of  the  moult- 
ed feathers  of  wealthy  relatives,  who 
know  my  shamelessness  in  accepting 
such  gifts,  and  who  find  in  me  an  easy 
and  comfortable  outlet  for  the  charit- 
able instinct.  My  habits  in  this  re- 
spect need  only  come  into  the  discus- 
sion to  explain  my  familiarity  with  the 
fit  of  a  second-hand  garment.  Indeed, 
it  is  a  sweet  drop  in  my  frugal  cup,  that 
only  by  passing  through  such  a  valley 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


287 


of  humiliation,  could  I  have  found  this 
jewel  of  thought! 

I  have  two  principal  avenues  of  con- 
tribution :  one  brings  me  dresses  by  way 
of  a  well-tailored  cousin  not  at  all  of 
my  figure  or  proportions;  and  the  other 
from  an  aunt  much  nearer  my  size  and 
shape,  but  whose  dressmaker  leaves 
something  to  be  desired. 

Indeed  my  cousin's  figure  is  a  pecul- 
iar one.  Her  two  sides  are  not  alike, 
she  is  tall  while  I  am  not,  she  is  broad 
where  I  am  narrow,  and,  to  quote  our 
cook,  reverser  viser.  But  the  emphatic 
point  is,  withal,  that  her  tailor  is  an  art- 
ist. Thus  it  happens  that  a  garment 
cut  with  nicety  by  a  master-hand  to 
her  unique  shape,  fits  my  totally  differ- 
ent one  much  better  than  a  suit  fash- 
ioned with  less  skill  for  a  figure  much 
more  akin  to  mine.  I  make  no  unkind 
criticism  of  my  aunt's  costumes.  They 
are  always  sturdy  and  occasionally 
stylish.  But  as  they  never  conformed 
to  every  line  of  her  body  with  con- 
summate smoothness,  they  will  never 
do  so  to  those  of  any  one  else.  Even 
though  her  measurements  and  mine 
appear  so  much  more  similar  than  mine 
and  the  better-groomed  cousin's,  the 
coat  that  was  never  a  faultless,  unique 
fit  cannot  be  a  general  fit  —  or  to 
launch  at  once  into  the  abstract,  it  was 
never  a  true  individual,  so  it  cannot  be 
a  type. 

My  analogy  is  now  obvious,  and  how 
many  instances  might  be  cited  of  its 
truth!  I  remember  an  old  artist  telling 
me  that  one  way  to  judge  of  the  merit 
of  a  portrait  was  to  observe  how  many 
resemblances  might  be  traced  in  it  to 
people  whom  it  was  not  intended  to  re- 
present, and  this  test  has  proved  as 
valid  as  it  seemed  at  first  unreasonable. 

How  many  times  have  I  observed 
admirers  of  Mona  Lisa  finding  in  that 
strikingly  individual  woman  shadowy 
portraits  of  various  friends.  So  it  is 
with  doges  and  popes,  with  queens  and 


peasants.  The  more  carefully  and  cun- 
ningly the  artist  has  caught  the  spirit 
of  his  models,  —  the  differentia  that 
mark  them  out  from  all  creation  beside, 
—  the  more  apparently  has  he  linked 
them  by  their  very  differences  to  all 
the  world,  and  we  see  the  very  type  of 
the  crafty  counselor,  the  wise  woman, 
or  the  irresistible  youth. 

This  seems  even  more  true,  if  pos- 
sible, of  literary  likenesses.  Those  char- 
acters less  sharply  drawn,  who  were 
perhaps  intended  to  stand  for  types, 
not  individuals,  are  in  point  of  fact 
neither  one  nor  the  other;  while  the 
more  intensely  personal,  those  heroes 
so  unique  that  we  should  know  them 
anywhere,  who  are  never  confounded 
by  chance  with  others  than  themselves, 
and  who  are  never  duplicated,  —  these 
I  say  become  the  type,  and  we  see 
their  lineaments  in  half  our  acquaint- 
ances. Who  could  illustrate  this  better 
than  Becky  Sharp?  How  neatly  the 
coat  was  cut  and  fitted  to  Becky's  crafty 
little  shape,  and  yet  how  well  it  fits 
many  of  us  who  are  much  clumsier 
and  less  graceful  than  she.  That  is 
the  astonishing  paradox,  the  triumph 
of  Hegelianism!  The  snugger  the  fit  of 
Becky's  little  jacket  as  cut  by  her  ex- 
cellent tailor,  the  closer  does  it  cling 
to  the  more  ungainly  forms  of  some  I 
might  mention.  The  greater  the  care 
which  Sir  Willoughby's  tailor  expends 
in  contriving  him  a  splendid  suit  of 
clothes,  the  more  infallibly  and  relent- 
lessly are  we  all  being  suited  —  all  of 
us,  with  figures  differing  as  widely  as 
possible  from  that  hero's  magnificent 
proportions. 

It  is  a  mystical  truth!  I  have  faith- 
fully tried  my  tailor-hand  at  fitting  an 
accurate  literary  costume  to  some  in- 
teresting friend,  some  one  whose  char- 
acteristics seemed  so  obvious  that  a 
perfect  fit  seemed  inevitable,  and  after 
all  my  trouble,  how  often  have  I  found 
some  ready-made  second-hand  coat,  — 


288 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


worn  threadbare  perhaps,  but  fash- 
ioned at  the  start  by  an  artist  at  his 
trade,  —  which  seemed  cut  and  meas- 
ured to  my  model,  while  my  poor  gar- 
ment hung  in  folds  that  quite  disguised 
his  outlines.  Why,  I  have  draped  fig- 
ures of  all  descriptions  in  the  Hamlet 
mantle.  It  is  generally  too  large,  to  be 
sure,  but  it  is  amazing  how  much  bet- 
ter it  fits  them  all  —  straight  or  crook- 
ed, fat  or  thin,  than  even  the  simplest 
shift  I  try  to  stitch  for  any  single  one 
of  them.  And  yet  Hamlet  had  such 
a  unique  figure,  and  his  dark  doublet 
fitted  him  without  a  wrinkle! 

I  had  hoped  that  since  this  pregnant 
fact  was  suggested  by  a  second-hand 
wardrobe,  some  illuminating  explana- 
tion would  spring  from  the  same  source; 
but  here  I  have  been  disappointed. 
There  is  something  to  be  said  for  pad- 
ding. If  only  enough  material  is  ac- 
cumulated in  one  spot,  it  may  bridge 
gulfs,  or  make  the  garment  at  least 
adhere  stiffly  to  its  own  lining  if  it  de- 
clines to  fit  the  wearer.  So  in  literary 
costuming.  If  enough  descriptive  data 
are  given,  some  characteristic  will  be 
bound  to  fit  us  all.  But  this  is  a 
coarse  kind  of  tailoring  not  worthy  of 
the  name.  The  adjustment  to  the  form 
beneath  may  be  as  accurate  in  thin 
muslins  without  a  particle  of  wadding 
to  blur  discrepancies,  as  in  the  stiffest 
of  tailor-mades.  It  may  be  more  so,  I 
believe,  for  I  have  observed  that  the 
less  of  the  artificial  there  is  in  my  tall 
cousin's  frock,  the  better  the  conform- 
ity to  my  less  imposing  person. 

It  cannot  be  that  we  are  all  of  us  in 
reality  shaped  alike,  for  obviously  we 
are  not,  and  the  suggestion  of  Anaxag- 
oras  that  there  is  something  of  every- 
thing in  everything  else,  though  it 


sounds  illuminating  at  first  blush,  is 
really  no  help  when  you  think  it 
through.  It  may  be  that  salient  pro- 
jections must  fit  smoothly,  while  the 
rest  of  the  person  may  take  care  of 
itself  —  or  perhaps  if  the  whole  of  any 
individual  is  told,  we  have  the  race. 
There  may  be  only  a  difference  of  de- 
gree in  each  man's  possession  of  all 
human  faculties,  so  that  in  the  slight  re- 
adjustments which  are  always  neces- 
sary with  second-hand  clothes,  it  is 
a  simpler  matter  to  alter  a  feature  al- 
ready present  than  to  supply  one  which 
has  been  omitted  altogether. 

Yes,  we  have  to  agree  with  Hegel  in 
the  end.  Here  is  a  bolt  of  cloth  that 
fits  everybody  and  everything  indif- 
ferently well  because  it  fits  nobody. 
Then  I  cut  out  a  coat,  which,  if  it  does 
not  fit  the  customer  for  whom  it  was 
intended,  fits  no  one  else,  and  we  seem 
indeed  to  have  gone  backwards.  In 
our  first  estate  there  was  a  glorious 
possibility  of  something  being  done. 
In  our  attempt  to  advance,  we  have 
risked  irretrievable  loss.  This  is  the 
*  second  stage  of  the  trial,  but  do  not 
lose  courage;  it  must  be  passed  through. 
Now  there  comes  somebody  who  mea- 
sures his  chosen  figure  to  perfection. 
He  studies  every  peculiarity,  deform- 
ity, and  beauty  of  his  chosen  model, 
and  the  coat  fits  like  a  second  skin  — 
when  lo  —  we  all  have  a  new  suit!  The 
third  stage  is  reached,  and  by  a  mighty 
paradox  —  selbst  an  und  fur  sick,  the 
type  is  attained  through  fidelity  to 
the  individual. 

Yes,  I  believe,  as  I  suggested  at  the 
outset,  that  the  secret  lies  always  with 
one  man.  He  only  can  expound  the 
mystery,  but  he  never  does.  The  trick 
is  all  in  the  tailor! 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


MARCH,  1911 


A   CRITICISM  OF  TWO-PARTY  POLITICS 


BY   J.    N.    LARNED 


AMERICANS  have  taken  from  Eng- 
lishmen the  opinion  that  two  political 
parties,  in  contention  for  the  power 
to  make  and  administer  law  in  a  re- 
presentative democracy,  produce  con- 
ditions that  yield  a  better  average  of 
government  than  can  be  got  from  the 
strifes  and  differences  of  more  numer- 
ous parties,  with  none  among  them 
able  to  command  a  majority  of  the 
popular  vote. 

.For  this  conclusion  the  English  have 
one  important  reason  which  loses  weight 
in  American  thought.  Their  form  of 
popular  government  is  an  evolution- 
ary product  of  two-party  conditions. 
It  took  its  shaping  from  the  fact  that 
two  political  parties  had  been  alternat- 
ing in  the  control  of  the  British  House 
of  Commons  for  a  long  period  prior  to 
the  practical  withdrawal  of  adminis- 
trative prerogatives  from  the  Crown  by 
that  House.  This  has  been  the  fact,  in- 
deed, since  English  parties  of  a  strictly 
political  character  began  to  exist,  and 
it  gave  apparent  assurance  that  a  re- 
sponsible ministerial  administration  of 
government  erected  on  the  support  of  a 
majority  in  the  Commons  would  be  un- 
likely ever  to  lack  that  majority,  from 
one  or  the  other  party,  for  its  base.  It 
was  an  assurance  that  held  good  for 
about  a  century  and  a  half.  Latterly  it 

VOL,  107 -NO.  3 


has  been  weakened,  and  possibly  it  has 
expired,  since  British  ministries  have 
had  to  obtain  their  executive  commis- 
sion from  a  coalition  of  parties  quite 
frequently  in  recent  years. 

In  this  country  the  conditions  are 
very  different.  The  architects  of  its 
government,  not  attempting,  like  the 
English,  to  join  the  facts  and  forces  of 
a  republican  system  to  the  theory  and 
forms  of  an  hereditary  monarchy,  dis- 
carded the  latter,  creating  in  its  place 
a  distinct  and  independent  executive 
authority  which  passes  from  person  to 
person  at  fixed  times,  and  which  issues 
from  the  people  directly.  By  this,  and 
by  further  provisions  in  our  Federal 
Constitution  relating  to  the  election  and 
succession  of  our  presidents  and  vice- 
presidents,  the  continuity  of  executive 
authority  in  our  government  is  made 
secure.  No  dead-lock  of  factions  in  Con- 
gress can  cast  doubt  on  the  constitu- 
tional authority  of  the  President  to 
administer  existing  law,  by  depriving 
him  of  a  supporting  majority  in  either 
House,  or  in  both;  but  a  British  minis- 
try in  the  same  situation  would  exer- 
cise a  questionable  and  much  weakened 
authority,  though  it  acted  under  the 
commands  of  the  King.  Factious  divi- 
sions may  paralyze  legislation  as  mis- 
chievously in  Congress  as  in  Parlia- 


290 


A  CRITICISM  OF  TWO-PARTY  POLITICS 


ment;  but  such  paralysis  cannot  af- 
fect administrative  government  in  the 
United  States,  as  it  may  affect  that 
side  of  British  government  in  some  con- 
ceivable situations. 

The  most  important  of  English  con- 
siderations in  favor  of  two-party  poli- 
tics has,  therefore,  no  weight  for  us. 
What  others  do  we  find  to  persuade  us, 
as  most  of  us  seem  to  be  persuaded, 
that  a  meUe  of  parties,  in  the  French 
and  German  manner  of  politics,  would 
bring  evils  on  us,  which  we  must  take 
care  to  avoid  by  keeping  ourselves  mar- 
shaled as  entirely  as  possible  in  two 
great  opposing  hosts?  We  have  had 
long  experience  of  the  bipartite  organ- 
ization of  politics  and  its  mighty  duel- 
ing; and,  in  late  years  especially,  we 
have  been  attentive  observers  of  the 
more  scrimmaging  style  of  political 
warfare  in  other  countries.  We  ought 
to  be  well  prepared  to  draw  evidence 
from  both  and  weigh  it  in  a  fair-minded 
way.  The  present  writing  is  an  attempt 
and  an  invitation  to  treat  the  ques- 
tion thus,  and  learn  perhaps  in  doing 
so  how  important  it  is.  , 

One  fact  which  stands  indisputably 
to  the  credit  of  a  bisected  partisanship 
in  politics  is  this:  the  whole  business 
of  government  is  simplified  and  made 
easier  for  those  who  conduct  it,  when  all 
differences  in  the  popular  will,  which 
they  are  expected  to  execute,  are  so 
nearly  gathered  up  by  two  agencies 
of  organization  that  one  or  the  other  of 
these  must  be  able  to  confer  full  au- 
thority at  any  given  time.  It  is  need- 
less to  say  that  the  ministry  which 
takes  such  authority  from  a  single  dom- 
inant party  has  every  advantage,  of 
assured  tenure,  of  defined  policy,  of 
confident  and  courageous  feeling,  over 
any  ministry  which  acts  in  dependence 
on  some  precarious  combination  of 
separately  powerless  political  groups. 
It  has  a  distinctly  mapped  course  to 
pursue.  Its  measures  are  substantially 


fore-planned  for  it.  It  knows  what  to 
expect,  of  support  and  opposition  alike, 
and  its  measures  are  furthered  almost 
as  much  by  the  concentred  organiza- 
tion of  antagonisms  as  by  their  sup- 
port. These  conditions  are  plainly  the 
most  favorable  to  an  easy  and  effective 
working  of  the  apparatus  of  govern- 
ment; and  this  fact  is  decisive  of  the 
question,  no  doubt,  in  the  judgment  of 
most  people  who  take  a  practical  part 
in  political  affairs. 

Such  a  judgment,  however,  surely 
rests  on  inadequate  grounds.  Some- 
thing more  than  ease  and  effectiveness 
in  the  working  of  government  demands 
to  be  taken  into  account.  The  quality 
of  the  result  has  a  prior  claim  to  con- 
sideration; and  results  accomplished 
with  least  difficulty  and  most  facility 
are  quite  likely  to  be  not  the  best.  For 
this  reason  I  suspect  that  the  school 
of  practical '  politics '  does  not  give  the 
right  training  in  judgment  for  a  right 
decision  of  this  question  of  parties  in 
government;  and  I  fear  that  prevail- 
ing views  on  the  question  have  come 
mainly  from  that  school. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  assured  sup- 
port in  measures  of  government,  the 
confident  feeling,  the  definite  pro- 
gramme, are  conducive  to  deliberate 
and  judicious  action,  as  well  as  to  ease 
and  facility  in  it,  —  which  is  true  in 
theory,  and  ought  to  be  true  always  in 
fact;  but  the  same  conditions  are  con- 
tributory also  to  influences  on  political 
action  which  work  powerfully  against 
its  fidelity  of  service  to  the  public 
good.  Many  motives,  both  noble  and 
base,  from  the  purest  in  altruism  to  the 
meanest  in  selfishness,  may  inspire  the 
ambition  for  political  authority  and 
power;  but  it  is  certain  that  the  lower 
promptings  are  more  energetic  than 
the  higher,  and  prick  men  on  to  more 
arduous  striving  for  the  coveted  prize. 
In  our  American  political  experience 
there  has  been  no  fact  more  glaringly 


A  CRITICISM  OF  TWO-PARTY  POLITICS 


291 


manifested  than  this,  unless  it  is  the 
fact  that  our  two-party  system  is  stim- 
ulating and  helpful  to  the  sordid  polit- 
ical ambitions  and  discouraging  to  the 
nobler  aims. 

A  common  phrase  in  our  political 
talk  and  writing  explains  why  this  is 
so.  One  or  the  other  of  our  two  con- 
tending parties  is  always  subject  to 
description  as  'the  party  in  power.' 
The  power  of  government  is  always 
the  power  of  a  party,  shifted  to  and  fro 
between  the  two  organizations  of  po- 
litical rivalry  as  the  prize  of  a  lottery, 
which  has  its  annual,  biennial,  and 
quadrennial  drawings  at  the  polls.  For 
a  given  term,  the  one  party  or  the 
other  ordinarily  receives  complete  pos- 
session of  that  tremendous  power,  to 
the  utmost  of  its  range.  It  is  power  to 
make  and  administer  law,  to  levy,  col- 
lect, and  expend  public  revenues,  to 
undertake  and  carry  on  public  works, 
to  hold  the  stewardship  of  public 
property,  to  grant  public  franchises, 
to  fill  public  offices,  to  distribute  pub- 
lic employments,  —  to  be,  in  fact,  for 
a  given  term,  the  public  of  cities,  of 
states,  and  of  the  great  nation,  in  all 
the  handling  of  their  stupendous  cor- 
porate affairs.  To  obtain  a  realizing 
conception  of  the  immensity  of  power 
which  this  involves,  and  of  the  dia- 
bolical temptations  and  invitations  it 
offers,  not  only  to  conscious  dishon- 
esty, but  to  selfishness  in  all  forms,  is 
to  know  why  our  politics  are  corrupted 
as  they  are. 

By  giving  these  awful  masses  of  cor- 
rupting opportunity  always  into  the 
possession  of  one  or  the  other  of  two 
party  organizations,  we  draw  what  is 
corrupt  and  corruptible  in  the  country 
into  almost  irresistible  leagues  for  the 
controlling  of  both.  Men  of  one  sort  are 
induced  to  devote  their  lives  to  the 
practice  of  the  arts  of  political  engineer- 
ing which  have  produced  the 'machine' 
organization  of  party  and  brought  it  to 


a  marvelous  perfection.  Men  of  anoth- 
er sort  are  made  willing  to  be  cogged 
wheels  in  the  machine,  some  as  con- 
gressmen, some  as  state  legislators, 
some  as  aldermen,  some  as  executive 
officials,  but  all,  on  their  appointed  axes, 
going  round  and  round  in  obedient  re- 
sponsiveness to  the  hand  which  turns 
the  mandatory  crank,  making  law, 
enforcing  law,  or  stifling  law,  as  the 
'boss'  commands.  The  construction, 
the  maintenance,  and  the  operation 
of  the  machine  are  attended  by  heavy 
cost;  and  this  brings  a  third  order  of 
men  into  the  wide  circle  of  corrup- 
tion which  it  spreads.  These  are  its 
patrons,  —  the  liberal  subscribers  for 
such  profitable  products,  of  legislation 
from  one  hopper,  of  chloroformed  law 
from  another,  and  of  public  jobs  from 
a  third,  as  it  is  prepared  to  turn  out 
on  demand.  They  finance  the  expens- 
ive 'plants'  of  the  two  parties,  with 
all  their  advertising  shows  and  stage- 
plays  for  the  captivation  of  weak- 
minded  voters,  and  they  receive  in  re- 
turn friendly  statutes  and  tariffs,  and 
public  franchises  and  contracts,  and 
official  connivances  and  negligences, 
which  accomplish  public  pocket-pick- 
ing on  the  biggest  conceivable  scale. 
The  total  result  is  a  state  of  rottenness 
in  American  politics  which  has  become 
a  stench  in  the  nostrils  of  the  world. 

If  our  two  parties  represented  a 
natural  bisection  of  political  opinion 
in  the  country,  such  effects  might  seem 
curable;  but  they  do  so  no  longer, 
although  there  was  that  spontaneous 
cleavage  in  their  origin,  both  in  Eng- 
land and  with  us.  Parties  in  English 
politics  had  their  rise  in  the  struggle 
between  a  disfranchised  class  and  a 
ruling  class,  and  that  was  fought  to  its 
practical  finish  forty  years  ago.  In 
our  own  case,  when  the  Federal  Union 
took  form,  a  single  wide  cleft  in  polit- 
ical public  opinion  was  opened  by  the 
conflict  between  national  and  provin- 


292 


A   CRITICISM   OF  TWO-PARTY  POLITICS 


cial  trends  of  feeling,  producing  the 
Federal  and  Anti-Federal  parties  of 
early  American  politics.  In  the  next 
generation  that  contention  between 
nationalizing  policies  and  provincial 
exaggerations  of  'state  rights'  ran  into 
and  was  reinforced  by  the  sectional 
slavery  question,  prolonging  and  em- 
bittering the  duel  of  parties  until  it 
culminated  in  the  sectional  Civil  War. 
Both  of  the  questions  at  issue  having 
then  been  settled  by  a  judgment  be- 
yond appeal,  a  decade  or  so  sufficed 
for  the  practical  clearing  from  our  poli- 
tics of  all  that  was  residual  from  the 
old  state  of  things,  and  we  entered  on 
new  conditions,  which  brought  new 
problems  and  new  diversities  of  mind 
into  our  political  life. 

There  has  been  nothing  of  conflict 
since,  in  actual  belief  or  opinion,  that 
could  carry  forward  the  old  division  of 
parties  on  one  continuous  line,  as  it  has 
been  carried  to  the  present  day.  On 
the  first  large  general  question  that 
arose,  which  was  the  question  of  the 
monetary  standard,  —  the '  silver  ques-  ' 
tion,'  —  there  was  so  little  intellectual 
sincerity  in  the  final  championship  of 
the  gold  standard  by  the  party  which 
carried  it  into  law  that  the  stand  of 
that  party  on  the  question  was  in  doubt 
almost  till  the  opening  of  the  decisive 
campaign  of  1896.  On  each  side  of  the 
question  there  was  a  considerable  body 
of  genuine  opinion;  but  neither  side  of 
that  opinion  was  coincident  with  either 
side  of  the  old  two-party  division  of 
voters  in  the  nation.  Both  of  the  old 
parties  were  ruptured  temporarily  by 
the  new  issue,  which  carried  a  few  com- 
panies of  recalcitrant  Democrats  into 
independent  revolt  or  into  the  Republi- 
can ranks,  and  vice  versa ;  but  the  great- 
er mass  of  the  combatants  in  that  fight 
had  the  banner  that  they  fought  under 
determined  for  them,  primarily  by  the 
cold  tactical  calculations  of  party  lead- 
ers, and  finally  by  the  sweep  of  that 


blind  partisan  spirit,  —  that  unreason- 
ing vis  inertias  of  human  temper  which 
keeps  men  running,  like  other  animals, 
in  herds. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  what 
we  mean  when  we  speak  of  the  '  party 
spirit*  has  no  reference  to  any  motive 
that  is  inspired  by  an  object  —  a  be- 
lief, a  social  interest,  a  social  right  or  a 
social  wrong  —  which  a  party  may  be 
formed  to  promote  or  resist,  but  is  the 
fanatic  devotion  which  seems  to  be  so 
easily  diverted  to  the  party  itself,  as 
an  object  of  attachment  distinct  from 
its  instrumental  use.  There  have  been 
times  and  occasions  when  this  motive- 
less zealotry  had  a  naked  exhibition, 
divested  of  everything  in  the  nature  of 
a  rational  cause,  —  originating,  even, 
in  no  more  than  a  color  or  a  name.  A 
famous  instance  is  that  of  the  factions 
of  the  Roman  circus,  which  Gibbon 
describes  in  the  fortieth  chapter  of  the 
Decline  and  Fall.  Rightly  considered, 
•the  lesson  to  be  taken  from  the  story 
of  those  factions,  which  arose  in  con- 
nection with  the  colors  (white,  red, 
green,  and  blue)  of  the  liveries  worn 
by  drivers  in  the  Roman  chariot-races, 
is  one  of  the  most  important  that  his- 
tory affords. 

In  the  party  spirit  which  made 
that  exhibition  (and  other  exhibitions 
hardly  less  puerile  and  revolting,  in 
other  times  and  places)  the  funda- 
mental quality  is  the  senselessness,  the 
objectless  inanity,  of  the  association 
that  inspired  it.  That,  in  fact,  is  what 
constitutes  a  party  spirit,  whenever 
and  however  it  becomes  generated  in  a 
party  with  no  inspiration  from  a  cause 
which  the  party  is  made  use  of  to 
support.  Acting,  as  it  does,  with  the 
weight  and  momentum  of  a  mass  of 
people,  and  with  utter  unreason,  this 
motiveless  zealotry  is  the  most  mis- 
chievous of  all  the  mischief-makings 
that  have  come  from  empty  or  idle 
human  brains.  Its  malign  influence  in 


A   CRITICISM  OF  TWO-PARTY   POLITICS 


293 


history  has  actually  been  unequaled  by 
any  other.  More  or  less  it  has  per- 
verted all  human  association,  espe- 
cially in  those  spheres  of  it  which 
passion  can  most  easily  invade.  Its 
worst  workings  have  not  been  in  poli- 
tics, but  in  the  religious  organizations 
of  the  world.  It  may  be  doubtful 
whether  religious  or  political  divisions 
have  been  most  creative  of  this  sense- 
less party  spirit  which  perverts  the 
rational  uses  of  party;  but  it  is  certain 
that  religious  contentions  have  enraged 
it  most,  and  produced  the  most  revolt- 
ing examples  of  its  malignant  power. 
By  an  easy  degradation  the  religious 
spirit  has  always  been  prone  to  lapse 
into  partisanship,  and  then  religious 
and  political  partisanships  have  sought 
unions  which  begot  a  demonism  in  hu- 
manity that  reveled  in  savage  tyrannies 
and  horrible  wars. 

Those  fiendishly  passionate  devel- 
opments of  the  party  spirit  belong, 
perhaps,  to  the  past,  and  illustrate  a 
danger  which  cannot  seem  imminent  at 
the  present  day.  We  may  reasonably 
hope  that  our  social  growth  has  left 
them  behind.  But  no  human  disposi- 
tion so  insensate  can  be  tolerated  and 
cultivated,  as  this  continues  to  be, 
without  immense  mischiefs  of  some 
nature  to  the  race.  If  mischiefs  from 
its  primitive  violence  are  disappear- 
ing, the  very  narcotizing  of  it  has  pro- 
duced equally  bad  if  not  worse  ones, 
of  paralysis,  to  replace  them.  Now  it  is 
threatening,  not  to  our  social  peace, 
but  to  the  vital  energies  in  our  social 
life.  So  far  as  a  sectarian  party  spirit 
enters  the  churches  it  deadens  the  re- 
ligious spirit;  and  so  far  as  a  political 
organization  is  held  together  and  ac- 
tuated by  something  else  in  the  feel- 
ing of  its  members  than  an  earnestness 
of  opinion  on  questions  of  the  public 
good,  it  is  infected  with  a  party  spirit 
that  is  sure  death  to  the  public  spirit 
on  which  democracies  depend  as  the 


breath  of  their  life.  Who  can  doubt 
that  such  an  infection  is  rank  in  both 
of  the  alternative  parties  that  control 
American  politics  to-day?  Look  at  the 
facts  of  their  history  since  the  close  of 
the  Civil  War! 

One  of  these  two  parties  came  out  of 
that  war  much  injured  in  credit  and 
character;  the  other  with  an  immense 
prestige.  While  the  war  lasted,  the 
supporting  of  the  government  was  a 
duty  so  imperious  to  large  majorities 
of  the  people  that  it  forbade  any  ob- 
stinacy of  opposition  to  measures  tak- 
en in  the  conduct  of  the  war.  By  this 
cause  the  Republican  party,  having 
control  of  the  government,  acquired 
a  great  number  of  adherents  who 
agreed  in  little  but  their  common  de- 
termination to  keep  the  Union  intact, 
with  no  concession  to  the  doctrines 
that  had  set  secession  and  rebellion 
afoot.  By  the  same  cause  the  Demo- 
cratic party,  in  critical  opposition  to 
the  government,  drew  into  its  member- 
ship every  shade  of  opinion  that  was 
weaker  in  Unionism  or  sympathetic 
with  the  secessionist  attack. 

Many  Republicans  of  that  period 
were  intensely  opposed  to  the  green- 
back issue  of  legal-tender  paper  money, 
which  eased  the  financing  of  the  war 
and  doubled  its  cost,  while  enriching 
a  few  by  inflated  prices  and  distressing 
the  many.  Other  Republicans  were 
forced  to  grit  their  teeth  with  anxiety 
and  anger  as  they  watched  the  tariff- 
making  of  the  war  years,  and  saw 
pilfering  protective  duties  stealing  in 
under  cover  of  the  great  revenue  needs 
of  the  time,  and  the  industries  of  the 
country  being  captured  by  monopol- 
ists who  have  fattened  on  them  ever 
since.  In  the  last  year  of  the  war, 
when  reconstruction  questions  were  ris- 
ing, a  probable  majority  in  the  Repub- 
lican party  was  with  President  Lin- 
coln in  opinions  opposed  to  the  entire 
immediate  incorporation  of  the  whole 


294 


A  CRITICISM  OF  TWO-PARTY  POLITICS 


body  of  recent  slaves  in  the  voting 
constituency  of  the  states  to  be  recon- 
structed. On  all  these  points  of  public 
policy,  especially  on  the  latter,  there 
were  thousands  in  the  Democratic  par- 
ty who  held  precisely  the  same  views. 
The  ending  of  the  war  raised  these  mat- 
ters at  once  to  an  importance  above 
everything  else  in  national  affairs,  and 
every  rational  consideration  in  politics 
made  attention  to  the  treatment  of 
them  the  foremost  duty  of  the  time. 

Why,  then,  were  not  agreeing  citi- 
zens brought  together,  from  what  had 
been  the  Republican  party  and  the 
Democratic  party,  to  form  new  com- 
binations for  dealing  with  the  issues 
of  the  new  situation,  —  the  questions 
of  reconstruction,  of  protective  du- 
ties, and  of  money?  A  simply  rational 
and  natural  instinct  in  politics  would 
have  drawn  voters  who  had  real  opin- 
ions into  such  combinations,  in  order 
to  represent  themselves  effectively  in 
Congress  on  one  or  more  of  the  issues 
which  appealed  to  them  most  strongly; 
and  the  result  would  undoubtedly  have 
saved  the  country  from  two  decades  or 
more  of  drifting,  blundering,  unright- 
eous legislation,  which  enriched  a  class 
at  the  expense  of  the  mass  and  demoral- 
ized American  life  in  a  hundred  ways. 
What  prevented,  of  course,  was  the 
bondage  of  the  Anglo-American  mind 
to  the  inherited  two-party  idea  of 
practical  politics,  and  the  antagonism 
of  party  spirit  which  that  idea  pro- 
motes and  excites.  Even  the  few  Re- 
publicans and  Democrats  who  broke 
away  from  their  respective  parties,  to 
do  battle  for  Lincoln's  reconstruction 
policy,  or  for  sound  money,  or  against 
protective  tarimsm,  —  even  those  few 
made  their  fight  as  guerrillas,  — '  mug- 
wumps,'— independents,  and  attempt- 
ed no  party  organization.  The  gen- 
eral body  of  their  fellow  believers 
stayed  with  the  old  banners,  expostu- 
lating loudly  from  time  to  time  against 


the  roadways  of  their  march,  and  suf- 
fering a  succession  of  disgusts  as  they 
arrived  at  such  achievements  as  car- 
pet-bag government  in  the  Southern 
States,  Bland  and  Sherman  silver  bills, 
McKinley  and  Dingley  tariffs,  and  the 
like.  And  still,  to  this  day,  the  columns 
of  our  two-party  campaigning  are 
substantially  unbroken,  and  men  who 
agree  in  opinion  on  the  greater  matters 
of  public  concern  are  facing  one  an- 
other in  antagonistic  organizations,  in- 
stead of  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder 
for  some  effective  promotion  of  their 
beliefs. 

Of  course,  no  effective  expression 
of  public  opinion  on  any  question  of 
public  policy,  or  any  principle  of  right, 
is  possible  under  conditions  like  these; 
and  what  must  be  the  effect  on  the 
political  attitude  of  the  citizen-mind, 
—  on  its  thoughtful  interest  in  public 
questions,  and  on  the  intelligent  sin- 
cerity of  action  inspired  by  it,  —  when 
the  expression  of  political  opinion  is 
so  hampered  or  suppressed?  Unques- 
tionably the  effect  has  been  and  is,  in- 
creasingly, to  deaden  public  opinion  as 
a  political  force,  and  to  engender  the 
senseless  party  spirit  in  its  place. 

In  the  last  presidential  election  the 
pronouncements  of  purpose  and  pro- 
mised policy  by  the  two  chief  parties, 
on  all  questions  brought  forward  in 
the  canvass,  were  substantially  and 
practically  the  same.  On  the  regula- 
tion of  interstate  railway  traffic  and 
of  so-called  trusts;  on  tariff  revision; 
on  currency  reform;  on  questions  be- 
tween labor  and  capital;  on  the  con- 
servation of  natural  resources  and  the 
improvement  of  the  waterways  of  the 
country,  —  there  was  no  difference  of 
material  import  in  what  was  proposed. 
Both  parties  contemplated  some  pro- 
longation of  American  rule  in  the 
Philippines,  with  ultimate  independ- 
ence of  the  islands  in  view,  and  dis- 
agreed only  as  to  making  or  not  mak- 


A  CRITICISM  OF  TWO-PARTY  POLITICS 


295 


ing  their  ultimate  independence  the 
subject  of  an  immediate  pledge.  Actu- 
ally nothing  of  conflict  in  the  prin- 
ciples or  projects  of  policy  set  forth 
by  these  two  parties  could  make  the 
choice  between  them  a  matter  of 
grave  importance  to  any  citizen  when 
he  cast  his  vote.  It  was  manifest  that 
they  existed  no  longer  as  organizations 
of  opposing  opinion,  but  had  degen- 
erated into  competing  syndicates  for 
the  capture  of  political  power.  Thus 
the  citizen  who  exercised  a  thoughtful 
judgment  on  the  public  questions  of 
the  day  was  actually  driven  to  deter- 
mine his  vote,  as  between  these  part- 
ies (one  or  the  other  of  which  would 
inevitably  be  'the  party  in  power'), 
by  something  else  than  that  judgment; 
by  something  of  a  feeling  that  grows 
easily  into  the  mischievous  spirit  that 
finally  cares  for  nothing  in  politics  but 
the  party  and  the  party's  success. 

The  minor  parties  in  our  politics, 
— Prohibitionist,  Socialist,  Populist, — 
which  justify  their  existence  by  special 
aims,  are  respectable  as  parties  be- 
cause consistently  formed  and  coher- 
ent by  the  force  of  real  motives  of 
union;  but  they  promise  no  disturbance 
of  the  demoralizing  certainty,  in  every 
election,  that  undivided  power,  of  leg- 
islation or  administration  or  both,  will 
go  to  one  or  the  other  team  of  the 
professional  players  in  the  two-party 
game. 

What,  then,  could  be  thinner  and 
poorer  than  the  exhibition  that  we  make 
now  in  our  politics?  Our  parties  mean 
so  little;  represent  so  faintly  and  vague- 
ly the  public  mind;  offer  so  little  in- 
vitation or  stimulation  to  thought  on 
public  questions  and  to  well-considered 
action  in  politics;  furnish  so  perverted 
an  agency  for  receiving  and  executing 
any  mandate  from  the  people!  Is  it 
not  time  to  reconsider  our  traditional 
belief  in  the  two-party  organization  of 
politics,  and  question  whether  some- 


thing that  would  be  better  in  the  whole 
effect  might  not,  after  all,  be  obtained 
from  a  structure  of  parties  more  flex- 
ible than  in  the  pattern  that  England 
gave  us? 

The  natural  cleavage  between  con- 
servative and  progressive,  or  liberal, 
opinion,  which  originated  the  two- 
party  division  in  English  and  Ameri- 
can politics,  gave  origin,  likewise,  to 
the  more  numerous  political  parties  of 
the  European  continent.  But,  while 
Englishmen  and  Americans  have  made 
one  mixture  of  all  tinctures  of  conserv- 
ative political  opinion,  and  another 
mixture  of  all  degrees  of  progressive 
liberality,  the  French,  German,  and 
other  Europeans,  have  not  been  satis- 
fied with  so  crude  and  careless  a 
lumping  of  their  differences  of  judg- 
ment on  public  questions,  but  have  sub- 
divided their  main  divisions  of  party 
in  a  rational  and,  we  may  say,  a  scien- 
tific way.  After  entering  upon  an  expe- 
rience of  representative  government, 
they  soon  discovered  that  moderate 
and  extreme  dispositions,  whether 
conservative  or  progressive,  may  sepa- 
rate men  by  wider  differences  of  view 
than  arise  between  the  moderately 
conservative  and  the  moderately  pro- 
gressive man;  and  that  there  is  a  con- 
siderable breadth  of  ground  within 
the  range  of  the  latter's  differences,  on 
which  men  from  both  sides  can  act 
together  more  effectively  for  what  they 
desire  in  government  than  by  action 
on  either  side  of  the  prime  division. 
Recognition  of  this  fact  tends  natur- 
ally to  the  formation  of  at  least  three 
parties  of  a  comprehensive  character 
(not  limited,  that  is,  to  single  specific 
objects),  namely:  one  on  the  conserv- 
ative slope  of  opinion,  one  on  the  pro- 
gressive, and  a  third  on  an  area  be- 
tween these. 

This  was  so  natural  an  organization  of 
politics  that  the  continental  Europeans, 
coming  into  the  enjoyment  of  repre- 


296 


A  CRITICISM  OF  TWO-PARTY  POLITICS 


sentative  institutions  much  later  than 
the  English,  fell  into  it  as  though  there 
was  nothing  else  to  be  done;  and  in  the 
seating  of  their  legislatures  they  found 
a  natural  name  for  the  natural  part- 
ies that  took  form.  According  to  the 
places  in  which  the  parties  became 
grouped,  at  the  right  or  the  left  of  the 
presiding  officer's  chair,  or  in  front  of 
it,  they  came  to  be  known  as  the  party 
of  the  Right,  the  party  of  the  Left, 
the  party  of  the  Centre;  or  simply  the 
Right,  the  Left,  and  the  Centre.  Gen- 
erally, at  the  outset  of  the  introduc- 
tion of  parliamentary  institutions  on 
the  Continent,  conservative  opinion  had 
the  strongest  representation  in  the  legis- 
lative bodies,  and  its  deputies  took  the 
seats  which  gave  them  the  name  of  the 
Right.  The  naming  then  established 
became  fixed  in  European  use. 

For  the  simple  politics  of  the  Swiss 
Republic  the  three  parties  of  this  most 
natural  division  —  Right,  Left,  and 
Centre —  have  sufficed  for  many  years. 
In  most  countries  of  Europe,  however, 
the  Right  and  Left  parties,  especially 
the  latter,  are  subject  to  fissures  that 
produce  Right  Centre  and  Left  Centre 
parties,  and  frequently  others,  taking 
different  names,  with  branchings,  more- 
over, on  the  Left,  of  parties  like  the  So- 
cialist, which  acknowledge  no  funda- 
mental relationship  with  parties  on  that 
side,  but  stand  on  ground  of  their  own. 
No  doubt  this  segmentation  of  parties 
has  been  practiced  excessively  in  Latin 
and  German  countries,  and  has  been 
often  troublesome  in  the  conduct  of 
government;  but  the  question  to  be 
considered  is  whether  the  transient 
difficulties  so  caused  have  ever  been 
comparable  in  seriousness  with  the 
deep-seated  evils  that  arise  in  our 
politics  from  the  hard  and  fast  crys- 
tallization of  our  two  historic  parties, 
and  the  fixed  fact  that  one  or  the  other 
will  always  win  the  corrupting  prize 
of  power. 


Experience  of  a  systematically  repre- 
sentative government  was  opened  in 
France  in  1876,  when  the  Constitution 
of  the  Third  Republic  went  into  effect. 
The  first  elections  to  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies  gave  the  supporters  of  this 
republican  Constitution,  against  hos- 
tile Bonapartists,  Bourbon  monarch- 
ists, and  anarchists,  great  majorities; 
but  the  presidency  had  been  filled  by 
previous  election  in  the  National  As- 
sembly, and  Marshal  MacMahon,  who 
occupied  it,  was  extremely  anti-repub- 
lican in  his  views.  Discord  between  the 
majority  in  the  Chamber  and  the  min- 
istries selected  by  the  President  was 
inevitable,  and  it  resulted  in  the  re* 
signation  of  MacMahon  at  the  end  of 
January,  1879.  The  Republicans,  how- 
ever, were  far  from  forming  a  compact 
political  party.  Their  deputies  were 
divided  into  so  many  groups  or  varie- 
ties that  Dr.  Lowell,  in  his  account  of 
Governments  and  Parties  in  Continental 
Europe,  mentions  only  five  of '  the  most 
important,'  which  bore  the  following 
names:  Left  Centre,  Republican  Left, 
Republican  Union,  Radical  Left,  and 
Extreme  Left.  The  group  which  called 
itself  Republican  Union,  headed  by 
Gambetta,  though  it  was  not  a  major- 
ity of  the  Chamber  in  its  own  numbers, 
yet  exercised  a  practical  dominance, 
which  it  maintained  for  a  number  of 
years. 

Nobody  can  think  of  denying  that 
government  in  France  was  distressing- 
ly weakened  and  troubled  for  a  period 
by  the  financial  particularity  of  opin- 
ion, or  other  motive,  which  this  divi- 
sion among  the  Republicans  exhibits. 
In  the  ten  years  immediately  follow- 
ing MacMahon's  resignation  there  were 
fourteen  changes  of  ministry.  But  in 
the  next  ten  years,  ending  in  1899,  the 
ministries  numbered  but  eight;  and  the 
eleven  years  since  then  have  seen  but 
four.  The  ministry  now  conducting  the 
government  is  substantially  theone  that 


A   CRITICISM  OF  TWO-PARTY  POLITICS 


297 


received  the  reins,  under  M.  Sarrien, 
in  March,  1906.  M.  Clemenceau  took 
M.  Sarrien's  place  as  premier  a  few 
months  later,  and  was  replaced  in  turn 
by  M.  Briand  in  July,  1909;  but  the 
government  as  a  whole  underwent  no 
change  in  character,  and  not  much  in 
its  personnel.  It  is  distinctly  radical  in 
its  composition;  M.  Briand  is  a  Social- 
ist, and  manifestly  a  statesman  of  in- 
tellectual breadth  and  power,  under 
whose  prime  ministry  France  seems 
to  be  favored  with  the  most  capable 
government  it  has  yet  secured.  The 
divisions  and  subdivisions  of  party  con- 
tinue to  be  numerous,  but  workable 
combinations  among  them  have  be- 
come more  and  more  practicable,  and 
steady  progress  in  legislative  and  ad- 
ministrative efficiency  is  plainly  to  be 
seen. 

Considering  the  formidable  difficul- 
ties that  attended  the  establishing  of 
republican  government  in  France,  from 
royalist  and  imperialist  antagonisms, 
from  the  originally  open  hostility  of 
Rome,  from  the  discouraging  memory 
of  two  failures  in  the  past,  from  the  re- 
cent loss  of  national  prestige,  and  from 
ever-impending  dangers  in  the  feeling 
between  Germany  and  France, — have 
we  any  good  reason  for  supposing  that 
a  two-party  organization  in  the  con- 
flicts involved  would  have  brought  the 
country  through  them  with  better  suc- 
cess? The  same  generation  which  suf- 
fered the  crushing  downfall  of  the  Sec- 
ond Empire,  and  had  reason  for  well- 
nigh  despairing  of  France,  has  been 
able  to  found  and  build  on  that  great 
ruin  a  well-ordered  radical  democracy, 
and  make  it  one  of  the  substantial  po- 
litical powers  of  the  world.  At  the  same 
time,  however,  these  people  have  not 
hesitated  to  take  up  and  apparently  to 
give  a  lasting  treatment  to  such  hazard- 
ous undertakings  as  the  secularizing 
of  public  education,  the  separation  of 
the  State  from  an  anciently  established 


Church,  and  the  subjection  of  its  relig- 
ious orders  and  societies  to  civil  law. 

What  greater  achievements  in  the 
workmanship  of  politics  has  our  time 
produced?  And  what  other  country  in 
our  generation  has  suffered  tribula- 
tions so  many  and  so  distracting  as  the 
workers  at  these  formidable  tasks  have 
been  tormented  by  meanwhile?  When  I 
call  to  mind  the  Boulanger  intoxica- 
tion, the  Panama  Canal  failure  and  its 
scandals,  the  madness  of  the  Dreyfus 
iniquity,  the  Morocco  trouble,  and  the 
almost  paralyzing  strike  of  postal  and 
telegraph  employees,  the  safe  passing 
of  the  French  democracy  through  all 
these  merciless  testings,  in  the  period  of 
its  organization  and  schooling,  claims 
my  wondering  admiration. 

In  the  corresponding  period  what  do 
we  show  of  political  achievement  that 
will  make  good  any  boast  of  a  better 
working  of  government  under  the  two- 
party  organization  of  our  democracy? 
A  few  years  prior  to  the  undertaking  of 
republican  government  in  France  we 
passed,  as  a  nation,  through  the  great- 
est of  our  trials,  when,  at  stupendous 
cost  of  life  and  suffering,  we  rescued 
our  Federal  Union  from  rupture,  and 
then  applied  ourselves  to  the  recon- 
struction of  society  and  government  in 
eleven  shattered  states.  I  have  alluded 
already  to  the  fact  that  a  probable  ma- 
jority of  the  party  then  all-powerful  in 
possession  of  the  government  was  fav- 
orable to  the  policy  of  reconstruction 
which  President  Lincoln  had  begun  to 
carry  out  before  his  death.  By  the  loss 
of  his  sane  influence  and  by  the  pas- 
sions which  his  murder  excited,  an  as- 
cendency in  the  party  was  transferred 
suddenly  to  its  radical  and  vindictive 
minds  and  tempers,  and  the  party  as 
a  whole  (or  nearly  so),  with  its  whole 
irresistible  power,  was  swept  by  them 
into  their  recklessness  of  dealing  with 
these  gravest  problems  of  our  history. 
It  was  so  swept  by  the  habit  of  solidi- 


298 


A   CRITICISM   OF  TWO-PARTY  POLITICS 


fied  party  action  (dignified  in  our  talk 
of  it  as  'loyalty'  to  party)  which  is 
cultivated  and  educated  in  us  by  the 
two-party  prejudice  of  our  minds. 

Suppose  that  we  had  been  habituated 
in  that  period  to  the  more  natural  three- 
party  division  of  opinion  and  disposi- 
tion, —  with  or  without  subdivisions, 
—  and  accustomed  to  the  organized 
occupation  of  a  middle  ground  in  our 
politics,  —  the  ground  for  a  '  Right 
Centre'  and  a  'Left  Centre,'  — where 
moderate  Republicans  and  moderate 
Democrats  would  be  in  readiness  at 
all  times  to  throw  the  weight  of  their 
moderation  against  extremes  of  action 
on  either  side!  Can  any  one  doubt  that 
a  much  saner  and  more  effective  re- 
construction would  have  been  given  to 
the  states  disordered  by  rebellion?  that 
they  would  have  been  spared  the  abom- 
inations of  the '  carpet-bag'  regime,  and 
the  nation  spared  the  shame  of  it?  that 
race  antagonism  in  those  states  would 
not  have  been  what  it  is,  and  that  the* 
condition  and  prospects  of  their  colored 
population  would  have  been  infinitely 
better  to-day? 

Apply  the  surmise,  again,  to  the 
treatment  in  our  politics  of  those  most 
vital  of  economic  questions,  the  ques- 
tions of  tariff!  There  have  always 
been  three  attitudes  of  people  on  this 
subject:  one  proceeding  from  opinion 
formed  intelligently,  by  study  and 
thought;  another  from  opinion 'adopt- 
ed carelessly,  without  knowledge;  the 
third  from  dictation  of  self-interests, 
considered  alone.  As  these  have  been 
mixed  and  lumped  in  both  of  our  part- 
ies, by  strains  of  party  influence  which 
obscured  the  subject,  no  fair  oppor- 
tunity has  been  afforded  for  the  in- 
structing of  ignorance  or  for  the  com- 
bating of  selfishness  in  dealing  with  the 
matter.  Is  it  not  more  than  probable 
that  such  subsidiary  groupings  in  party 
organization  as  European  constituen- 
cies have  found  practicable  would  have 


given  many  more  openings  to  such  op- 
portunity, and  would  have  saved  us 
from  some,  at  least,  of  the  oppressive 
tribute  which  protected  greed,  helped 
by  ignorance  and  thoughtlessness,  has 
been  able  to  levy  on  us  for  scores  of 
years? 

To  my  mind  it  appears  more  than 
probable  that,  in  the  treatment  of  all 
serious  situations  and  all  questions  of 
high  importance,  we  should  fare  better 
if  no  single  organization  of  party  could 
always,  as  a  rule,  control  the  determin- 
ation of  them.  Ordinary  legislation 
need  not  be  rendered  more  difficult  by 
some  articulation  of  our  political  part- 
ies in  the  European  manner,  requiring 
majorities  in  legislative  bodies  to  be 
made  up  and  handled  in  two  or  three 
sections,  and  not  in  a  ready-made,  un- 
changeable mass.  If  agreement  on  the 
graver  matters  became  slower  of  attain- 
ment and  less  easy,  it  could  not  often 
fail  to  be  made  wiser  and  more  just  by 
the  disputation  through  which  it  came. 
Admit  everything  of  hindrance  and 
inconvenience  in  government  that  can 
be  charged  against  that  rational  artiq- 
ulation  of  parties,  and  what  force  can 
we  feel  in  it,  as  against  the  intolerable 
evils  which  our  contrary  practice  has 
brought  upon  us?  That  the  worst  of 
those  evils  are  not  curable  without 
some  loosening  of  the  rigidity  of  our 
two-party  organizations  is  the  conclu- 
sion to  which  I  am  driven.  Briefly,  let 
me  rehearse  the  reasons  for  this  con- 
clusion: — 

1.  A  serviceable  expression  of  pub- 
lic opinion  in  politics  through  no  more 
than  two  organs  of  its  collected  utter- 
ance is  possible  only  when  some  single 
question,  or  group  of  related  questions, 
is  overriding  all  others  in  the  general 
mind.  In  common  circumstances  the 
citizen  who  tries  to  exercise  an  intellig- 
ent and  useful  judgment  in  his  politic- 
al action  needs  more  latitude  of  choice 
than  between  the  two  categories  of  col- 


A  CRITICISM  OF  TWO-PARTY  POLITICS 


299 


lective  opinion,  on  everything  in  pub- 
lic affairs,  which  two  rival  parties  put 
forth.  By  voting  with  one  or  the  other 
of  these  parties  he  represents  himself  in 
government  as  a  full  indorser  of  all  that 
its  category  declares,  and  he  is  fortun- 
ate, indeed,  if  his  vote  does  not  falsify 
half  of  his  judgments  and  beliefs.  Of 
course  there  is  no  practicable  organiza- 
tion of  political  opinion,  for  collective 
expression,  that  will  avoid  some  con- 
siderable compromise  and  sacrifice  of 
personal  judgments  by  every  citizen; 
but  our  system  imposes  the  maximum 
of  falsification  on  our  suffrages,  instead 
of  the  least.  How  much  this  causes  of 
depression  and  weakening  in  the  polit- 
ical working  of  large  classes  of  minds 
—  on  the  activity  of  their  interest  in 
public  matters,  on  the  earnestness  of 
their  convictions,  and  on  the  vigor  of 
the  expression  given  to  them  —  cannot 
be  known;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  the  effect  goes  seriously  deep. 

2.  By  so  organizing  our  political  ac- 
tion that  the  whole  power  of  govern- 
ment, with  all  that  it  carries  of  stupen- 
dous opportunity  for  nefarious  private 
gain  at  public  expense,  must  go  un- 
dividedly  to  one  or  the  other  of  two 
lastingly  established  parties,  we  make 
it  inevitable  that  irresistible  leagues 
of  self-seekers  will  acquire  control  of 
those  parties,  with  nefarious  designs. 
Such  control  is  always  made  visible  to 
us  in  the  perfected  machination  of  our 
party  organizations.    We  shall  never 
make  them  otherwise  than  machines 
until  the  corrupting  opportunities  they 
offer  for  exploitation  are  minimized  by 
some  disintegration  of  the  power  now 
solidified  in  them. 

3.  Nothing  effective  to  this  end  is 
accomplished  by  simply  independent 
voting,  because  the  weight  of  the  inde- 
pendent vote  has  to  go,  just  as  the  par- 
tisan vote  goes,  to  the  tipping,  one  way 
or  the  other,  of  the  two-party  beam. 
The  better  motive  in  it  can  often  im- 


prove immediate  results.  It  can  men- 
ace, admonish,  rebuke,  one  or  the 
other  of  the  oligarchies  of  party  at  a 
given  election.  In  this  way  it  is  of  ex- 
cellent occasional  service,  in  improving 
nominations  for  office  and  in  securing 
an  election  of  the  better;  but  it  can 
never  advance  us  by  a  step  toward 
escape  from  that  which  makes  ma- 
chines of  our  political  parties,  to  hold 
them  down  to  two  in  number,  with  the 
guaranteed  prize  of  all  governmental 
power  to  be  striven  for  between  them, 
and  with  every  possible  motive  for  the 
selfish  and  unscrupulous  use  of  that 
power  invited  into  combinations  for 
handling  it. 

4.  As  the  focal  points  of  political  or- 
ganization are  necessarily  in  cities,  it 
is  there,  naturally,  in  American  muni- 
cipal government,  that  our  two-party 
system  of  politics  shows  its  working 
most  flagrantly  to  our  shame.    Muni- 
cipal  government   is,    therefore,    the 
present  subject  of  our  most  earnest 
undertakings  of  political  reform.    We 
are  making  great  endeavors  to  create 
something  in  the  nature  of  municipal 
politics,  distinct  from  and  independent 
of  the  two-party  national  politics,  in 
order  that  some  degree  of  home  rule 
may  be  realized,  and  local  interests 
may  have  some  measure  of  considera- 
tion in  the  treatment  of  local  affairs. 
But  what  reasonable  hope  can  we  en- 
tertain of  success  in  this  endeavor,  so 
long  as  the  two-party  organization  is 
what  it  is,  and  the  cities  are  the  inevit- 
able seats  of  its  management;  where 
its  mastery  of  the  agencies  of  political 
action  are  most  easily  exercised,  and 
where  the  interested  influences  that 
work  for  it  and  with  it  have  likewise 
their  principal  seats? 

In  England,  the  showing  of  effects 
in  municipal  government  from  these 
causes  is  becoming  the  same  as  in  the 
United  States.  Ever  since  Parliament 
became  democratized  by  successive 


300 


A    CRITICISM   OF   TWO-PARTY   POLITICS 


extensions  of  the  popular  suffrage,  in 
1867  and  1884,  the  organizations  of 
the  two  dominating  parties  have  been 
growing  steadily  machine-like,  taking 
on  the  structure  and  character  of  our 
own;  and  with  equal  steadiness  the 
municipalities  have  been  falling  under 
their  control.  M.  Ostrogorsky  bears 
witness  to  these  facts,  in  his  remark- 
ably thorough  study  of  Democracy  and 
the  Organization  of  Political  Parties, 
published  in  1902.  He  wrote  then  of 
English  municipal  politics:  'There  al- 
ready appears  a  general  phenomenon, 
.  .  .  the  indifference  to  municipal 
matters  which  is  growing  up  among 
the  citizens.  They  inevitably  leave  the 
burden  of  their  duty  to  the  common 
weal  to  be  borne  by  the  political  part- 
ies who  have  monopolized  local  pub- 
lic life.  .  .  .  The  first  effect  of  this 
state  of  things  is  strikingly  manifested 
in  the  decline  of  the  intellectual  and,  to 
some  extent,  moral  standard  of  the  per- 
sonnel of  the  town  councils.  .  .  .  De- 
votion to  the  party  being,  under  the 
Birmingham  system  [of  party  organ- 
ization], the  first  qualification  for  ad- 
mission to  honors,  it  inevitably  became 
before  long  the  principal  condition  of 
such  admission.  .  .  .  On  the  occasion 
of  my  first  tour  in  the  provinces  [in 


1889]  I  pretty  often  heard  it  said  that 
"good  men"  (the  Tories  said  "gentle- 
men") would  not  stand  for  the  town 
council;  but  on  visiting  the  same 
towns  after  an  interval  of  six  years  I 
was  much  struck  by  the  tone  of  melan- 
choly and  sometimes  of  exasperation 
in  which  the  effects  of  the  introduction 
of  politics  into  municipal  affairs  were 
spoken  of.' 

5.  Through  every  influence  it  exerts, 
the  two-party  system  is  weakening  or 
vitiating  the  public  opinion  and  the 
public  spirit  which  are  the  vitalizing 
forces  in  democracy,  and  lending  it- 
self powerfully  to  a  substitution  of  the 
purely  partisan  spirit  which  all  his- 
tory has  proved  to  be  the  most  pest- 
ilent by  which  human  society  can  be 
infected. 

Our  bondage  to  the  inexorable  old 
system  has  been  relentless  for  so  many 
generations  that  release  from  it  had 
seemed  impossible  until  a  little  time 
ago,  when  Western  'insurgency'  show- 
ed its  head.  Now  there  appear  some 
glimmerings  of  encouragement  to  the 
hope  that  our  politics  may  yet  devel- 
op a  Centre,  with  its  Right  and  Left 
wings,  disjointable  from  necessary  con- 
nection with  the  extremes  of  Right  and 
Left. 


BY    HENRY   L.  HIGGINSON 


What  we  gave,  we  have; 
What  we  spent,  we  had; 
What  we  left,  we  lost. 

THESE  words  of  Edward  Courtenay, 
Earl  of  Devonshire,  cut  on  his  grave- 
stone, may  serve  me  as  a  text.  That 
nothing  is  of  the  best  advantage  to  the 
human  race  until  well  used,  may  also 
serve  as  a  text. 


In  the  early  fifties,  when  I  was  a 
very  young  man,  we  fellows  constantly 
speculated  and  discussed  as  to  the 
methods  of  making  our  lives  success- 
ful. By  'success'  we  did  not  mean 
riches,  houses  and  lands,  high  place 
and  honors,  but  something  of  real 
value  to  the  world.  We  wished  to 
make  our  lives  tell  by  good  work  —  a 
selfish  wish  perhaps,  but  it  had  its 
good  side.  We  knew  that  our  nation 
was  in  the  making,  and  that  it  was  our 
task  to  help.  It  never  occurred  to  us 
that  our  nation  was  without  faults;  on 
the  contrary,  we  saw  many  things  to 
correct.  The  field  was  large  and  called 
for  knowledge  and  careful  thought  in 
the  tilling. 

The  slavery  question  was  to  the  fore, 
and,  being  vital,  it  grew  daily  in  pro- 
minence, arousing  deep  feeling  on  all 
sides.  The  lawyers  and  courts  cited 
the  Constitution.  The  manufacturers 
begged  for  peace,  as  they  needed  the 
cotton,  on  which  many  workmen  de- 
pended for  their  daily  bread.  The 
clergy  were  lukewarm  or  divided.  The 
Southerners  bitterly  resented  any  com- 
ment on  their  property,  whether  land 


or  slaves.  Mr.  Frederick  Law  Olmsted, 
by  personal  examination  of  the  South- 
ern plantations  and  conditions  and 
habits,  taught  the  American  people  that 
the  land  and  the  men,  white  and  black, 
were  not  being  used  to  advantage,  and 
that  slavery  was  bad  economy.  Only 
then  arose  the  conviction  that  slavery 
must  rule  the  land  or  be  overthrown; 
only  then  did  men  awaken  to  the  abso- 
lute, the  vital  need  of  ridding  the  land 
of  the  national  burden  and  the  national 
disgrace.  It  may  be  noted,  by  the  way, 
that  hard  names  and  vituperation  de- 
layed and  thwarted  the  efforts  peace- 
fully to  get  rid  of  slavery.  The  slave- 
owners were,  as  a  rule,  high-minded 
gentlefolk  who  had  grown  up  under 
a  false  system  and  believed  it  good,  but 
it  was  against  the  law  of  the  universe. 

During  those  years  our  feeling  of 
patriotism  was  growing  stronger,  and 
when  the  Civil  War  broke  out  it  be- 
came with  us  a  true  passion.  It  was  the 
ruling  motive.  Our  American  people  of 
both  sides  showed  such  devotion  to 
an  ideal,  such  steadfast,  strong  feeling 
about  our  country,  such  high  civic  vir- 
tue, that  the  duty  of  those  of  us  who 
survived  to  work  for  the  common  wel- 
fare and  happiness  became  clearer  than 
ever.  It  indeed  seemed  a  behest,  sanc- 
tified and  strengthened  by  the  memory 
of  our  dead  friends. 

When  the  war  was  over,  and  slavery 
done  away  with,  the  great  problem  of 
the  Negro  yet  remained,  and,  affecting 
as  it  did  the  white  race  quite  as  much 
as  the  black  race,  it  demanded  constant 
effort  and  patience  as  a  condition  of 

301 


302 


A  WORD  TO  THE  RICH 


national  life.  The  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion of  a  slavery  system  was  simple, 
but  the  answer  to  the  problems  of  the 
rapidly  widening  industrial  system  was 
far  more  difficult,  and  lay  before  us,  a 
life-work. 

We  lads  had  wondered  whether  the 
men  and  women  of  the  workshops  and 
of  the  field  were  getting  fair  treatment 
and  giving  a  fair  return.  We  were  sure 
that  such  conditions  must  be  diligently 
sought,  and  we  believed  that  fair  treat- 
ment would  bring  fair  returns,  and 
only  so.  On  such  mutual  relations  de- 
pended the  moral  welfare  of  our  coun- 
try. The  way  to  this  goal  lay  through 
education  —  education  of  the  largest 
kind,  and  fitted  to  all  the  ends  to  be 
gained.  The  adjustments  between 
labor  and  capital,  between  men  of  dif- 
ferent occupations,  were  pressing,  and 
were  not  easy  to  understand  or  to  set- 
tle. Education  and  experience,  tem- 
pered by  sympathy,  alone  could  bring* 
a  solution  for  the  time,  and  ever  and 
again  changes  must  *and  would  follow 
changed  conditions.  This  education 
could  never  cease  to  grow  as  men  with 
new  ideas  and  new  wants  advanced,  and 
it  was  sure  to  bear  rich  fruits, — indeed, 
was  essential  to  the  safety  of  the  world. 
Any  one  who  could  and  would  achieve 
these  results,  or  help  toward  their 
achievement,  would  be  successful  and, 
therefore,  happy.  We  believed  'that 
the  State,  like  the  individual,  should 
rest  on  an  ideal  basis.  Not  only  man 
but  nature  is  injured  by  the  imputa- 
tion that  man  exists  only  to  be  fattened 
with  bread,  but  he  lives  in  such  con- 
nection with  thought  and  fact  that  his 
bread  is  surely  involved  as  one  element 
thereof,  but  is  not  its  end  and  aim.' 
Such  had  been  our  ideal  before  the 
Civil  War,  and  such  it  remained  after 
the  war  was  over. 

Mankind  always  needs  ideals  which 
loom  so  large  in  the  sight  of  men  that 
they  cannot  fail  to  see  them  clearly. 


More  than  ever  is  this  true  of  to-day, 
for  the  turmoil  and  the  hurry  of  mod- 
ern life  raise  a  great  dust  which  often- 
times hides  the  skies.  Enthusiasm, 
dreams,  hopes  are  to  be  encouraged, 
and  belong  to  youth,  which  ever  re- 
news itself  in  warm  hearts,  although 
reason  is  needed  to  cool  and  guide 
them.  The  fact  that  we  believe  that 
our  ideal  is  beautiful  and  holy  is  not 
ground  for  forcing  it  on  our  mates.  To 
win  success  a  man  must  not  be  a  pure 
idealist,  else  in  practical  things  he  will 
fail;  but  he  must  have  ideals,  and  he 
must  obey  them. 


ii 

Two  of  my  friends  stand  out  as  hav- 
ing done  especially  well  in  the  indus- 
trial field.  The  first  built  up  slowly  and 
surely  a  great  railroad  system  of  seven 
thousand  miles,  and,  while  busy  with 
his  work,  taught  by  precept  and  by 
example  many  younger  men  the  true, 
wise  method  of  handling  material  and 
human  problems  with  success.  He  held 
that  the  men  of  the  railroad  should 
be  treated  as  individuals,  who  had  their 
views,  their  rights  and  duties,  and  who 
should  get  and  give  full  value  for 
their  work.  He  always  had  excellent 
help  from  friends  and  stockholders. 
From  the  outset,  he  had  taken  a  deep 
interest  in  public  affairs,  and  made  his 
influence  for  the  good  felt.  He  had  be- 
gun from  absolute  poverty,  was  most 
free  with  his  earnings,  and  late  in  life 
came  against  a  large  problem.  A  bank 
in  some  straits,  for  which  he  was  in  no 
wise  responsible,  lay  down  on  him  for 
help,  and  he  resolutely,  and  against  the 
best  advice,  took  up  the  load  and  quiet- 
ly carried  it,  until  a  happy  conclusion 
was  reached.  It  cost  him  half  of  his 
fortune,  which  was  at  best  none  too 
large,  and  gave  him  weeks,  months, 
years  of  terrible  anguish,  and  short- 
ened a  useful  life.  He  did  it  to  save 


A  WORD  TO  THE  RICH 


303 


many  people  from  suffering,  and  to 
guard  a  great  state  against  serious 
danger.  About  the  facts,  he  was  as 
silent  as  the  grave.  He  saw  the  danger 
to  others  and  to  himself,  and  he  chose 
the  noble  course,  never  counting  the 
cost.  His  pupils  hold  the  highest  posi- 
tions on  great  railroads  to-day,  and 
have  proved  the  quality  of  their  teach- 
er and  their  teaching.  When  Charles 
Elliott  Perkins  died,  the  men  and  the 
trains  stopped  all  work  for  an  hour. 
To-day,  as  the  railroad  trains  pass  the 
field  in  Burlington,  Iowa,  where  his 
monument  stands,  the  men  lift  their 
hats  in  memory  of  him. 

The  second  man  undertook  a  mining 
enterprise  in  the  wilderness  and,  gifted 
with  a  fine  body  and  a  finer  mind  and 
spirit,  labored  day  and  night  until  he 
had  built  the  enterprise  into  a  great 
corporation.  Like  Charles  Perkins, 
Alexander  Agassiz  began  with  no  cap- 
ital but  his  education  and  his  character. 
With  unflagging  energy,  he  devoted 
himself  to  the  great  work  of  which 
Quincy  A.  Shaw  was  the  founder.  Side 
by  side  they  shared  the  great  risks  and 
labor,  and  together  they  won  success. 
Each  was  indispensable  to  the  other. 

For  the  use  of  the  workmen,  Alexan- 
der Agassiz  and  his  stanch  ally  built 
houses,  school-houses,  churches,  a  club- 
house, a  dance-hall,  a  hospital,  and  a 
school  for  industrial  training,  and  es- 
tablished a  fund  wherewith  to  meet 
illness  and  accidents.  He  chose  his 
workmen  carefully,  and  treated  them 
well.  The  result  has  been  a  steady, 
strong  feeling  among  the  workmen, 
which  has  kept  away  labor  troubles, 
with  but  two  short  intervals,  for  forty- 
five  years,  and  has  caused  a  deep  feel- 
ing of  affection  and  reliance  from  the 
workmen  to  the  employers. 

In  each  case  these  men  kept  clearly 
before  them  great  objects;  they  used 
without  stint  their  money  as  it  rolled 
in;  they  worked  wisely  for  the  good  of 


mankind.  They  had  drawn  inspiration 
from  their  forbears  and  their  times. 

The  world  is  very  busy  with  work, 
and  agog  with  ideas  and  plans  and 
wishes,  which  have  been  kept  back  and 
are  now  rushing  on  us.  The  tremen- 
dous industries  have  called  forth  tal- 
ents and  energy,  and  have  brought  re- 
sults, heretofore  undreamed  of.  They 
have  given  new  work  to  many  people, 
and  have  enriched  our  nation.  Every- 
body has  prospered  by  them,  but  more 
especially  the  leaders  have  piled  up 
riches  to  a  huge  extent,  and  have  some- 
times caused  in  the  breasts  of  the  mul- 
titude envy  and  jealousy.  Men  who 
started  together  in  the  race  of  life  have 
lost  sight  of  one  another  because  of 
their  difference  in  power,  in  character, 
in  industry,  or  ideals.  And  the  man 
who  has  not  made  speed  in  the  race 
thinks  hardly  of  his  favored  mate.  He 
forgets  the  self-control,  the  ceaseless 
toil,  the  constant  thought  which  his 
old  companion  has  used,  while  he  has 
gone  to  a  ball-game  or  a  bar,  or  simply 
smoked  his  pipe  after  a  day  of  work. 
He  ignores  the  difference  in  ability. 
He  forgets,  too,  the  failures  which  may 
have  preceded  success.  A  man  makes 
five  ventures  and  loses  entirely  on  two. 
Can  he  be  blamed  for  asking  a  large 
return  on  the  other  three?  Such  has 
been  the  history  of  almost  all  the  rail- 
roads in  the  United  States,  of  many 
mills,  water-powers,  farms,  forests,  and 
often  it  is  only  the  second  or  third  set 
of  men  who  succeed  with  the  enterprises 
which  have  opened  our  fertile  lands  or 
great  forests  to  a  thrifty,  energetic 
population. 

in 

The  strong  man  has  won  his  pile,  but 
has  he  succeeded?  This  thought,  dat- 
ing back  sixty  years,  continually  comes 
to  an  old  man  who  has  earned  his  bread 
and  gingerbread  and  has  sometimes 
tried  to  feed  a  hungry  wayfarer.  After 


304 


A  WORD  TO  THE  RICH 


all,  who  were  these  strong  men,  and 
whence  did  they  spring?  For  the  most 
part  they  began  as  farm-hands,  sailors, 
mechanics,  clerks,  shop-keepers,  who 
had  been  raised  in  thrifty,  careful, 
often  penurious  ways  which  were  es- 
sential to  their  lives.  Many  of  their 
ancestors,  as  Emerson  says,  were  Or- 
thodox Calvinists  mighty  in  the  Scrip- 
tures, and  had  learned  that  life  was  a 
preparation,  a  *  probation '  (to  use  their 
word),  for  a  higher  world,  and  that  it 
was  to  be  spent  in  loving  and  serving 
mankind.  They  had  been  taught  to 
save  every  possible  penny,  to  eat  plain 
food,  to  wear  out  their  clothes  and 
shoes,  and  to  regard  such  a  life  as  vir- 
tuous, —  as,  indeed,  the  only  life.  Per- 
haps they  were  not  always  careful  to 
give  full  value  for  services  rendered  or 
goods  sold,  that  being  the  '  other  man's 
affair.'  While  honest  according  to  their 
own  standards,  they  might  have  been 
more  regardful  of  their  neighbors;  but 
loose  customs  are  as  old  as  the  hills, 
and  apparently  still  obtain. 

No  excuse  may  be  offered  for  dis- 
honesty or  greed,  but  mention  of  the 
reason  for  its  existence  is  not  amiss. 
All  men  sometimes  do  wrong,  and  at 
the  end  of  a  long  life  few  can  declare 
that  they  have  always  been  perfectly 
honest,  always  fair  and  considerate  of 
others.  Selfishness  is  the  great  sin  of 
which  we  all  are  in  some  degree  guilty. 
Therefore,  one  is  surprised  at  the  harsh 
words  of  our  great  national  preacher, 
and  the  stinging  sentences  of  some 
magazines  and  newspapers  about  the 
wickedness  of  business  men,  and  won- 
ders whether  'the  words  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer  mean  anything  to  these  writ- 
ers, and  whether  they  have  abjured  the 
forgiveness  of  sins.  Is  charity  un- 
known to  them? 

This  may  be  said  with  force:  The 
moral  tone  among  lawyers,  physicians, 
manufacturers  and  traders,  among  the 
leaders  and  the  followers  in  business, 


has  gradually  risen,  and  is  to-day  high- 
er than  ever.  This  fact  gives  us  hope 
that  men  will  presently  sin  less  and 
show  more  altruism.  It  is  'good  busi- 
ness,' and  by  and  by  it  will  be  essen- 
tial to  our  self-respect. 

While  enriching  themselves,  the 
great  enterprisers  have  wrought  great 
service  to  their  country.  These  men 
have  cared  to  win  in  their  game.  They 
have  enjoyed  the  effort,  the  strain  on 
their  faculties.  They  have  gloried  in 
their  success,  and,  at  the  end,  perhaps 
they  enjoy  the  power  thus  acquired  far 
more  than  the  money.  They  would 
equally  enjoy  the  planning  and  execu- 
tion of  great  educational  schemes,  from 
which  they  would  reap  equal  renown. 
That  field  grows  wider  each  day. 

To  the  strong  man  of  great  wealth 
the  question  may  be  put:  'What  are 
you  getting  out  of  it? '  —  'A  fine  house, 
a  country  house,  with  gardens,  horses, 
'clothes,  jewels,  food  and  wine  of  the 
best,  plenty  of  good  company,  and  the 
power  to  increase  my  pile.'  That  means 
pleasures  but  not  happiness,  not  con- 
tentment of  spirit,  not  the  peace  of 
mind  which  will  follow  thought  and 
aid  of  others;  it  does  not  promote  the 
cause  of  education,  which  is  and  must 
remain  the  keystone  of  civilization. 
Such  a  result  is  not  true  success. 

The  question  of  true  success  is  of 
world-wide  interest,  yet  it  remains  un- 
answered. Socialism  can  give  no  reply, 
because  it  cripples  and  destroys  indi- 
vidual effort,  —  and  individuals  make 
the  world.  Government  can  do  little, 
for  it  accomplishes  far  less  than  indi- 
viduals. Education,  which  strengthens 
each  unit  and  binds  all  together,  can 
alone  bring  us  in  sight  of  our  goal,  and 
education  may  be  immeasurably  wid- 
ened in  extent  and  raised  in  value  by 
our  able  men,  who  have  conquered  in 
their  own  field,  and  who  are  ready  now 
to  work  for  the  common  weal.  Is  not 
this  the  key  to  true  success? 


A  WORD  TO  THE  RICH 


305 


This  man  has  slowly  gathered  his 
riches  with  toil,  thought,  anxiety,  and 
he  cannot  easily  part  with  the  pennies 
so  hardly  earned.  Yet  he  wishes  to  do 
good,  and  subscribes  to  this  and  that 
charity  or  school,  in  the  hope  of  accom- 
plishing something.  He  has  attuned 
himself  to  acquisition,  and  therefore 
spends  with  difficulty.  He  means  to 
establish  a  family  with  a  good  name, 
but  he  does  not  recognize  that  he  is 
doing  the  worst  possible  thing  for  his 
children  in  giving  them  every  pleasure, 
and  demanding  little  from  them  in  the 
way  of  training  or  sacrifice.  Much  of 
the  father's  training  these  children 
must  of  necessity  miss;  they  cannot 
know  his  excellent  teacher,  adversity; 
they  cannot  learn  through  the  day's 
work  to  endure  hardships,  and  to  over- 
come great  obstacles. 

Dear  me!  What  a  pity!  How  much 
happiness  this  man  has  missed  in  fail- 
ing to  build  up  noble  works  of  benefit 
to  our  nation,  and  in  failing  to  use  for 
others  the  faculties  which  have  already 
enriched  him!  And  what  a  poor  exam- 
ple he  has  set  both  to  his  children  and 
to  the  world!  'Power,'  said  Emerson, 
'can  be  generous.  The  very  grandeur 
of  the  means  which  offer  themselves 
to  us  should  suggest  grandeur  in  the 
direction  of  our  expenditure.  If  our 
mechanic  arts  are  unsurpassed  in  use- 
fulness, if  we  have  taught  the  river  to 
make  shoes  and  nails  and  carpets,  and 
the  bolt  of  Heaven  to  write  our  letters 
like  a  Gillott  pen,  let  these  wonders 
work  for  honest  humanity,  for  the 
poor,  for  justice,  genius,  and  the  pub- 
lic good.  Let  us  realize  that  this  coun- 
try, the  last  found,  is  the  great  charity 
of  God  to  the  human  race.' 

How  can  a  man  expect  success  in  a 
difficult  and  unknown  field  when  only 
through  strenuous  efforts  he  has  met 
success  in  his  own  chosen  business? 
Then  why  should  he  wait  for  death  to 
cut  off  such  effort  as  is  needed  to  win 

VOL.  107 -JfO.  9 


success  in  this  new  business?  To  use 
millions  and  millions  of  money  well  is 
hard.  Is  any  considerable  task  easy, 
and  do  we  wish  it  to  be  easy?  A  man 
almost  despises  an  easy  task,  and  a 
strong  man  seeks  a  hard  task  for  the 
very  joy  of  the  struggle.  We  of  this 
day  can  never  expect  to  sit  quietly  and 
watch  the  world  seethe,  struggle,  boil 
over,  —  and  be  scalded.  It  is  costly, 
dangerous,  in  truth  wicked,  and  we 
cannot  suffer  in  silence  mistakes  which 
we  can  avoid. 

IV 

Here  is  a  suggestion.  Let  a  man 
gifted  with  very  great  ability,  who  has 
used  every  talent  to  develop  large  en- 
terprises with  success,  and  won  great 
riches,  set  an  example  of  high  civic  vir- 
tue, and  help  in  the  making  of  our  na- 
tion by  the  use  of  his  talents  in  spend- 
ing all  his  fortune  during  his  lifetime. 
He  has  won  his  spurs  on  one  field,  and 
every  conqueror  seeks  fresh  victories. 
Why  not  try  another  field?  It  will  give 
him  full  occupation  for  his  remaining 
years,  and  thus  round  out  his  life. 
'  What  I  gave,  I  have.'  He  does  infinite 
good,  wins  great  trust  and  love,  purifies 
himself  of  the  selfishness  which  comes 
from  thinking  overlong  of  his  own  in- 
terests, and  changes  a  feeling  of  envy 
into  one  of  friendliness.  He  has  given 
his  family  a  fame  hitherto  unknown, 
— and  what  has  it  cost?  What  has  he 
given? — Simply  all  that  has  lain  in 
his  power, — just  what  many  men  have 
done  who  have  given  all  their  talents 
and  their  lives,  never  asking  a  reward. 
See  George  Washington,  Abraham  Lin- 
coln, Charles  Eliot,  William  James, 
our  great  soldiers,  judges,  statesmen, 
teachers,  artists,  poets,  inventors,  phy- 
sicians, men  like  Major  Walter  Reed, 
who  gave  his  life  to  teach  us  about  the 
yellow-fever  mosquito,  and  the  private 
soldier  who  offered  his  body  for  poison- 
ous experiments,  which  paralyzed  him. 


306 


A  WORD  TO  THE  RICH 


The  instances  are  numberless.  Wheth- 
er a  man  gives  life  itself,  or  his  life- 
work,  or  all  his  money  accumulated  in 
his  lifetime,  what  does  it  matter?  Each 
is  doing,  in  a  wise,  unselfish  spirit,  his 
utmost  for  his  fellow  men. 

The  strong  man  has  reached  his 
goal,  but  it  is  not  time  for  resting.  The 
day  has  come  for  him  to  show  to  other 
men  that  his  life  and  his  work  are 
henceforth  for  them,  and  not  for  his 
own  gratification.  He  must  prove  that 
he  has  labored  for  the  common  good, 
and  that  he  knows  the  rightful,  wise 
use  of  his  profits.  He  has  worked  dilig- 
ently and  skillfully  in  his  great  corn- 
field, and  has  reveled  in  his  tasks;  now 
he  is  to  learn  the  comfort  of  a  garden 
blooming  with  flowers,  which  fills  tired 
women  with  happiness,  and  gives  the 
children  a  place  to  romp  in  to  their 
hearts'  content,  and  breathe  in  health 
and  strength.  He  is  building  for  the 
future  of  the  race  just  as  he  has  built 
his  mills  and  his  railroads;  he  is  educat- 
ing the  nation,  and  presently  he  will 
find  the  task  so  pleasant  that  his  dif- 
ficulty will  be  to  resist  the  temptation 
to  toil  unceasingly  in  his  new  garden. 

Does  such  a  plan  seem  too  large? 
Do  men  who  have  built  and  who  man- 
age railroads  across  our  continent  balk 
at  anything?  These  men  build  steam- 
ers twenty  times  the  size  of  the  large 
boats  in  which  we  used  to  cross  the 
ocean.  They  bore  miles  underground, 
—  whether  below  great  warehouses  or 
rivers  is  immaterial.  They  dig  a  mile 
or  two  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  to 
mine  for  iron  and  copper.  Are  they  to 
hesitate  at  any  problem  when  it  may 
help  their  fellows  to  a  higher  plane  of 
life,  and  may  teach  them  the  eternal 
laws? 


The  question  may  be  asked:  'How 
shall  a  man  spend  a  great  fortune 
during  his  lifetime?'  Many  ways  lie 


open,  many  are  already  being  tried. 
Preventive  medicine  is  the  quest  of 
the  day.  Physicians  are  working  hard 
to  discover  the  causes  of  diseases,  and 
to  prevent  sickness  through  healthier 
living  conditions  obtainable  by  all. 
These  conditions  come  about  more 
quickly  if  men  stand  ready  to  pay  for 
the  experiments  which  lead  to  public 
action  in  the  future.  To  buy  a  tract  of 
high  pasture  and  woodland  and  build 
shacks  upon  it;  to  fill  these  shacks  with 
patients,  who  would  otherwise  suffer 
and  presently  die  in  wretchedness;  to 
multiply  these  camps  until  all  the  pa- 
tients of  the  United  States  are  happily 
cared  for,  would  be  a  noble  feat  calling 
for  real  ability.  Tuberculosis  may  be 
wiped  out  if  our  rich  men  strive  to  that 
end  as  hard  as  our  physicians. 

We  need  clean  and  well-ventilated 
club-rooms  in  our  towns,  where  men 
can  find  food,  pleasant  talk,  and  books 
and  pipes.  Instruction  in  cooking  is  an 
imperative  requirement  of  our  people, 
who  spoil  more  food  than  they  eat.  In- 
dustrial schools  to  teach  the  mechanic 
arts,  business  habits,  and  the  household 
arts,  are  needed  everywhere,  for  men 
and  women  taught  in  these  subjects 
are  more  effective  in  daily  labor. 

Our  national  supply  of  food  depends 
upon  good  agriculture.  Our  present 
wasteful  methods  could  be  improved 
by  a  man  who  would  establish  model 
farms  where  good  methods  were  in  use 
on  a  large  scale.  Our  farms  are  yearly 
impoverished  for  lack  of  manure,  while 
the  sewage  of  our  cities,  now  wasted  in 
poisoning  fishes,  would  go  far  to  enrich 
those  lands  on  which  we  rely  for  bread 
and  meat  and  fruit  and  clothing.  Our 
universities  are  beginning  to  teach  the 
right  methods  of  agriculture,  —  the  se- 
lection of  land,  the  breeding  of  cattle, 
pigs,  and  horses;  but  these  same  univer- 
sities are  always  in  dire  need  of  money 
for  tuition  and  research.  They  must 
have  the  ablest  teachers  and  scientists. 


A  WORD  TO  THE  RICH 


307 


All  our  cities  and  towns  should  have 
better,  healthier,  and  sunnier  play- 
grounds, under  skilled  instructors,  who 
will  teach  games,  gymnastics,  and, 
where  it  is  possible,  swimming.  It  is 
pathetic  to  see  the  health  and  the  joy 
which  our  poor  children  get  in  their 
present  playgrounds;  but  more  and 
better  are  greatly  needed.  Simple  mu- 
sic twice  a  week  at  these  playgrounds 
would  add  much  to  the  lives  of  the 
children,  and  of  their  parents  also. 
See  the  crowds  of  work-people  who 
flock  to  the  art  museums,  and  yet  all 
these  museums  are  poor  in  collections 
and  in  money. 

In  seeking  chances  for  the  good  use 
of  money,  it  should  not  be  forgotten 
that  over  our  broad  land,  in  city  and 
in  village,  is  heard  the  cry  for  refresh- 
ment, for  amusement,  as  a  relief  from 
the  toil  of  our  lives.  The  cry  is  just, 
and  no  more  grateful  task  is  offered 
us  than  to  answer  this  cry  by  giving 
healthy  amusement  in  the  line  of  con- 
certs and  modest  theatres.  We  live  in 
a  great  cornfield,  which  is  rich  but  dry. 
Let  us  plant  flowers  in  it.  Every  day 
the  men  and  women  who  look  after  and 
counsel  the  poor  have  fresh  cases  call- 
ing for  money  to  be  wisely  expended. 
Mrs.  Booth  tells  us  of  the  men  whom 
she  has  met  in  prison  and  reformed, 
thus  giving  the  country  useful  citizens 
in  place  of  costly  criminals.  No  need 
to  seek  channels  in  which  money  would 
double,  treble,  the  efficiency  of  the 
charities. 

This  plan  gives  occupation  and 
happiness  to  the  giver,  explains,  and,  if 
you  please,  atones  to  his  fellows  for  his 
success.  It  blesses  the  receiver  and  the 
giver;  it  cultivates  kindly  relations  and 
feelings  between  the  lucky  and  the  less 
lucky  men;  it  takes  a  long  step  toward 
the  making  of  a  great,  healthy  nation; 
and  what  higher,  what  more  pressing 
duty  can  the  citizen  have  than  this 
task? 


VI 

My  question  has  a  very  practical 
bearing.  It  may  well  be  claimed  that, 
as  a  people,  we  have  been  slow  in  the 
regulation  of  our  corporations.  Such 
regulation  has  now  been  established, 
and,  if  wisely  and  kindly  enforced,  will 
do  good;  but  the  danger  arising  from 
the  management  of  our  public-service 
corporations  by  our  government  is  be- 
fore our  eyes,  and  would  ruin  the  gov- 
ernment. The  sure  result  of  govern- 
ment control  is  greater  cost,  greater 
confusion,  less  effectiveness,  and,  pos- 
sibly, less  honesty.  If  the  government 
loses  money  by  the  railroad  we,  the 
people,  pay  it;  for  be  it  well  understood 
that  the  government  has  no  money 
except  that  which  it  draws  from  our 
earnings.  If,  by  a  large  scheme  of  this 
nature,  followed  by  many  more  of  the 
same  nature,  our  people  see  that  in 
effect  they  themselves  are  the  stock- 
holders, the  owners,  of  these  corpora- 
tions, because  they  enjoy  the  returns 
coming  from  them,  they  will  prefer 
private  to  public  ownership. 

Heretofore,  our  people  have  relied 
on  their  individual  powers,  and  have 
succeeded  in  their  aims  by  force  of 
them.  To-day,  some  men  are  turning 
to  the  government  for  guidance  and 
regulation  in  many  directions.  Gov- 
ernment may  do  something,  but  often 
excites  opposition,  and  in  any  case  it 
will  never  have  the  high  spirit  which 
the  private  citizen  can  show,  nor  can  it 
ever  be  so  effective. 

In  short,  while  our  nation  may  natur- 
ally profit  through  the  action  of  gov- 
ernment, it  is  the  citizen's  function  and 
privilege  to  set  the  step,  to  lead  the 
way,  and  to  mark  the  path  hi  which 
education,  civilization,  and  a  fine  na- 
tional career  shall  follow.  In  the  end, 
government  of  every  kind  must  seek 
and  reach  morality,  or  fail.  Water  can 
rise  no  higher  than  its  level;  therefore, 


308 


A  WORD  TO  THE  RICH 


it  is  for  the  citizen  to  see  that  the  level 
is  high  and  steadily  rising.  'The  com- 
munity stagnates  without  the  impulse 
of  the  individual;  the  impulse  dies 
away  without  the  sympathy  of  the 
community.' 

Mr.  Rockefeller  has  never  invested 
money  more  profitably  than  in  the 
great  institution  for  the  study  and  cure 
of  disease,  for  disease  is  the  most  waste- 
ful condition  of  life.  He  found  able, 
trained  men,  who  have  devoted  their 
lives  to  this  work.  He  would  easily 
find  their  equals  in  like  establishments, 
and  he  would  again  invest  money  bear- 
ing a  very  great  return.  He  is  helping 
very  largely  the  cause  of  education  and 
of  health  in  our  Southern  States,  where 
the  field  is  rich  and  almost  untouched. 
He  has  been  a  patron  saint  in  many 
directions,  and  he  will  never  know  the 
full  result  of  his  good  works.  « 

Mr.  Carnegie  is  seeking  to  advance 
the  causes  of  science  and  education  by 
the  institutions  at  Washington  and  at 
Pittsburg,  and  he  has  brought  comfort 
and  rest  to  many  hard-working  profess- 
ors and  their  wives,  through  the  Car- 
negie Foundation,  which  gives  pensions 
to  these  professors.  He  has  builded  bet- 
ter than  he  knew. 

Mrs.  Sage  is  devoting  her  life  and 
her  money  to  a  wise  use  in  helping  and 
housing  laboring  people. 

Many  other  people  are  doing  much 
in  the  way  of  charity,  and  education. 
One  great  man  is  constantly  collecting 
art  objects,  paintings,  sculpture,  and 
the  like,  and  bringing  them  to  Amer- 
ica; and  the  Metropolitan  Museum  in 
New  York  has  a  collection  of  which 
any  nation  may  be  proud,  and  which 
has  come  from  the  purses  of  these  rich 
men,  assisted  by  New  York  City. 

Our  manufacturers  have  laid  out  vil- 
lages for  their  work-people,  and  have 
provided  them  with  gardens  and  libra- 
ries and  halls  for  meeting;  they  have 
built  for  them  churches  and  hospitals. 


They  might  well  do  the  same  for  the 
relief  of  the  numerous  people  who  live 
in  the  cities,  and  who,  not  being  in  the 
employ  of  any  company,  are  all  the 
more  in  need  of  outside  help. 

One  manufacturer  has  bought  fifty 
good  saddle-horses,  which  his  mill- 
hands  have  agreed  to  use,  —  and  the 
comment  of  the  superintendent  is  that 
none  of  his  investments  has  brought 
such  a  large  return.  Many  great  cor- 
porations have  instituted  systems  of 
pensions,  of  funds  for  the  sick  and  the 
wounded,  of  profit-sharing  and  the  like. 
Indeed,  altruism  is  in  the  air,  and  it 
should  be  in  active  and  large  practice. 

All  this  is  good,  but  it  is  not  enough, 
and  if  these  men  can  bless  the  land  in 
such  degree,  why  may  they  not  do  it 
in  a  far  greater  and  wider  degree?  If 
many  citizens  establish  great  charities 
for  play-grounds,  schools,  colleges,  — 
and  all  means  of  education  are  char- 
ities, — why  not  till  the  field  more  thor- 
oughly? In  the  last  analysis,  if  we  re- 
gard it  as  a  national,  a  world-wide 
question,  we  must  consider  it  as  a  mat- 
ter of  civilization  and  of  business  and  a 
wise  investment.  These  givers  are  get- 
ting their  money's  worth.  Everything 
in  this  life  costs,  be  it  health,  strength, 
happiness,  or  wealth;  and  if  a  man 
craves  a  high  character  he  cannot 
gather  pennies  so  easily  or  so  largely  as 
a  man  who  is  careless  of  his  character. 
Is  this  a  hardship?  Anyway,  the  Lord 
has  arranged  it  so,  and  all  this  goes 
to  the  making  of  our  nation,  and  the 
nations  rise  together. 

It  is  a  necessary  part  of  any  such 
plan  as  that  here  proposed  that  two 
points  should  not  be  overlooked,  name- 
ly, that  the  rich  man  should  keep  a  rea- 
sonable amount  of  money  for  his  child- 
ren, who  have  grown  up  in  certain 
habits,  and  who  can  best  continue  his 
work;  and  that  the  tidings  of  his  action 
should  be  known  far  and  wide,  in  order 
that  all  men  should  recognize  the  spirit 


A  WORD  TO  THE  RICH 


309 


and  the  blessing  of  it.  We  are  in  a  time 
of  unrest,  and  such  news  would  soothe 
men's  minds  and  counteract  the  sense 
of  injustice.  To  see  a  very  rich  man 
parting  with  all  his  shares  and  bonds 
and  houses,  and  doing  it  for  the  public 
good,  would  be  an  education  to  poor 
and  to  rich.  Example  is  a  good  teacher, 
and  the  habit  of  giving,  once  formed, 
is  sure  to  breed  more  wise  gifts.  All  the 
material  gifts  which  money  can  give 
are  of  far  less  value  than  the  spiritual 
gift  of  everything  —  money,  time,  in- 
telligence for  the  public  welfare.  '  What 
are  the  causes  that  make  communities 
change  from  generation  to  generation? 
The  difference  is  due  to  the  accumu- 
lated influences  of  individuals,  of  their 
examples,  their  initiatives,  and  their 
decisions.' 

VII 

Our  country  has  given  birth  to  many 
geniuses  in  material  affairs,  who,  boil- 
ing with  imagination,  energy,  and  re- 
source, saw  numberless  chances  for  ac- 
tion, and  in  this  spirit  have  developed 
the  land.  Using  their  powers  to  the 
best  advantage  for  our  country,  these 
geniuses  can  work  wonders  in  educa- 
tion and  in  civilization,  wherein  lies 
our  national  salvation. 

Since  my  boyhood  in  the  early  fifties 
I  have  seen  wonderful  changes  of  hab- 
its and  fortunes,  which  have  separated 
men  more  than  in  those  years,  while 
our  ideal  was  to  draw  men  more  to- 
gether. Mere  material  prosperity,  or 
indeed  prosperity  of  any  kind,  cannot 
make  a  great  nation.  Therefore,  it 
seems  that  our  old  ideal  of  a  true 
democracy  has  even  greater  value  than 
of  yore,  but  that  the  path  toward  it  is 
harder  than  we  had  known. 

A  man  may  say:  'Why  fret  about 
the  present  conditions  of  daily  life?  As 
a  nation,  we  are  flourishing  and  in- 
creasing daily,  and  growing  rich.  Let 
well  alone.'  Is  it  possible  that  any 


thinking  man  can  blind  himself  to  the 
unrest  which  prevails  over  the  whole 
world,  and  hope  that  good  government 
can  exist  unless  this  unrest  is  stilled  by 
a  removal  of  the  causes?  Is  it  possible 
that  the  successful  man,  so-called,  can 
fail  to  see  and  to  feel  the  emptiness 
of  his  success?  A  serious  man  cannot 
be  content  with  mere  pleasures.  The 
picture  of  a  great  captain  of  indus- 
tries dreaming,  struggling,  and  finally 
reaching  his  imagined  goal  of  success, 
and  then  finding  it  empty  and  himself 
lonely,  —  envied  and  disliked  because 
of  his  success,  — is  dismal.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  picture  of  his  possible  true 
success  glows  with  sunshine.  'Science 
says  that  the  best  things  are  the  eternal 
things,  the  overlapping  things,  the 
things  in  the  universe  that  throw  the 
last  stone,  so  to  speak,  and  say  the  final 
word.'  Our  plan  falls  back  on  these 
final  things  —  the  wider  outlook,  mor- 
ality, religion,  love,  true  happiness  and 
well-being. 

To  the  writer  there  seems  to  be  no 
other  outcome,  no  other  foundation  for 
a  happy  mankind,  for  civilization,  than 
a  full,  generous,  wise  use  of  our  powers 
for  the  good  of  our  fellow  men,  and  a 
happy  forgetfulness  of  ourselves.  Is 
such  an  ideal  as  is  here  proposed  ab- 
surd? Our  forefathers  left  England 
because  they  did  not  like  her  ways,  and 
when  she  wished  to  enforce  her  au- 
thority and  to  insist  on  her  ideas,  they 
objected — with  success.  To-day  Eng- 
land is  glad  of  our  success,  and  has  pro- 
fited by  our  ideals  and  by  our  material 
gains.  Shall  we  now  go  back  to  the  old 
ways,  forgetting  our  ideals  of  a  certain 
equality,  and  of  a  good  chance  for  all 
our  men  and  women?  Surely  our  fore- 
fathers did  not  come  to  this  country  to 
win  material  success  alone. 

After  a  long  doubt  and  delay,  we 
objected  strenuously  to  slavery  as 
material  and  spiritual  ruin,  and  paid 
a  great  price  for  our  opinions.  In  one 


310 


A  WORD  TO  THE  RICH 


sense  at  least  we  have  proved  our  case, 
for  the  material  prosperity  of  the  slave 
states  far  exceeds  the  old  conditions 
there.  In  both  these  cases  sober,  cau- 
tious, excellent  men  regarded  our  na- 
tional course  as  foolish  and  wrong. 

For  good  or  for  evil,  we  have  come 
into  this  period  of  great  material  de- 
velopment in  every  direction,  and  we 
must  guide  the  spirit  aright  or  lose 
control.  We  can  do  it  by  following 
high  ideals.  Let  us  remember  that  the 
world  advances  by  ideals,  and  must 
hold  fast  to  them.  *  Communities  obey 
their  ideals,  and  an  accidental  success 
fixes  an  ideal.'  Why  not  seek  an  ac- 
cidental success,  and  risk  the  chance 
of  failure? 

It  is  true  that  many  people  have 
given,  and  are  freely  giving,  of  their 
money  for  public  .and  private  needs, 
and  are  unknown.  Still  more  people 
give  their  time,  which  is  more  precious 
than  money,  for  the  one  can  be  got 
again,  but  the  other  never  can.  All  this 
is  for  good,  and  only  warns  us  to  ask 
for  more  of  the  very  rich  man,  who, 
from  his  proved  ability,  is  a  leader,  and 
who  can  to  a  superlative  degree  throw 
himself  and  his  fortune  into  good 
works.  Nor  should  the  younger  men 
wait  until  they  can  do  great  things. 
They  should  seize  the  daily  chances  to 
meet  the  daily  needs.  They  will  see 
their  duty  to  provide  for  themselves 
and  their  dependents.  This  duty  rests 
upon  everybody,  and  the  measure  of  it 
is  only  one  of  degree. 

If  it  be  objected  that  such  plans  as 
are  here  outlined  draw  capital  away 
from  the  industries,  and  thus  cripple 
business,  it  may  be  replied  that  invest- 
ments already  made  may  as  well  be- 
long to  a  fund  for  industrial  schools  or 
hospitals  as  to  a  private  citizen,  and 
that  the  interest  coming  from  education 
or  greater  health  is  very  high.  There  is 
nothing  more  costly  than  disease,  and 
wholesome  homes  give  us  better  child- 


ren, and  draw  the  fathers  back  at  night 
instead  of  sending  them  to  the  bar- 
rooms. 

In  so  far  as  money  is  needed  for  de- 
velopment of  new  or  old  enterprises, 
no  doubt  somewhat  less  speed  would 
ensue.  Would  not  this  loss  be  met  by 
more  efficient  work,  thorough  know- 
ledge, and  better  training?  Old  busi- 
ness men  say  that  most  of  the  failures 
and  losses  come  from  ignorance  of  true 
methods.  If  our  enterprises  are  less- 
ened in  number,  we  as  a  nation  may 
grow  more  slowly  and  more  healthily: 
but,  in  any  case,  it  is  toward  that  result 
that  many  public  men  are  working, 
although  they  are  ignorant  of  the  fact. 
Yearly  we  pay  an  enormous  sum  of 
money  for  insurance  of  our  houses  and 
goods,  and  if  this  be  worth  while,  sure- 
ly it  is  wise  to  insure  to  ourselves  a 
peaceful,  happy,  healthy  nation.  Is  the 
price  of  insurance  too  high?  The  in- 
surance lies  in  the  good-will  and  the 
kind  feelings  of  people  by  offering  to 
them  such  treatment  as  we  ask  of  them. 

We  have  a  nation  to  make  —  a  na- 
tion which  will  last  only  through  noble 
achievements  and  high  deserts,  and 
which  thus  may  help  forward  other 
nations.  Can  we  find  a  finer  task?  We 
must  have  a  quiet  country,  a  happy 
nation,  and  we  must  assure  this  bless- 
ing to  ourselves;  else  of  what  avail  are 
our  riches  and  fine  houses?  It  is  for 
us  to  choose  —  a  life  of  turmoil  or  of 
happiness. 

Free  from  the  traditions  and  cus- 
toms which  weigh  down  the  old  nations, 
we  citizens  of  the  United  States  can 
reach  our  ideals  if  we  will.  '  Let  us  real- 
ize-that this,  the  last  country  found,  is 
the  great  charity  of  God  to  the  human 
race ' ;  and  with  such  a  blessing  and  be- 
hest from  the  Almighty  to  us,  no  effort 
toward  true  success  can  be  too  great. 

What  we  gave,  we  have; 
What  we  spent,  we  had; 
What  we  left,  we  lost. 


BY   MEREDITH   NICHOLSON 


Viola.    What  country,  friends,  is  this? 
Captain.  Illyria,  lady. 

Viola.     And  what  should  I  do  in  Illyria  ? 
My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 

—  Twelfth  Night. 

I  AM  a  provincial  American.  My 
forbears  were  farmers  or  country-town 
folk.  They  followed  the  long  trail  over 
the  mountains  out  of  Virginia  and 
North  Carolina,  with  brief  sojourns  in 
Western  Pennsylvania  and  Kentucky. 
My  parents  were  born,  the  one  in  Ken- 
tucky, the  other  in  Indiana,  within 
two  and  four  hours  of  the  spot  where  I 
pen  these  reflections,  and  I  was  a  grown 
man  and  had  voted  before  I  saw  the 
sea  or  any  Eastern  city. 

In  attempting  to  illustrate  the  pro- 
vincial point  of  view  out  of  my  own  ex- 
periences I  am  moved  by  no  wish  to 
celebrate  either  the  Hoosier  common- 
wealth —  which  has  not  lacked  no- 
bler advertisement  —  or  myself;  but 
by  the  hope  that  I  may  cheer  many 
who,  flung  by  fate  upon  the  world's  by- 
ways, shuffle  and  shrink  under  the  re- 
proach of  their  metropolitan  brethren. 

Mr.  George  Ade  has  said,  speaking  of 
our  fresh-water  colleges,  that  Purdue 
University,  his  own  alma  mater,  offers 
everything  that  Harvard  provides  ex- 
cept the  sound  of  a  as  in  father.  I  have 
been  told  that  I  speak  our  lingua  rus- 
tica  only  slightly  corrupted  by  urban 
contacts.  Anywhere  east  of  Buffalo 
I  should  be  known  as  a  Westerner;  I 
could  not  disguise  myself  if  I  would. 
I  find  that  I  am  most  comfortable  in 
a  town  whose  population  does  not  ex- 
ceed a  fifth  of  a  million,  —  the  kind  of 


place  that  enjoys  street-car  transfers, 
a  woman's  club,  and  a  post  office  with 
carrier  delivery. 


Across  a  hill-slope  that  knew  my  child- 
hood, a  bugle's  grieving  melody  used  to 
float  often  through  the  summer  twilight. 
A  highway  lay  hidden  in  the  little  vale 
below,  and  beyond  it  the  unknown 
musician  was  quite  concealed,  and  was 
never  visible  to  the  world  I  knew.  Those 
trumpetings  have  lingered  always  in 
my  memory,  and  color  my  recollection 
of  all  that  was  near  and  dear  in  those 
days.  Men  who  had  left  camp  and  field 
for  the  soberer  routine  of  civil  life  were 
not  yet  fully  domesticated.  My  bugler 
was  merely  solacing  himself  for  lost 
joys  by  recurring  to  the  vocabulary  of 
the  trumpet.  I  am  confident  that  he 
enjoyed  himself;  and  I  am  equally  sure 
that  his  trumpetings  peopled  the  dusk 
for  me  with  great  captains  and  mighty 
armies,  and  touched  with  a  certain  mil- 
itancy all  my  youthful  dreaming. 

No  American  boy  born  during  or 
immediately  after  the  Civil  War  can 
have  escaped  in  those  years  the  vivid 
impressions  derived  from  the  sight  and 
speech  of  men  who  had  fought  its  bat- 
tles, or  women  who  had  known  its  terror 
and  grief.  Chief  among  my  playthings 
on  that  peaceful  hillside  was  the  sword 
my  father  had  borne  at  Shiloh  and  on  to 
the  sea;  and  I  remember,  too,  his  uni- 
form coat  and  sash  and  epaulets  and 
the  tattered  guidon  of  his  battery,  that, 
falling  to  my  lot  as  toys,  yet  imparted 
to  my  childish  consciousness  a  sense  of 

311 


312 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 


what  war  had  been.  The  young  imag- 
ination was  kindled  in  those  days  by 
many  and  great  names.  Lincoln,  Grant, 
and  Sherman  were  among  the  first 
lispings  of  Northern  children  of  my 
generation;  and  in  the  little  town  where 
I  was  born,  lived  men  who  had  spoken 
with  them  face  to  face.  I  did  not  know, 
until  I  sought  them  later  for  myself, 
the  fairy  tales  that  are  every  child's 
birthright;  and  I  imagine  that  children 
of  my  generation  heard  less  of 

old,  unhappy,  far-off  things 
And  battles  long  ago, 

and  more  of  the  men  and  incidents  of 
contemporaneous  history.  Great  spir- 
its still  on  earth  were  sojourning.  I  saw 
several  times,  in  his  last  years,  the  iron- 
willed  Hoosier  War  Governor,  Oliver  P. 
Morton.  By  the  time  I  was  ten,  a  broad- 
er field  of  observation  opening  through 
my  parents'  removal  to  the  state  cap- 
ital, I  had  myself  beheld  Grant  and 
Sherman;  and  every  day  I  passed  in  the 
street  men  who  had  been  partners  with 
them  in  the  great,  heroic,  sad,  splendid 
struggle.  These  things  I  set  down  as 
a  background  for  the  observations  that 
follow,  —  less  as  text  than  as  point  of 
departure;  yet  I  believe  that  bugler, 
sounding  charge  and  retreat  and  taps 
in  the  dusk,  and  those  trappings  of  war 
beneath  whose  weight  I  strutted  upon 
that  hillside,  did  much  toward  estab- 
lishing in  me  a  certain  habit  of  mind. 
From  that  hillside  I  have  since  ineluct- 
ably  viewed  my  country  and  my  coun- 
trymen and  the  larger  world. 

Emerson  records  Thoreau's  belief 
that  'the  flora  of  Massachusetts  em- 
braced almost  all  the  important  plants 
of  America,  —  most  of  the  oaks,  most 
of  the  willows,  the  best  pines,  the  ash, 
the  maple,  the  beech,  the  nuts.  He  re- 
turned Kane's  arctic  voyage  to  a  friend 
of  whom  he  had  borrowed  it,  with  the 
remark,  that  most  of  the  phenomena 
noted  might  be  observed  in  Concord.' 

The  complacency  of  the  provincial 


mind  is  due  less,  I  believe,  to  stupidity 
and  ignorance,  than  to  the  fact  that 
every  American  county  is  in  a  sense 
complete,  a  political  and  social  unit,  in 
which  the  sovereign  rights  of  a  free 
people  are  expressed  by  the  court- 
house and  town  hall,  spiritual  freedom 
by  the  village  church-spire,  and  hope 
and  aspiration  in  the  school-house. 
Every  reader  of  American  fiction,  par- 
ticularly in  the  realm  of  the  short 
story,  must  have  observed  the  great 
variety  of  quaint  and  racy  characters 
disclosed.  These  are  the  dramatis  per- 
sonce  of  that  great  American  novel 
which  some  one  has  said  is  being  writ- 
ten^ in  installments.  Writers  of  fiction 
hear  constantly  of  characters  who 
would  be  well  worth  their  study.  In 
reading  two  recent  novels  that  pene- 
trate to  the  heart  of  provincial  life, 
Mr.  White's  A  Certain  Rich  Man  and 
Mrs.  Watts's  Nathan  Burke,  I  felt  that 
the  characters  depicted  might,  with  un- 
important exceptions,  have  been  found 
almost  anywhere  in  those  American 
states  that  shared  the  common  history 
of  Kansas  and  Ohio.  Mr.  Winston 
Churchill,  in  his  admirable  novels  of 
New  England,  has  shown  how  closely 
the  purely  local  is  allied  to  the  univer- 
sal. 'Woodchuck  sessions'  have  been 
held  by  many  American  legislatures. 

When  David  Harum  appeared,  char- 
acters similar  to  the  hero  of  that  novel 
were  reported  in  every  part  of  the 
country.  I  rarely  visit  a  town  that  has 
not  its  cracker-barrel  philosopher,  or  a 
poet  who  would  shine  but  for  the  cal- 
lous heart  of  the  magazine  editor,  or  an 
artist  of  supreme  though  unrecognized 
talent,  or  a  forensic  orator  of  wonderful 
powers,  or  a  mechanical  genius  whose 
inventions  are  bound  to  revolutionize 
the  industrial  world.  In  Maine,  in  the 
back  room  of  a  shop  whose  windows 
looked  down  upon  a  tidal  river,  I  have 
listened  to  tariff  discussions  in  the  dia- 
lect of  Hosea  Biglow;  and  a  few  weeks 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 


313 


later  have  heard  farmers  along  the 
un-salt  Wabash  debating  the  same  ques- 
tions from  a  point  of  view  that  reveal- 
ed no  masted  ships  or  pine  woods,  with 
a  new  sense  of  the  fine  tolerance  and 
sanity  and  reasonableness  of  our  Amer- 
ican people.  Mr.  James  Whitcomb 
Riley,  one  of  the  shrewdest  students 
of  provincial  character,  introduced  me 
one  day  to  a  friend  of  his  in  a  village 
near  Indianapolis  who  bore  a  striking 
resemblance  to  Abraham  Lincoln,  and 
who  had  something  of  Lincoln's  gift 
of  humorous  narration.  This  man 
kept  a  country  store,  and  his  attitude 
toward  his  customers,  and  'trade'  in 
general,  was  delicious  in  its  drollery. 
Men  said  to  be  'like  Lincoln'  have 
not  been  rare  in  the  Mississippi  Valley, 
and  politicians  have  been  known  to 
encourage  belief  in  the  resemblance. 

Colonel  Higginson  has  said  that  in 
the  Cambridge  of  his  youth  any  mem- 
ber of  the  Harvard  faculty  could  an- 
swer any  question  within  the  range  of 
human  knowledge;  whereas  in  these 
days  of  specialization  some  man  can 
answer  the  question,  but  it  may  take 
a  week's  investigation  to  find  him.  In 
'our  town' — a  poor  virgin,  sir,  an 
ill-favored  thing,  sir,  but  mine  own !  — 
I  dare  say  it  was  possible  in  that  post 
bellum  era  to  find  men  competent  to 
deal  with  almost  any  problem.  These 
were  mainly  men  of  humble  begin- 
nings and  all  essentially  the  product  of 
our  American  provinces.  I  should  like 
to  set  down  briefly  the  inefiac<«ible  im- 
pression some  of  these  characters  left 
upon  me.  I  am  precluded  by  a  variety 
of  considerations  from  extending  this 
recital.  The  rich  field  of  education  I 
ignore  altogether;  and  I  may  mention 
only  those  who  have  gone.  As  it  is  be- 
side my  purpose  to  prove  that  mine 
own  people  are  other  than  typical  of 
those  of  most  American  communities, 
I  check  my  exuberance.  Sad  indeed  the 
offending  if  I  should  protest  too  much! 


II 

In  the  days  when  the  bugle  still 
mourned  across  the  vale,  Lew  Wallace 
was  a  citizen  of  my  native  town  of 
Crawfordsville.  There  he  had  amused 
himself  in  the  years  immediately  before 
the  civil  conflict,  in  drilling  a  company 
of  'Algerian  Zouaves'  known  as  the 
Montgomery  Guards,  of  which  my 
father  was  a  member,  and  this  was  the 
nucleus  of  the  Eleventh  Indiana  Regi- 
ment which  Wallace  commanded  in  the 
/early  months  of  the  war.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, of  Wallace's  military  services 
that  I  wish  to  speak  now,  nor  of  his 
writings,  but  of  the  man  himself  as  I 
knew  him  later  at  the  capital,  at  a  time 
when,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  fed- 
eral building  at  Indianapolis,  any  boy 
might  satisfy  his  longing  for  heroes 
with  a  sight  of  many  of  our  Hoosier 
Olympians.  He  was  of  medium  height, 
erect,  dark  to  swarthiness,  with  finely 
chiseled  features  and  keen  black  eyes, 
with  manners  the  most  courtly,  and  a 
voice  unusually  musical  and  haunting. 
His  appearance,  his  tastes,  his  manner, 
were  strikingly  Oriental. 

He  had  a  strong  theatric  instinct,  and 
his  life  was  filled  with  drama  —  with 
melodrama,  even.  His  curiosity  led 
him  into  the  study  of  many  subjects, 
most  of  them  remote  from  the  affairs 
of  his  day.  He  was  both  dreamer  and 
man  of  action;  he  could  be  'idler  than 
the  idlest  flowers,'  yet  he  was  always 
busy  about  something.  He  was  an 
aristocrat  and  a  democrat;  he  was 
wise  and  temperate,  whimsical  and 
injudicious  in  a  breath.  As  a  youth  he 
had  seen  visions,  and  as  an  old  man 
he  dreamed  dreams.  The  mysticism  in 
him  was  deep-planted,  and  he  was  al- 
ways a  little  aloof,  a  man  apart.  His 
capacity  for  detachment  was  like  that 
of  Sir  Richard  Burton,  who,  at  a  great 
company  given  in  his  honor,  was  found 
alone  poring  over  a  puzzling  Arabic 


314 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 


manuscript  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the 
house.  Wallace,  like  Burton,  would 
have  reached  Mecca,  if  chance  had  led 
him  to  that  adventure. 

Wallace  dabbled  in  politics  without 
ever  being  a  politician;  and  I  might 
add  that  he  practiced  law  without  ever 
being,  by  any  high  standard,  a  lawyer. 
He  once  spoke  of  the  law  as  '  that  most 
detestable  of  human  occupations. '  First 
and  last  he  tried  his  hand  at  all  the 
arts.  He  painted  a  little;  he  moulded 
a  little  in  clay;  he  knew  something  of 
music  and  played  the  violin;  he  made 
three  essays  in  romance.  As  boy  and 
man  he  went  soldiering;  he  was  a  civil 
governor,  and  later  a  minister  to  Tur- 
key. In  view  of  his  sympathetic  in- 
terest in  Eastern  life  and  character, 
nothing  could  have  been  more  appro- 
priate than  his  appointment  to  Con- 
stantinople. The  Sultan  Abdul  Hamid/ 
harassed  and  anxious,  used  to  send  for 
him  at  odd  hours  of  the  night  to  come 
and  talk  to  him,  and  offered  him  on  his 
retirement  a  number  of  positions  in 
the  Turkish  government. 

With  all  this  rich  experience  of  the 
larger  world,  he  remained  the  simplest 
of  natures.  He  was  as  interested  in  a 
new  fishing-tackle  as  in  a  new  book,  and 
carried  both  to  his  houseboat  on  the 
Kankakee,  where,  at  odd  moments,  he 
retouched  a  manuscript  for  the  press, 
and  discussed  politics  with  the  natives. 
Here  was  a  man  who  could  talk  of  the 
Song  of  Roland  as  zestfully  as  though 
it  had  just  been  reported  from  the  tele- 
graph office. 

I  frankly  confess  that  I  never  met 
him  without  a  thrill,  even  in  his  last 
years  and  when  the  ardor  of  my  youth- 
ful hero  worship  may  be  said  to  have 
passed.  He  was  an  exotic,  our  Hoosier 
Arab,  our  story-teller  of  the  bazaars. 
When  I  saw  him  in  his  last  illness,  it 
was  as  though  I  looked  upon  a  gray 
sheik  about  to  fare  forth  unawed  to- 
ward unmapped  oases. 


No  lesson  of  the  Civil  War  was  more 
striking  than  that  taught  by  the  swift 
transitions  of  our  citizen  soldiery  from 
civil  to  military  life,  and  back  again. 
This  impressed  me  as  a  boy,  and  I  used 
to  wonder,  as  I  passed  my  heroes  on 
their  peaceful  errands  in  the  street,  why 
they  had  put  down  the  sword  when 
there  must  still  be  work  somewhere 
for  fighting  men  to  do.  The  judge  of 
the  federal  court  at  this  time  was  Wai- 
ter  Q.  Gresham,  brevetted  brigadier- 
general,  who  was  destined  later  to 
adorn  the  cabinets  of  presidents  of  two 
political  parties.  He  was  cordial  and 
magnetic;  his  were  the  handsomest  and 
friendliest  of  brown  eyes,  and  a  noble 
gravity  spoke  in  them.  Among  the 
lawyers  who  practiced  before  him  were 
Benjamin  Harrison  and  Thomas  A. 
Hendricks,  who  became  respectively 
President  and  Vice-President. 

Those  Hoosiers  who  admired  Gresh- 
am ardently  were  often  less  devoted- 
ly attached  to  Harrison,  who  lacked 
Gresham's  warmth  and  charm.  Gen- 
eral Harrison  was  akin  to  the  Coven- 
anters who  bore  both  Bible  and  sword 
into  battle.  His  eminence  in  the  law 
was  due  to  his  deep  learning  in  its  his- 
tory and  philosophy.  Short  of  stature, 
and  without  grace  of  person,  —  with  a 
voice  pitched  rather  high,  —  he  was  a 
remarkably  interesting  and  persuasive 
speaker.  If  I  may  so  put  it,  his  political 
speeches  were  addressed  as  to  a  trial 
judge  rather  than  to  a  jury,  his  appeal 
being  to  reason  and  not  to  passion  or 
prejudice.  He  could,  in  rapid  flights  of 
campaigning,  speak  to  many  audiences 
in  a  day  without  repeating  himself.  He 
was  measured  and  urbane;  his  dis- 
courses abounded  in  apt  illustrations; 
he  was  never  dull.  He  never  stooped 
to  pietistic  clap-trap,  or  chanted  the 
jaunty  chauvinism  that  has  so  often 
caused  the  Hoosier  stars  to  blink. 

Among  the  Democratic  leaders  of 
that  period,  Hendricks  was  one  of  the 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 


315 


ablest,  and  a  man  of  many  attractive 
qualities.  His  dignity  was  always  im- 
pressive, and  his  appearance  suggested 
the  statesman  of  an  earlier  time.  It  is 
one  of  immortality's  harsh  ironies  that 
a  man  who  was  a  gentleman,  and  who 
stood  moreover  pretty  squarely  for  the 
policies  that  it  pleased  him  to  defend, 
should  be  published  to  the  world  in  a 
bronze  effigy  in  his  own  city  as  a  bandy- 
legged and  tottering  tramp,  in  a  frock 
coat  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land. 

Joseph  E.  McDonald,  a  Senator  in 
Congress,  was  held  in  affectionate  re- 
gard by  a  wide  constituency.  He  was 
an  independent  and  vigorous  character 
who  never  lost  a  certain  raciness  and 
tang.  On  my  first  timid  venture  into 
the  fabled  East  I  rode  with  him  in  a 
day-coach  from  Washington  to  New 
York  on  a  slow  train.  At  some  point  he 
saw  a  peddler  of  fried  oysters  on  a  sta- 
tion platform,  alighted  to  make  a  pur- 
chase, and  ate  his  luncheon  quite  de- 
mocratically from  the  paper  parcel  in 
his  car  seat.  He  convoyed  me  across  the 
ferry,  asked  where  I  expected  to  stop, 
and  explained  that  he  did  not  like  the 
European  plan;  he  liked,  he  said,  to 
have  '  full  swing  at  a  bill  of  fare.' 

I  used  often  to  look  upon  the  tower- 
ing form  of  Daniel  W.  Voorhees,  whom 
Sulgrove,  an  Indiana  journalist  with  a 
gift  for  translating  Macaulay  into  Hoo- 
sierese,  had  named  'The  Tall  Sycamore 
of  the  Wabash.'  In  a  crowded  hotel 
lobby  I  can  still  see  him,  cloaked  and 
silk-hatted,  the  centre  of  the  throng, 
and  my  strict  upbringing  in  the  antag- 
onistic political  faith  did  not  diminish 
my  admiration  for  his  eloquence. 

Such  were  some  of  the  characters 
who  came  and  went  in  the  streets  of 
our  provincial  capital  in  those  days. 


in 

In  discussions  under  captions  similar 
to  mine  it  is  often  maintained  that  rail- 


ways, telegraphs,  telephones,  and  news- 
papers are  knitting  us  together,  so  that 
soon  we  shall  all  be  keyed  to  a  metro- 
politan pitch.  The  proof  adduced  in 
support  of  this  is  of  the  most  trivial, 
but  it  strikes  me  as  wholly  undesirable 
that  we  should  all  be  ironed  out  ancl 
conventionalized.  In  the  matter  of 
dress,  for  example,  the  women  of  our 
town  used  to  take  their  fashions  from 
Godey's  and  Peterson's  via  Cincinnati; 
but  now  that  we  are  only  eighteen 
hours  from  New  York,  with  a  well- 
traveled  path  from  the  Wabash  to 
Paris,  my  counselors  among  the  elders 
declare  that  the  tone  of  our  society  — 
if  I  may  use  so  perilous  a  word  —  has 
changed  little  from  our  good  old  black 
alpaca  days.  The  hobble  skirt  receives 
prompt  consideration  in  the  'Main' 
street  of  any  town,  and  is  viewed  with 
frank  curiosity,  but  it  is  only  a  one 
day's  wonder.  A  lively  runaway  or  the 
barbaric  yawp  of  a  new  street  fakir 
may  dethrone  it  at  any  time. 

New  York  and  Boston  tailors  solicit 
custom  among  us  biennially,  but  no- 
thing is  so  stubborn  as  our  provin- 
cial distrust  of  fine  raiment.  I  looked 
with  awe,  in  my  boyhood,  upon  a  pair 
of  mammoth  blue-jeans  trousers  that 
were  flung  high  from  a  flagstaff  in  the 
centre  of  Indianapolis,  in  derision  of 
a  Democratic  candidate  for  governor, 
James  D.  Williams,  who  was  addicted 
to  the  wearing  of  jeans.  The  Demo- 
crats sagaciously  accepted  the  chal- 
lenge, made  'honest  blue  jeans'  the 
battle-cry,  and  defeated  Benjamin  Har- 
rison, the  '  kid-glove '  candidate  of  the 
Republicans.  Harmless  demagoguery 
this,  or  bad  judgment  on  the  part  of 
the  Republicans ;  and  yet  I  dare  say  that 
if  the  sartorial  issue  should  again  be- 
come acute  in  our  politics  the  banner  of 
bifurcated  jeans  would  triumph  now  as 
then.  A  Hoosier  statesman  who  to-day 
occupies  high  office  once  explained  to 
me  his  refusal  of  sugar  for  his  coffee  by 


816 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 


remarking  that  he  didn't  like  to  waste 
sugar  that  way;  he  wanted  to  keep  it  for 
his  lettuce.  I  do  not  urge  sugared  let- 
tuce as  symbolizing  our  higher  provin- 
cialism, but  mayonnaise  may  be  poison 
to  men  who  are  nevertheless  competent 
to  construe  and  administer  law. 

It  is  much  more  significant  that  we 
are  all  thinking  about  the  same  things 
at  the  same  time,  than  that  Farnam 
Street,  Omaha,  and  Fifth  Avenue,  New 
York,  should  vibrate  to  the  same  shade 
of  necktie.  The  distribution  of  period- 
icals is  so  managed  that  California  and 
Maine  cut  the  leaves  of  their  maga- 
zines on  the  same  day.  Rural  free  de- 
livery has  hitched  the  farmer's  wagon 
to  the  telegraph  office,  and  you  can't 
buy  his  wife's  butter  now  until  he  has 
scanned  the  produce  market  in  his 
newspaper.  This  immediacy  of  con-' 
tact  does  not  alter  the  provincial  point 
of  view.  New  York  and  Texas,  Oregon 
and  Florida,  will  continue  to  see  things 
at  different  angles,  and  it  is  for  the 
good  of  all  of  us  that  this  is  so.  We 
have  no  national  political,  social,  or  in- 
tellectual centre.  There  is  no  'season' 
in  New  York,  as  in  London,  during 
which  all  persons  distinguished  in  any 
of  these  particulars  meet  on  common 
ground.  Washington  is  our  nearest 
approach  to  such  a  meeting-place,  but 
it  offers  only  short  vistas.  We  of  the 
country  visit  Boston  for  the  symphony, 
or  New  York  for  the  opera,  or  Washing- 
ton to  view  the  government  machine 
at  work,  but  nowhere  do  interesting 
people  representative  of  all  our  ninety 
millions  ever  assemble  under  one  roof. 
All  our  capitals  are,  as  Lowell  put  it, 
'  fractional,'  and  we  shall  hardly  have  a 
centre  while  our  country  is  so  nearly 
a  continent. 

Nothing  in  our  political  system  could 
be  wiser  than  our  dispersion  into  pro- 
vinces. Sweep  from  the  map  the  lines 
that  divide  the  states  and  we  should 
huddle  like  sheep  suddenly  deprived  of 


the  protection  of  known  walls  and  flung 
upon  the  open  prairie.  State  lines  and 
local  pride  are  in  themselves  a  pledge 
of  stability.  The  elasticity  of  our  sys- 
tem makes  possible  a  variety  of  gov- 
ernmental experiments  by  which  the 
whole  country  profits.  We  should  all 
rejoice  that  the  parochial  mind  is  so 
open,  so  eager,  so  earnest,  so  tolerant. 
Even  the  most  buckramed  conserva- 
tive on  the  Eastern  coast  line,  scornful 
of  the  political  follies  of  our  far-lying 
provinces,  must  view  with  some  inter- 
est the  dallyings  of  Oregon  with  the 
Referendum,  and  of  Des  Moines  with 
the  Commission  System.  If  Milwau- 
kee wishes  to  try  Socialism,  the  rest  of 
us  need  not  complain.  Democracy  will 
cease  to  be  democracy  when  all  its 
problems  are  solved  and  everybody 
votes  the  same  ticket. 

States  that  produce  the  most  cranks 
are  prodigal  of  the  corn  that  pays  the 
dividends  on  the  railroads  the  cranks 
despise.  Indiana's  amiable  feeling  to- 
ward New  York  is  not  altered  by  her 
sister's  rejection  or  acceptance  of  the 
direct  primary,  a  benevolent  device 
of  noblest  intention,  under  which,  not 
long  ago,  in  my  own  commonwealth, 
my  fellow  citizens  expressed  their  dis- 
trust of  me  with  unmistakable  em- 
phasis. It  is  no  great  matter,  but  in 
open  convention  also  I  have  perished 
by  the  sword.  Nothing  can  thwart  the 
chastening  hand  of  a  righteous  people. 

All  passes ;  humor  alone  is  the  touch- 
stone of  democracy.  I  search  the  news- 
papers daily  for  tidings  of  Kansas,  and 
in  the  ways  of  Oklahoma  I  find  de- 
light. The  Emporia  Gazette  is  quite  as 
patriotic  as  the  Springfield  Republican 
or  the  New  York  Post,  and  to  my  own 
taste,  far  less  depressing.  I  subscribed 
for  a  year  to  the  Charleston  News  and 
Courier,  and  was  saddened  by  the  tame- 
ness  of  its  sentiments;  for  I  remember 
(it  must  have  been  in  1884)  the  shrink- 
ing horror  with  which  I  saw  daily  in  the 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 


317 


Indiana  Republican  organ  a  quotation 
from  Wade  Hampton  to  the  effect  that 
'  these  are  the  same  principles  for  which 
Lee  and  Jackson  fought  four  years  on 
Virginia's  soil.'  Most  of  us  are  enter- 
tained when  Colonel  Watterson  rises 
to  speak  for  Kentucky  and  invokes  the 
star-eyed  goddess.  When  we  call  the 
roll  of  the  states,  if  Malvolio  answer 
for  any,  let  us  suffer  him  in  tolerance 
and  rejoice  in  his  yellow  stockings. 
'God  give  them  wisdom  that  have  it; 
and  those  that  are  fools,  let  them  use 
their  talents.' 

Every  community  has  its  dissenters, 
protestants,  kickers,  cranks,  the  more 
the  merrier.  I  early  formed  a  high  re- 
solve to  strive  for  membership  in  this 
execrated  company.  George  W.  Julian, 
—  one  of  the  noblest  of  Hoosiers,  — 
who  had  been  the  Free-Soil  candidate 
for  Vice-President  in  1852,  a  delegate 
to  the  first  Republican  convention,  five 
times  a  member  of  Congress,  a  sup- 
porter of  Greeley's  candidacy,  and  a 
Democrat  in  the  consulship  of  Cleve- 
land, was  a  familiar  figure  in  our  streets. 
In  1884  I  was  dusting  law-books  in  an 
office  where  mugwumpery  flourished, 
and  where  the  iniquities  of  the  tariff, 
Matthew  Arnold's  theological  opin- 
ions, and  the  writings  of  Darwin,  Spen- 
cer, and  Huxley  were  discussed  at  in- 
tervals in  the  day's  business. 


It  is  constantly  complained  thai  we 
Americans  give  too  much  time  to  poli- 
tics, but  there  could  be  no  safer  way  of 
utilizing  that  extra  drop  of  vital  fluid 
which  Matthew  Arnold  found  in  us. 
Epithets  of  opprobrium  pinned  to  a 
Nebraskan  in  1896  were  riveted  upon  a 
citizen  of  New  York  in  1910,  and  who, 
then,  was  the  gentleman?  No  doubt 
many  voices  will  cry  in  the  wilderness 
before  we  reach  the  promised  land.  A 
people  which  has  been  fed  on  the  Bible 


is  bound  to  hear  the  rumble  of  Pha- 
raoh's chariots.  It  is  in  the  blood  to 
feel  the  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud 
man's  contumely.  The  winter  even- 
ings are  long  on  the  prairies,  and  we 
must  always  be  fashioning  a  crown  for 
Caesar  or  rehearsing  his  funeral  rites. 
No  great  danger  can  ever  seriously 
menace  the  nation  so  long  as  the  re- 
motest citizen  clings  to  his  faith  that 
he  is  a  part  of  the  governmental  mech- 
anism and  can  at  any  time  throw  it  out 
of  adjustment  if  it  does  n't  run  to  suit 
him.  He  can  go  into  the  court-house 
and  see  the  men  he  helped  to  place  in 
office;  or  if  they  were  chosen  in  spite 
of  him,  he  pays  his  taxes  just  the  same 
and  waits  for  another  chance  to  turn 
the  rascals  out. 

Mr.  Bryce  wrote:  'This  tendency 
to  acquiescence  and  submission;  this 
sense  of  the  insignificance  of  individual 
effort,  this  belief  that  the  affairs  of 
men  are  swayed  by  large  forces  whose 
movement  may  be  studied  but  cannot 
be  turned,  I  have  ventured  to  call  the 
Fatalism  of  the  Multitude.'  It  is,  I 
should  say,  one  of  the  most  encourag- 
ing phenomena  of  the  score  of  years 
that  have  elapsed  since  Mr.  Bryce's 
American  Commonwealth  appeared,  that 
we  have  grown  much  less  conscious  of 
the  crushing  weight  of  the  mass.  It  has 
been  with  something  of  a  child's  sur- 
prise in  his  ultimate  successful  mani- 
pulation of  a  toy  whose  mechanism  has 
baffled  him  that  we  have  begun  to  real- 
ize that,  after  all,  the  individual  counts. 
The  pressure  of  the  mass  will  yet  be 
felt,  but  in  spite  of  its  persistence  there 
are  abundant  signs  that  the  individual 
is  asserting  himself  more  and  more, 
and  even  the  undeniable  acceptance 
of  collectivist  ideas  in  many  quarters 
helps  to  prove  it.  With  all  our  faults 
and  defaults  of  understanding,  — pop- 
ulism, free  silver,  Coxey's  army,  and 
the  rest  of  it,  —  we  of  the  West  have 
not  done  so  badly.  Be  not  impatient 


318 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 


with  the   young   man  Absalom;  the 
mule  knows  his  way  to  the  oak  tree! 

Blaine  lost  Indiana  in  1884;  Bryan 
failed  thrice  to  carry  it.  The  campaign 
of  1910  in  Indiana  was  remarkable  for 
the  stubbornness  of  'silent'  voters, 
who  listened  respectfully  to  the  orators 
but  left  the  managers  of  both  parties 
in  the  air  as  to  their  intentions.  In 
the  Indiana  Democratic  State  Conven- 
tion of  1910  a  gentleman  was  furiously 
hissed  for  ten  minutes  amid  a  scene  of 
wildest  tumult;  but  the  cause  he  advo- 
cated won,  and  the  ticket  nominated  in 
that  memorable  convention  succeed- 
ed in  November.  Within  fifty  years 
Ohio,  Indiana,  and  Illinois  have  sent  to 
Washington  seven  presidents,  elected 
for  ten  terms.  Without  discussing  the 
value  of  their  public  services  it  may  be 
said  that  it  has  been  an  important  de,- 
monstration  to  our  Mid-Western  people 
of  the  closeness  of  their  ties  with  the 
nation,  that  so  many  men  of  their  own 
soil  have  been  chosen  to  the  seat  of 
the  presidents;  and  it  is  creditable  to 
Maine  and  California  that  they  have 
cheerfully  acquiesced.  In  Lincoln  the 
provincial  American  most  nobly  as- 
serted himself,  and  any  discussion  of 
the  value  of  provincial  life  and  charac- 
ter in  our  politics  may  well  begin  and 
end  in  him.  We  have  seen  verily  that 

Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 

Shall  constitute  a  state. 

Whitman,  addressing  Grant  on  his 
return  from  his  world's  tour,  declared 
that  it  was  not  that  the  hero  had 
walked  '  with  kings  with  even  pace  the 
round  world's  promenade';  — 

But  that  in  foreign  lands,  in  all  thy  walks  with 

kings, 
Those  prairie  sovereigns  of  the  West,  Kansas, 

Missouri,  Illinois, 
Ohio's,    Indiana's    millions,  comrades,  farmers, 

soldiers,  all  to  the  front, 
Invisibly  with  thee  walking  with  kings  with  even 

pace  the  round  world's  promenade, 
Were  all  so  justified. 

What  we  miss  and  what  we  lack  who 


live  in  the  provinces  seem  to  me  of 
little  weight  in  the  scale  against  our 
compensations.  We  slouch,  —  we  are 
deficient  in  the  graces,  we  are  prone  to 
boast,  and  we  lack  in  those  fine  re- 
ticences that  mark  the  cultivated  citi- 
zen of  the  metropolis.  We  like  to  talk, 
and  we  talk  our  problems  out  to  a  fin- 
ish. Our  commonwealths  rose  in  the 
ashes  of  the  hunter's  campfires,  and 
we  are  all  a  great  neighborhood,  united 
in  a  common  understanding  of  what 
democracy  is,  and  animated  by  ideals 
of  what  we  want  it  to  be.  That  saving 
humor  which  is  a  philosophy  of  life 
flourishes  amid  the  tall  corn.  We  are 
old  enough  now  —  we  of  the  West  — 
to  have  built  up  in  ourselves  a  species 
of  wisdom,  founded  upon  experience, 
which  is  a  part  of  the  continuing  un- 
written law  of  democracy.  We  are  less 
likely  these  days  to  '  wobble  right '  than 
we  are  to  stand  fast  or  march  forward 
like  an  army  with  banners. 

We  provincials  are  immensely  curi- 
ous. Art,  music,  literature,  politics  — 
nothing  that  is  of  contemporaneous 
human  interest  is  alien  to  us.  If  these 
things  don't  come  to  us  we  go  to  them. 
We  are  more  truly  representative  of 
the  American  ideal  than  our  metro- 
politan cousins,  because  (here  I  lay  my 
head  upon  the  block)  we  know  more 
about,  oh,  so  many  things!  We  know 
vastly  more  about  the  United  States, 
for  one  thing.  We  know  what  New 
York  is  thinking  before  New  York  her- 
self knows  it,  because  we  visit  the  me- 
tropolis to  find  out.  Sleeping-cars  have 
no  terrors  for  us,  and  a  man  who  has 
never  been  west  of  Philadelphia  seems 
to  us  a  singularly  benighted  being. 
Those  of  our  Western  school-teachers 
who  don't  see  Europe  for  three  hundred 
dollars  every  summer  get  at  least  as 
far  east  as  Concord,  to  be  photo- 
graphed by  the  rude  bridge  that  arched 
the  flood. 

That  fine  austerity,  which  the  vol- 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 


319 


uble  Westerner  finds  so  smothering  on 
the  Boston  and  New  York  express,  is 
lost  utterly  at  Pittsburg.  From  gen- 
tlemen cruising  in  day-coaches  —  rude 
wights  who  advertise  their  personal  san- 
itation and  literacy  by  the  tooth-brush 
and  fountain-pen  planted  sturdily  in 
their  upper  left-hand  waistcoat  pockets 
—  one  may  learn  the  most  prodigious 
facts  and  the  philosophy  thereof.  'Sit 
over,  brother;  there's  hell  to  pay  in 
the  Balkans,'  remarks  the  gentleman 
who  boarded  the  inter-urban  at  Peru 
or  Connersville,  and  who  would  just  as 
lief  discuss  the  papacy  or  child-labor,  if 
revolutions  are  not  to  your  liking. 

In  Boston  a  lady  once  expressed  her 
surprise  that  I  should  be  hastening 
home  for  Thanksgiving  Day.  This,  she 
thought,  was  a  New  England  festival. 
More  recently  I  was  asked  by  a  Bos- 
tonian  if  I  had  ever  heard  of  Paul  Re- 
vere. Nothing  is  more  delightful  in  us, 
I  think,  than  our  meekness  before  in- 
struction. We  strive  to  please;  all  we 
ask  is  'to  be  shown.' 

Our  greatest  gain  is  in  leisure  and 
the  opportunity  to  ponder  and  brood. 
In  all  these  thousands  of  country 
towns  live  alert  and  shrewd  students  of 
affairs.  Where  your  New  Yorker  scans 
headlines  as  he  'commutes'  home- 
ward, the  villager  reaches  his  own  fire- 
side without  being  shot  through  a  tube, 
and  sits  down  and  reads  his  newspaper 
thoroughly.  When  he  repairs  to  the 
drug-store  to  abuse  or  praise  the  pow- 
ers that  be,  his  wife  reads  the  paper, 
too.  A  United  States  Senator  from  a 
Middle  Western  State,  making  a  cam- 
paign for  renomination  preliminary  to 
the  primaries,  warned  the  people  in 
rural  communities  against  the  news- 
paper and  periodical  press  with  its 
scandals  and  heresies.  '  Wait  quietly 
by  your  firesides,  undisturbed  by  these 
false  teachings,'  he  said  in  effect; 
'  then  go  to  your  primaries  and  vote  as 


you  have  always  voted.'  His  opponent 
won  by  thirty  thousand,  —  the  ami- 
able answer  of  the  little  red  school- 
house. 


A  few  days  ago  I  visited  again  my 
native  town.  On  the  slope  where  I 
played  as  a  child  I  listened  in  vain  for 
the  mourning  bugle;  but  on  the  college 
campus  a  bronze  tablet  commemorat- 
ive of  those  sons  of  Wabash  who  had 
fought  in  the  mighty  war  quickened 
the  old  impressions.  The  college 
buildings  wear  a  look  of  age  hi  the 
gathering  dusk. 

Coldly,  sadly  descends 

The  autumn  evening.  The  field 

Strewn  with  its  dank  yellow  drifts 

Of  withered  leaves,  and  the  elms, 

Fade  into  dimness  apace, 

Silent;  hardly  a  shout  , 

From  a  few  boys  late  at  their  play! 

Brave  airs  of  cityhood  are  apparent 
in  the  town,  with  its  paved  streets,  fine 
hall  and  library;  and  everywhere  are 
wholesome  life,  comfort,  and  peace. 
The  train  is  soon  hurrying  through 
gray  fields  and  dark  woodlands.  Farm- 
houses are  disclosed  by  glowing  panes; 
lanterns  flash  fitfully  where  farmers 
are  making  all  fast  for  the  night.  The 
city  is  reached  as  great  factories  are 
discharging  their  laborers,  and  I  pass 
from  the  station  into  a  hurrying  throng 
homeward  bound.  Against  the  sky 
looms  the  dome  of  the  capitol;  the  tall 
shaft  of  the  soldiers'  monument  rises 
ahead  of  me  down  the  long  street  and 
vanishes  starward.  Here  where  forests 
stood  seventy-five  years  ago,,  in  a  state 
that  has  not  yet  attained  its  centenary, 
is  realized  much  that  man  has  sought 
through  all  the  ages,  —  order,  justice, 
and  mercy,  kindliness  and  good  cheer. 
What  we  lack  we  seek,  and  what  we 
strive  for  we  shall  gain.  And  of  such  is 
the  kingdom  of  democracy. 


CLASS-CONSCIOUSNESS 


BY  VIDA    D.    SCUDDER 


JANE  ADDAMS,  in  Twenty  Years  at 
Hull  House,  implies  that  the  two  doc- 
trines of  economic  determinism  and 
class-consciousness  have  deterred  her 
from  accepting  socialism.  Now,  the 
form  in  which  these  doctrines  were 
currently  presented  by  earlier  social- 
ists was  sufficiently  crass  to  repel  any 
one  idealistically  inclined.  Yet,  looked 
at  closely,  economic  determinism  at 
least  is  a  very  innocent  bogey.  When 
we  assume  our  free  power]  to  control 
social  progress,  we  may  proceed  under 
a  great  delusion.  So  may  we  in  assum- 
ing that  we  move  about  lightly  in 
space,  while  really  an  incredible  weight 
of  atmosphere  presses  from  every  point 
upon  us.  It  would  be  foolish  to  worry 
about  that  weight,  however,  when  we 
are  catching  a  trolley;  and  fatalistic 
ideas,  whether  attacking  us  from  the 
side  of  sociology,  theology,  or  science, 
are  cheerfully  disregarded  the  moment 
we  enter  the  race  of  life.  Determinism 
simply  assures  us  that  the  threads  of 
moral  purpose  are  knit  into  the  woof 
of  the  universe,  instead  of  trailing  vac- 
uously through  space.  Just  as  we  have 
deeper  faith  in  a  spiritual  nature  than 
our  fathers,  who  clung  to  special  crea- 
tions, our  children  will  find  the  priv- 
ilege of  cooperating  with  the  Will 
disclosed  to  reverent  study  of  the 
changing  order,  higher  than  the  effort 
to  impose  on  that  order  methods  in- 
vented by  private  preference.  '  Cercando 
liberta,'  was  Dante's  aim:  the  genera- 
tions move  onward;  attaining  it  only 

320 


in  measure  as,  to  use  Wordsworth's  fine 
phrase,  they  come  to  know  themselves 
'free  because  em  bound.' 

When  the  early  exponents  of  eco- 
nomic determinism  uttered  their  thrill- 
ing call,  'Proletarians  of  all  lands, 
unite!'  it  was  a  call  to  free  men.  But 
was  that  call  a  wise  one?  Shall  we 
echo  it?  The  question  raises  the  vital 
issue  of  class-consciousness  as  a  de- 
sirable factor  in  social  advance.  Only 
with  the  advent  of  the  two  theories 
together,  did  the  Utopian  socialism 
of  the  earlier  nineteenth  century  be- 
come an  effective  force.  As  that  force 
advances,  enters  practical  politics,  per- 
meates life,  the  doctrines  are  phrased 
less  crudely,  but  they  are  not  aban- 
doned; and  class-consciousness  at  least 
proves  itself  to-day  no  academic  the- 
ory, but  a  driving  power. 

To  indorse  it,  is  a  serious  matter. 
It  means  that  we  welcome  discontent, 
it  might  call  us  to  rejoice  in  revolt.  It 
demands  that  we  hail  with  satisfaction, 
instead  of  dismay,  the  steady  dogged 
rise  of  proletariat  claims  to  higher 
wages,  shorter  hours,  larger  compensa- 
tions in  injury.  It  means  that  while 
we  may  be  mildly  pleased  with  the 
announcement  of  a  new  profit-sharing 
scheme  on  the  part  of  employers,  our 
hearts  leap  with  more  confident  glad- 
ness when  an  increase  of  wages  has 
been  won  by  a  group  of  employees. 
We  shall  approve  of  any  shrinking  in 
the  ranks  of  free  labor,  any  accession 
to  the  ranks  of  the  organized;  shall 
encourage  the  spread  of  radical  and 
subversive  teaching  among  the  work- 


CLASS-CONSCIOUSNESS 


321 


ing  people,  make  an  Act  of  Thanks  for 
Milwaukee,  note  with  joy  the  socialist 
propaganda  in  New  York,  and  desire 
by  all  rightful  means  to  persuade  the 
helpless  unthinking  mass  of  the  Work- 
ers that  power  and  responsibility  are 
in  their  hands. 

The  majority  of  educated  men  are 
obviously  not  yet  at  this  point.  What 
we  find  to-day,  on  the  part  of  most 
honest  people,  including  our  judicially 
minded  Chief  Executive,  is  a  general 
claim  to  non-partisanship  in  case  of 
industrial  disturbance:  a  virtuous  if 
platitudinous  plea  that  the  public 
stand  off  while  the  matter  is  decided 
on  its  merits.  And  of  course  in  a  sense 
this  is  quite  the  right  attitude.  Only 
it  is  not  the  whole  story.  It  never  was, 
it  never  will  be;  the  convictions  that 
control  and  create  life  are  not  gener- 
ated in  this  way.  Pure  disinterested- 
ness never  occurs.  It  belongs  to  equa- 
tions, not  to  men ;  at  best  it  is  academic, 
not  human.  In  a  given  crisis,  the  un- 
dertow of  sympathy,  not  the  estimate 
of  right  in  detail,  is  the  big  thing,  the 
thing  worth  noting.  Nor  is  this  any 
more  lamentable  than  the  fact  that  a 
special  episode  in  a  drama  must  be 
justly  judged,  not  on  its  own  merits, 
but  in  its  relation  to  the  whole  drift 
of  the  play. 

The  undertow  is  changing,  the  tide 
is  at  the  turn.  It  is  disquieting  or  in- 
spiriting, according  to  one's  prejudices, 
to  observe  the  extraordinarily  slow 
shifting  of  sympathy  in  matters  indus- 
trial, during  the  past  twenty-five  years, 
toward  the  side  of  the  workers.  True, 
men  still  naively  demand  a  clear  case, 
a  miracle  that  has  perhaps  never  yet 
been  seen.  But  here  is  the  change:  of 
old,  when  the  workers  were  proved  in 
the  wrong,  the  public  exulted;  to-day, 
it  is  disappointed.  The  change  is 
amazing,  but  it  is  still  wavering;  nor 
do  men  yet  recognize  the  underdrift  of 
sympathy  in  which  they  are  caught. 
VOL.  107  -  NO.  3 


This  drift  is  the  recognition  that  the 
working  classes  must  achieve  their 
own  salvation,  and  that  such  salvation 
demands  not  only  fragments  of  im- 
provement grudgingly  bestowed,  but  a 
general  pressure,  if  not  toward  social 
equality,  then  at  least  to  the  point 
where  a  'living  wage'  shall  secure  the 
chance  to  all  manhood  to  rise  to  its 
highest  level. 

As  the  drift  slowly  becomes  con- 
scious, people  grow  troubled.  For  they 
see  that  it  involves  two  things :  — 

First,  the  sharp  belief  that  privilege 
must  be  cut  down  before  our  general 
life  can  flourish.  Now,  the  finer  ideal- 
ism does  not  shrink  from  this  idea  in 
itself.  Disinterested  men,  including 
many  who  have  a  stake  in  the  game, 
are  coming  to  admit  it;  many  are  even 
inclined  to  accept  the  central  socialist 
tenet,  that  no  effective  cure  for  our 
social  evils  will  be  found  until  a  large 
proportion  at  least  of  wealth-produc- 
ing wealth  be  socially  owned.  Many 
people  disagree  with  this  proposition, 
but  it  no  longer  shocks  the  common 
mind.  The  sacred  and  inalienable 
righteousness  of  the  principle  of  pri- 
vate property  was  once  even  among 
radical  thinkers  an  assumption  to  be 
built  on;  it  is  becoming  a  thesis  to 
be  proved. 

But  there  is  another  implication 
from  which  the  moral  sense  recoils: 
that  is,  from  encouragement  of  class- 
consciousness  as  a  militant  weapon. 
For  are  we  not  coming  to  object  to  any 
weapons  at  all?  Just  when  the  old 
political  militarism  is  coming  to  be  at 
a  discount  in  the  idealist  ranks,  this 
new  form  of  war  —  conflict  in  indus- 
trial relations  —  makes  its  appear- 
ance among  pitiable  mortals;  and  our 
enthusiasm  is  enlisted  to  foster  in  the 
working  people  the  very  traits  which 
civilization  is  struggling  to  leave  be- 
hind! True,  ballot  rather  than  bomb 
is  the  weapon  commended,  physical 


322 


CLASS-CONSCIOUSNESS 


violence  is  honestly  deplored  by  both 
sides,  and  even  extremists  ardently 
hope  that  we  may  spell  our  Revolution 
without  the  R.  None  the  less  are  the 
passions  educed  by  the  whole  situa- 
tion essentially  those  of  the  battle- 
field; men  exult  in  wresting  advantages 
from  their  antagonists,  they  are  trained 
to  regard  one  another  as  adversaries, 
not  brothers.  And  this  in  the  very 
age  theoretically  agog  for  peace!  The 
good  people  who  would  fain  see  all  so- 
cial progress  proceed  from  the  growing 
generosities  of  realized  brotherhood, 
find  a  mere  travesty  of  their  desires  in 
gains  won  through  self-assertion.  Shall 
the  lovers  of  peace  sympathize  with  a 
movement  for  quickening  discontent 
and  making  hatred  effective?  Shall  we 
lend  our  approval  to  destroying  what- 
ever meekness  the  poor  may  have,  and 
summon  them  to  curse  that  Poverty 
which  a  certain  word  calls  blessed?  It 
is  time  to  call  a  halt! 

There  is  doubtless  some  unconscious 
prejudice  on  the  side  of  privilege  in  all 
this.  But  there  is  something  better 
too,  and  every  honest  socialist  knows 
it.  The  theory  of  class-consciousness 
does  offend  the  conscience  of  the  mor- 
alist as  often  as  the  sister  doctrine  of 
economic  determinism  offends  the  in- 
tellect of  the  philosopher. 


ii 

Frank  confession  behooves  us  at  the 
outset.  Class-consciousness  is  a  weap- 
on, and  to  applaud  it  does  involve  a 
militant  attitude.  If  people  say  that  it 
is  ipse  facto  discredited  thereby,  we 
can  only  enter  a  plea  for  consistency. 
Virtuous  disapproval  of  the  working- 
class  struggle  sits  ill  on  the  lips  of  those 
who  point  out  with  zest  the  stimu- 
lating qualities  of  the  competitive  sys- 
tem and  vote  enthusiastically  for  the 
increase  of  armaments.  It  is  a  curious 
fact  that  the  man  who  talks  Jingo 


politics  most  loudly,  and  defends  with 
most  vigor  the  admirable  necessity  to 
commerce  of  the  triumph  of  the  strong, 
is  habitually  the  very  person  most  out- 
raged at  the  pressure  of  a  united  pro- 
letariat group  toward  freedom.  Yet 
he  may  be  hard  put  to  it  to  persuade 
the  man  from  Mars  that  to  fight  for 
one's  country  is  glorious  while  to  fight 
for  one's  class  is  an  inspiration  of  the 
devil.  Good  Paterfamilias,  sweating  to 
discomfit  your  competitors  for  the  sake 
of  your  darlings  at  home,  how  convince 
our  visitor  that  in  defending  the  inter- 
ests of  your  family  you  fulfill  a  sacred 
duty,  while  your  employee,  fighting  for 
the  interests  of  his  industrial  group, 
flings  a  menace  at  society? 

There  is  only  one  ground  on  which 
the  distinction  can  be  maintained:  the 
assumption  that  family  and  nation  are 
holy  things  to  be  protected  at  any  cost, 
while  class  is  an  unholy  thing  which 
deserves  no  protection.  The  position 
has  force.  But,  curiously  enough,  those 
ready  to  agree  to  it  are  the  stubbornly 
'class-conscious.'  However,  the  mat- 
ter is  too  serious  to  be  met  by  an 
oblique  argument.  The  instinct  which 
considers  class-feeling  to  be  inferior  to 
family  feeling  or  patriotism,  probably 
rests  on  the  opinion  that  the  forces 
which  create  class  are  not  only  divisive, 
but  selfish  and  material. 

Mazzini  proffered  an  interesting  plea 
for  the  superiority  of  political  over 
social  passion  on  this  very  ground,  that 
the  first  alone  was  idealist  and  disin- 
terested. However  threatened,  belief 
that  the  family  is  a  spiritual  and  sac- 
ramental unit,  is  deeply  ingrain.  And 
yet  must  we  not  recognize  the  same 
foundation  in  all  three  cases?  And  need 
we  be  sorry?  Patriotism  rests  upon 
reliance  on  the  protection  afforded  by 
the  state;  the  family  is  created  by  the 
craving  for  self-perpetuation.  Class- 
feeling,  too,  has  its  sacramental  sweet- 
ness. Of  the  strands  from  which  it  is 


CLASS-CONSCIOUSNESS 


323 


woven  many  derive  no  color  from  pers- 
onal advantage. 

As  for  warfare,  we  all  agree  that  its 
moral  values  are  provisional,  and  look 
eagerly  to  that  promised  time  'when 
war  shall  be  no  more.'  But  while  the 
vision  tarries,  no  one  who  accepts  that 
provisional  value  in  one  field  should 
disallow  it  in  another.  Most  of  us 
moreover  hold  it  to  be  a  real  value,  and 
still  thrill  unabashed  to  martial  strains. 
Why  did  Thackeray  present  soldiers 
as  the  only  men  among  the  weak 
egotists  of  Vanity  Fair  to  preserve  a 
standard  of  selfless  honor?  Why  did 
Tennyson  hail  the  clash  of  arms  as  the 
only  means  of  transforming  the  smug 
clerks  of  England  into  her  patriots? 
Not  because  these  authors  approved  a 
militant  ideal,  but  because  they  knew 
such  an  ideal  to  be  nobler  than  pro- 
sperous sloth  and  self-absorption.  Bat- 
tle is  deep  embedded  in  our  finiteness. 
As  Helen  Gray  Cone  nobly  puts  it,  — 

In  this  rubric,  lo!  the  past  is  lettered: 
Strike  the  red  words  out,  we  strike  the  glory: 
Leave  the  sacred  color  on  the  pages, 
Pages  of  the  Past  that  teach  the  Future. 

On  that  scripture 
Yet  shall  young  souls  take  the  oath  of  service.  ^ 

God  end  War!  But  when  brute  war  is  ended, 
Yet  shall  there  be  many  a  noble  soldier, 
Many  a  noble  battle  worth  the  winning, 
Many  a  hopeless  battle  worth  the  losing. 

Life  is  battle: 
Life  is  battle,  even  to  the  sunset. 

The  Apocalypse  which  ends  with  Je- 
rusalem, Vision  of  Peace,  is  chiefly  oc- 
cupied with  chronicling  in  succession  of 
awesome  symbols  the  eternal  Wars 
of  the  Lord.  In  the  Teachings  of  Christ 
there  are  three  bitter  sayings  against 
smooth  conventionality  for  one  against 
violence,  for  the  context  shows  that 
the  saying  about  non-resistance  is 
personal,  not  social,  in  application.  We 
may  not  dismiss  class-consciousness  as 
evil  on  the  mere  score  that  it  arouses 
the  passions  of  war.  To  determine  its 


value,  its  end  must  be  questioned,  and 
the  qualities  evoked  by  the  conflict 
must  be  scanned. 


m 

Let  us  take  the  last  task  first,  for 
in  fulfilling  it  we  may  almost  hope  to 
reassure  those  gentle  folk,  —  notably 
on  the  increase  even  while  nominal 
Quakerism  declines,  —  the  lovers  of 
peace  at  any  price.  We  may  not  ap- 
prove war  for  the  sake  of  its  by-pro- 
ducts alone,  but  when  these  are  valu- 
able we  may  find  in  them  some  consola- 
tion for  such  war  as  is  bound  to  exist. 
The  class-conscious  movement  has  two 
precious  results:  its  inner  disciplines, 
and  its  power  to  widen  sympathies. 

Even  the  most  recalcitrant  grant  the 
value  of  an  army  from  the  first  point 
of  view.  Military  life  affords  a  unique 
training  in  the  very  virtues  most 
needed  by  a  democratic  state:  humil- 
ity and  self-effacement;  courage,  and 
swift  power  of  decision,  —  the  quali- 
ties of  subordination  and  of  leadership. 
We  all  hope  to  foster  these  qualities 
through  the  opportunities  of  peace, 
but  so  far  our  success  is  so  imperfect 
that  we  can  hardly  disregard  the  help 
presented  by  the  crises  of  war.  No- 
where is  this  help  more  striking  than 
in  the  class-conscious  movement.  Con- 
sider those  class-conscious  groups  called 
trade-unions.  Seen  from  without,  es- 
pecially in  time  of  stress,  a  union  may 
appear  actuated  by  the  worst  impulses: 
ruthless  in  pressing  unreasonable  de- 
mands, callously  indifferent  to  incon- 
veniencing the  public,  stubbornly  self- 
seeking.  Seen  from  within,  the  aspect 
alters.  Here  is  no  longer  a  compact  unit 
fighting  for  selfish  ends,  but  a  throng 
of  individuals,  each  struggling  no  more 
for  himself  than  for  his  neighbor.  In 
such  an  organic  group  —  composed, 
be  it  remembered,  of  very  simple  and 
ignorant  people  —  you  shall  see  each 


324 


CLASS-CONSCIOUSNESS 


member  submitted  to  severe  discipline 
in  the  most  valuable  and  difficult  thing 
in  the  world,  —  team-work. 

Wordsworth  found  in  Nature  the 
over-ruling  power  'to  kindle  and  re- 
strain,' and  it  is  not  far-fetched  to  say 
that  this  same  double  function,  so 
essential  to  the  shaping  of  character, 
is  performed  for  working  people  by  the 
trade-union.  It  kindles  sacrifice,  en- 
durance, and  vision;  it  restrains  violent 
and  individualistic  impulse,  and  fits  the 
man  or  woman  to  play  due  part  in 
corporate  and  guided  action.  Those 
who  have  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  the  women  during  one  of  the  gar- 
ment-workers' strikes  that  have  mark- 
ed the  last  two  years,  have  watched 
with  reverence  the  moral  awakening 
among  the  girls,  born  of  loyalty  to  a 
collective  cause.  It  was  the  typical  em- 
ployer, defending  the  American  fetish 
of  the  Open  Shop,  who  remarked, — 
when  his  clever  Italian  forewoman 
asked  him,  'Ain't  you  sorry  to  make 
those  people  work  an  hour  and  a 
half  for  twelve  cents?'  —  'Don't  you 
care.  You  don't  understand  America. 
Why  do  you  worry  about  those  peo- 
ples? Here  the  foolish  people  pay  the 
smart.'  And  it  was  the  spirited  girl 
who  replied  to  him,  'Well,  now  the 
smart  people  will  teach  the  foolish,'  — 
and  led  her  shop  out  on  strike. 

Which  better  understood  America  and 
its  needs?  There  is  no  question  which 
had  learned  the  truth  that  freedom  con- 
sists, not  in  separateness  but  in  fellow- 
ship, not  in  self-assertion  but  in  self- 
effacement.  The  employer  of  so-called 
'free  labor'  denies  this  sacred  truth: 
for  the  liberty  he  defends  is  that  of 
the  disintegrating  dust,  not  that  of  the 
corpuscle  of  living  blood.  By  his  vicious 
doctrine,  'each  man  free  to  make  his 
own  bargain,'  he  is  doing  his  best  to 
retard  the  evolution  of  the  workers 
toward  the  citizenship  of  the  future. 
To  note  the  services  of  the  unions 


in  the  quickening  of  international  sym- 
pathy, we  need  only  point  to  the  situa- 
tion in  one  of  our  mining  communities. 
For  in  the  union  is  the  only  power  com- 
petent to  fuse  the  bewildered  immigrant 
masses  into  some  unity  of  aim.  Where 
else  in  our  melting-pot  may  we  look 
for  a  fire  to  dissipate  selfishness,  mis- 
understanding,.and  distrust,  in  the  heat 
of  common  aspiration?  Trade-unions 
are  no  homes  of  sentiment.  Yet  be- 
neath their  frequent  corruptions  and 
tyrannies  is  an  extraordinary  under- 
tow of  just  such  idealism  as  the  United 
States  most  needs.  Struggling  for  har- 
mony within,  pitted  against  the  cap- 
italist class  without,  the  union  finds 
its  gallant  work  full  of  dramatic  terror 
and  promise.  Again  and  again  the 
strain  is  over-great.  Like  all  other 
group-passions,  class-feeling  tends  eas- 
ily to  the  bitterness  of  clique  or  the 
tyrannies  of  oligarchy.  The  scab  is 
unable  to  rise  above  the  idea  of  self- 
protection.  Irishman  will  not  work 
with  Italian,  nor  Gentile  with  Jew.  The 
union,  finding  a  feeble  response  to  dis- 
interested motives,  resorts  to  intimida- 
tion to  build  and  hold  its  membership. 
Corruption,  fierce  enough  to  incline 
one  toward  an  anarchistic  return  to 
Nature,  is  as  much  in  evidence  as  in 
politics.  None  the  less,  with  slow  seri- 
ous searching,  the  process  goes  on  by 
which  a  ship  or  a  state  finds  itself,  as 
each  atom  becomes  dimly  infused  with 
the  holy  sense  of  its  relation  to  the 
Whole. 

Socialism,  the  other  great  class- 
conscious  force,  is  as  yet  little  found 
among  us  except  when  imported. 
Menacing  enough,  the  anarchical  type 
that  drifts  to  us  from  southern  Europe; 
as  ignorant  as  indifferent  concerning 
American  conditions;  expecting,  like 
many  another  creed,  to  save  the  world 
outright  by  the  application  of  a  form- 
ula. Yet,  here  too,  we  may  already 
discern  assets  to  be  cherished.  Mem- 


CLASS-CONSCIOUSNESS 


325 


ory  rises  of  illumined  eyes  belonging 
to  a  young  Italian.  Brought  up,  or 
rather  kicked  up,  in  a  stable  at  Naples, 
a  young  animal  when  twenty,  unable 
to  read,  careless  of  all  except  the  grati- 
fication of  desire,  he  found  himself 
errand-boy  in  a  restaurant  frequented 
by  a  small  socialist  group.  Then  came 
the  awakening:  'How  behave  longer 
like  a  beast,  Signora?  I  could  not  dis- 
grace the  comrades!  How  should 
Luigi  get  drunk?  There  was  the  Cause 
to  serve.  I  served  it  there,  I  serve  it 
here.  I  now  live  clean.  Life  is  holy.' 
Luigi  had  experienced  that  purifying, 
that  rare,  that  liberating  good,  allegi- 
ance to  an  idea!  Thinking  goes  on  in 
all  class-conscious  groups :  and  while  we 
feebly  try  to  moralize  and  educate  the 
poor,  forces  are  rising  from  their  very 
heart,  generated  by  the  grim  realities 
of  the  industrial  situation,  competent 
to  check  self-absorption  and  widen 
horizons. 

Nor  in  our  straits  can  we  afford  to 
despise  the  international  passion  of 
socialism,  for  it  is  a  strong  force  at 
work  among  the  people,  capable  of 
kindling  in  them  the  sense,  so  needed 
here,  of  universal  brotherhood.  Adjust- 
ment of  loyalties  between  old  coun- 
tries and  new  is  a  delicate  problem 
sure  to  be  increasingly  pressing  among 
us.  No  good  American  wants  the  old 
forgotten;  no  right-thinking  immigrant 
should  wish  the  new  ignored. 

True  love  in  this  differs  from  gold  and  clay, 
That  to  divide  is  not  to  take  away. 

He  who  loves  two  countries  is  richer 
than  he  who  loves  one  only;  but  as 
matter  of  fact  our  newcomers  usually 
end  in  loving  none.  These  spiritual 
exiles  present  the  pathetic  spectacle, 
not  of  one  man  without  a  country,  but 
of  great  throngs. 

At  the  North  End  in  Boston,  Deni- 
son  House  conducts  a  Sunday  lecture 
course. for  Italians.  The  control  dis- 
claims responsibility  for  opinions  pre- 


sented on  this  practically  free  forum. 
Yet  American  members  consented  with 
some  reluctance  to  invite  a  speaker 
representing  a  society  organized  to 
strengthen  the  bond  to  Italy,  and  sus- 
pected of  discouraging  naturalization. 
With  anxiety  of  another  type,  we  asked 
a  socialist  club  to  send  its  orator 
for  our  next  meeting.  But  what  the 
speaker  did  was  to  talk  with  fire  and 
eloquence,  grateful  to  his  grave  Latin 
audience,  on  the  theme  of  the  neces- 
sity to  the  Italian  in  the  United  States 
of  a  new  patriotism  broad  enough  to 
disregard  old  lines,  and  to  express 
itself  in  loyal  American  citizenship, 
and  in  cooperation  with  all  that  was 
progressive  in  the  life  of  the  United 
States.  The  inspiration  of  class-con- 
scious internationalism  was  plain  in 
the  speech,  and  it  did  more  to  quicken 
a  civic  conscience  than  any  words  of 
ours  could  have  achieved. 


IV 

Noting  these  things,  comparing  them 
with  the  dreary  barrenness  of  the 
psychical  life  which  obtains  among 
the  unaroused  masses,  how  can  we  fail 
to  see  in  the  class-struggle  one  of  those 
inspiriting  forces  which  are  the  glory  of 
history?  Abraham  Lincoln  had  prob- 
ably never  heard  the  famous  phrase  of 
Marx,  but  he  had  his  own  version  of  it : 
'The  strongest  bond  of  human  sympa- 
thy outside  the  family,'  said  he, '  should 
be  one  uniting  all  working  people  of 
all  nations  and  tongues  and  kindreds.' 
On  what  grounds  rests  this  surprising 
and  deliberate  statement  of  our  great- 
est American?  On  his  intuition  of  the 
sanctity  of  labor,  and  probably  also 
on  his  perception  of  a  vast  liberating 
power  in  this  feeling  for  class. 

From  tribal  days,  group-conscious- 
ness has  always  involved  a  defiant  at- 
titude toward  those  outside  the  group, 
yet  it  has  always  been  one  of  the  chief 


CLASS-CONSCIOUSNESS 


forms  of  moral  education.  The  larger 
the  group  toward  which  loyalty  is 
evoked,  the  greater  the  emancipation 
from  pettiness;  and  if  class-conscious- 
ness is  the  most  impressive  form  of 
group-consciousness  up  to  date,  it  is 
because  the  working  people  include  a 
majority  of  human  kind.  Class  feeling 
quickens  that  imaginative  power  which 
democracy  most  needs.  The  tired  work- 
man, absorbed  in  his  machine,  suddenly 
finds  far  horizons  open  to  his  spirit.  He 
hears  the  heart-beats  of  his  brothers 
in  Italy,  in  Russia,  in  Bohemia,  in 
Denmark;  and  behold!  a  new  means 
for  accomplishing  the  central  work  of 
the  ages,  for  releasing  him  from  that 
self-centred  egotism  which  is  at  once 
the  condition  of  his  finite  existence  and* 
the  barrier  that  he  must  transcend  if 
he  is  to  know  himself  a  partaker  of  the 
infinite. 

The  means  is  new;  for  until  economic 
development  had  reached  its  present 
point,  class-consciousness  could  not 
have  risen  to  the  status  of  a  world- 
power.  Those  whom  it  affects  are  the 
masses,  voiceless  through  the  long  his- 
toric story:  without  coherence,  other 
than  that  of  trampled  dust;  without 
common  aim,  other  than  such  as  ani- 
mates a  herd  of  terror-driven  cattle. 
Only  occasionally,  under  stress  of  some 
sharp  immediate  oppression,  has  a  brief 
sense  of  fellowship  sprung  into  trans- 
ient flame,  soon  sinking  into  ashes. 
To-day  that  healthful  fire  is  creeping 
steadily  and  stealthily  on,  spreading 
from  land  to  land,  from  speech  to 
speech.  We  shall  do  well  to  welcome  it, 
for  what  it  will  burn  is  dross,  not  gold. 

It  is  the  very  newness  of  the  force 
that  shocks  and  terrifies.  Race  and  na- 
tion have  long  broken  humanity  into 
groups  on  perpendicular  lines.  Class 
introduces  a  broad  horizontal  division. 
The  mighty  emotions  it  generates  move 
laterally,  so  to  speak,  interpenetrating 
the  others.  They  may  be  competent 


to  overcome  in  large  degree,  as  we  have 
claimed,  the  deep-seated  antagonisms, 
racial,  political,  religious,  that  separate 
men  and  hinder  brotherhood.  But  is 
not  a  danger  involved  ?  These  older  loy- 
alties were,  after  all,  in  their  essence  sa- 
cred. Does  not  loyalty  to  class  threaten 
bonds  rightly  and  jealously  cherished? 
Will  it  not  dull  the  allegiance  of  men 
to  family,  nation,  and  church? 

The  fear  is  real;  to  a  certain  point 
it  is  justified.  The  conflict  of  loyalties 
is  the  persistent  tragedy  of  civilization. 
Even  those  accredited  by  time  have 
been  hard  enough  to  harmonize  among 
themselves.  The  three-fold  passions 
which  inspired  chivalry  at  its  height 
were  loyalty  to  king,  to  lady,  and  to 
God;  how  brilliantly  do  all  three  shine 
in  that  mirror  of  the  chivalric  ideal, 
Malory's  Morte  Darthur!  How  desper- 
ate the  struggle  among  them  which 
ends  in  the  destruction  of  the  Table 
Round !  To-day,  the  immemorial  clash 
between  allegiance  to  State  and  Church 
rends  many  a  distressed  heart  in  France 
and  Italy.  Does  not  socialism  bring 
more  curse  than  blessing  when  it  in- 
troduces to  an  already  distracted  race 
a  fresh  appeal  at  cross-purposes  with 
all  the  old? 

Socialists  themselves  well  illustrate 
the  danger.  The  negative  attitude 
toward  family  ties,  marked  enough 
among  certain  socialist  groups,  springs 
to  be  sure  from  other  sources  and  is 
not  relevant  here  to  consider.  But  it 
is  sober  fact  that  socialism  is,  among 
many  of  its  adherents,  replacing  all 
other  religions,  and  filling  the  only 
need  they  experience  for  a  faith  and  an 
ideal.  We  may  in  fairness  ascribe  this 
situation  to  temporary  causes,  and  dis- 
miss the  difficulty,  noting  that  all  the 
best  leaders  stress  the  purely  non- 
partisan  and  secular  nature  of  the 
movement.  But  we  have  still  to  reckon 
with  the  indifference  of  the  movement 
to  patriotism,  an  indifference  rising 


CLASS-CONSCIOUSNESS 


327 


into  antagonism  in  the  earlier  stages. 
Marx,  in  the  Communist  Manifesto, 
said  that  the  working  people  have  no 
fatherland.  Bakunin  could  write:  'The 
social  question  can  only  be  satisfactorily 
solved  by  the  abolition  of  frontiers.' 

This  strong  language,  however, 
marked  the  infancy  of  the  movement 
and  is  increasingly  discarded.  Patri- 
otism has  deep  roots,  and  socialists  are 
men.  The  issue  has  been  hotly  dis- 
cussed in  those  socialist  conventions 
where  a  rare  and  refreshing  interest  in 
great  intellectual  issues  obtains.  And 
'The  view  is  gaining  ground  among 
socialists,'  says  Sombart,  '  that  all  civ- 
ilization has  its  roots  in  nationality, 
and  that  civilization  can  reach  its  high- 
est development  only  on  the  basis  of 
nationality.'  It  is  this  growing  convic- 
tion which  makes  the  socialists  sympa- 
thetic champions  of  oppressed  peoples 
like  the  Poles  and  Armenians.  "The 
socialist  purpose,'  says  a  prominent 
leader,  'is  to  give  to  the  proletariat  an 
opportunity  of  sharing  in  the  national 
life  at  its  best.  Socialism  and  the  na- 
tional idea  are  thus  not  opposed :  they 
supplement  each  other.' 

It  is  comfortable  to  know  that  such 
utterances  are  increasing.  So  far  as 
the  practical  situation  goes,  there  are 
no  better  Americans  than  trade-union 
men,  and  the  possible  service  in  the 
next  act  of  our  national  drama  of  the 
very  internationalist  feeling  of  social- 
ism has  been  already  signaled.  Mean- 
while, we  cannot  wonder  if  the  move- 
ment, entranced  with  its  new  vision 
of  a  universal  brotherhood  of  workers, 
has  for  the  time  disparaged  other  ties. 
That  is  human  nature.  On  account  of 
the  narrowness  of  our  capacities,  loy- 
alties, as  we  have  seen,  conflict,  and 
the  large  tragedies  of  history  go  on. 
We  in  our  blindness  would  again  and 
again  meet  the  situation  by  suppress- 
ing one  of  the  rival  forces.  That  is 
not  Nature's  way:  wiser  than  we,  who 


would  destroy  life  in  the  saving  it,  she 
goes  on  adding  system  to  system, 
claim  to  claim,  till,  through  the  very  an- 
guish of  adjustment  and  coordination, 
life  deepens  and  unfolds.  The  com- 
plexity of  the  physical  systems  which 
control  us  does  but  correspond  to  the 
complexity  of  the  body.  The  lungs 
breathe  all  the  better  because  at  the 
same  time  the  heart  is  beating,  the 
hair  growing,  and  digestion  going  on. 
Progress  consists  in  the  addition  of 
new  functions.  The  delicate  apparatus 
may  easily  get  out  of  gear;  one  system 
may  interfere  with  another.  This  is 
not  health,  but  disease,  equally  danger- 
ous whether  it  affect  the  body  phys- 
ical or  the  body  politic.  But  it  cannot 
be  cured  by  retrogression  in  the  scale 
of  being.  Health,  physical,  mental,  or 
social,  consists  in  the  harmonious  inter- 
action of  a  number  of  activities  prac- 
tically undefined  and  constantly  on 
the  increase.  We  find  it  hard  to  realize 
the  full  wealth  of  our  own  nature,  but 
there  is  no  more  limit  to  the  loyalties 
a  man  may  profess  than  to  the  corpor- 
ate activities  he  may  share.  As  Ches- 
terton remarks,  he  can  be  at  once  an 
Englishman,  a  collector  of  beetles,  a 
Roman  Catholic,  and  an  enthusiast  for 
cricket.  He  may  also  without  diffi- 
culty, when  once  adjustment  is  com- 
pleted, be  class-conscious,  nation-con- 
scious, and  religion-conscious;  the  more 
his  affiliations,  the  richer  his  possibil- 
ities, for  through  these  avenues  only 
can  he  escape  from  the  prison  of  self. 
And  the  advent  on  a  large  scale  of  a 
new  loyalty  and  a  new  system  of  at- 
traction signals,  not  the  destruction  of 
the  old,  but  the  enriching  of  all  social 
life  and  its  advance  to  a  higher  level 
in  the  scale  of  being. 


Class-consciousness  then  can  be  dis- 
missed on  the  score  neither  of  its  milit- 


328 


CLASS-CONSCIOUSNESS 


ant  implications,  nor  of  the  menace  it 
offers  to  older  devotions.  Both  in  its 
political  aspect  and  in  its  more  intimate 
reaches  of  private  experience,  we  find  it 
to  be  at  once  a  disciplinary  and  an  awak- 
ening force;  it  kindles  and  restrains. 

But  now  we  must  go  further.  We 
have  been  dwelling  mainly  on  the  quali- 
ties it  evokes,  and  the  opportunities  it 
offers.  We  have  not  yet  asked  ourselves 
squarely  the  final,  the  crucial  question : 
What  end  does  it  propose? 

To  answer,  we  must  turn  from  its 
inner  reactions  to  its  outer  relations, 
and  take  into  account  the  other  com- 
batants in  the  class-war. 

By  common  consent,  the  term  class- 
conscious  is  usually  applied  to  the  work- 
ing people.  But  in  accurate  speech,  it 
should  not  be  so  limited,  for  it  de- 
scribes quite  as  truly  the  stubborn 
struggle  of  the  employing  cjass  to  main- 
tain supremacy.  The  persistence  of 
this  class  in  defending  its  prerogative 
is  as  natural  a  product  of  the  industrial 
situation  as  the  pressure  of  the  prole- 
tariat. Why  is  not  the  emotion  as  right 
and  admirable  when  experienced  by 
employer  as  by  employed  ? 

It  is  more  admirable,  many  will 
hasten  to  reply.  We  need  not  at  this 
point  answer  the  obviously  partisan 
cry.  But  if  we  are  to  convince  the  dis- 
passionate man,  our  supposed  inter- 
locutor, that  our  own  cry  is  less  parti- 
san, if  we  are  to  justify  that  strong 
undertow  of  sympathy  toward  the  pop- 
ular cause  of  which  we  spoke  at  the  out- 
set, we  must  lean  on  an  instructive  as- 
sumption. This  is  the  conviction  that 
the  time  when  the  defense  of  preroga- 
tive was  valuable  to  society  as  a  whole 
is  nearing  its  end,  and  that  the  ideal 
of  the  proletariat,  not  that  of  the  cap- 
italist, is  implicit  in  the  truly  demo- 
cratic state. 

Do  we  or  do  we  not  want  to  put  an 
end  to  class  in  the  modern  sense?  This 
is  the  real,  if  paradoxical  issue.  The 


situation  is  curious  and  interesting. 
As  we  have  already  hinted,  those  who 
deplore  most  angrily  the  rise  of  class- 
consciousness  in  the  proletariat  foster 
it  most  eagerly  in  their  own  camp,  and 
would  with  the  greatest  reluctance  see 
class-distinctions  disappear.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  leaders  who  labor  most 
earnestly  to  strengthen  working-class 
solidarity  do  so  because  they  hate 
class  with  a  deadly  hatred,  and  see  in 
such  solidarity  the  only  means  of  put- 
ting an  end  to  it  altogether.  If  we 
agree  with  them  to  the  point  of  hold- 
ing that  class,  like  war,  is  provisional, 
it  would  seem  that  these  are  the  people 
to  whom  our  sympathy  is  due. 

Professor  Royce  has  well  shown  us 
that  the  aim  of  all  minor  loyalties  is 
to  bring  us  under  the  wing  of  that 
mother  of  all  virtues,  loyalty  to  the 
Whole.    One  draws  a  long  breath  at 
this  grandiose,  appealing  image  of  the 
unachieved  end  of  all  human  striv- 
ing.   Which  serves  it  best,  —  socialism 
with  its  class-conscious  connotations,  or 
capitalism  with  its  repudiation  of  the 
new  bond?   The  question  implies  the 
answer.   The  capitalist  movement  has 
avowedly  no  aim  beyond  self-protec- 
tion and  the  maintenance  of  a  new 
type   of  benevolent   feudalism.     The 
working-class  movement,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  probably  the  only  form  of 
group-consciousness    yet    evolved    in 
history,  to  look  beyond  its  own  cor- 
porate aim.  It  is  inspired  by  a  passion 
of  good- will  for  all  men,  and  never  loses 
sight  of  a  universal  goal.    Nay,  it  is 
concerned  with  the  welfare  of  the  very 
enemies  whom  it  is  fighting,  for  it  is 
aware  that  rich  as  well  as  poor  are  to- 
day so  fast  in  prison  that  they  cannot 
get  out.  Have  we  not  good  reason  then 
to  honor  it  and  to  exalt  it  above  even 
patriotism  in  our  thoughts  ?  . . 

The  man  fighting  for  his  country 
does  not  look  beyond  that  country's 
welfare.  But  the  wider  outlook  is  an  in- 


CLASS-CONSCIOUSNESS 


329 


tegral  part  of  the  class-conscious  inspir- 
ation. The  popular  movement  marches 
to  the  tune  of  Burns :  — 

It 's  coming  yet  for  a'  that 
That  man  to  man  the  warld  o'er 
Shall  brithers  be  for  a'  that. 

L'Internationale 

Sera  le  genre  humain,  — 

is  the  rallying  cry  of  the  people.  What 
they  seek  is  not  the  transfer  of  priv- 
ilege, but  the  abolition  of  privilege; 
and  while  they  work  first  for  the 
emancipation  of  their  own  class,  they 
believe  not  only  that  this  class  com- 
prises the  majority  of  mankind,  but 
that  its  freedom  will  enable  all  men 
alike  to  breathe  a  more  liberal  air. 
With  the  disappearance  of  privilege, 
all  possibility  of  the  class-war  would 
of  course  vanish,  for  the  very  sense  of 
class  as  based  on  distinction  in  indus- 
trial assets  and  opportunities  would 
be  replaced  by  new  groupings  founded, 
one  would  suppose,  on  more  subtle  and 
intimate  affinities  of  pursuit,  capac- 
ity, and  taste.  In  all  history-creating 
movements,  the  urge  of  life  has  been 
the  impelling  force;  nor  can  we  deny 
that  it  has  on  the  whole  worked  for 
good  to  the  whole  as  well  as  to  the 
part.  But  it  is  the  great  distinction  of 
socialism  that,  while  frankly  accepting 
and  fostering  such  primal  passion,  it 
is  at  the  same  time  more  or  less  clearly 
aware  of  a  more  disinterested  aim. 
Class  will  never  become  to  our  minds 
a  permanent  factor  in  social  life,  on  a 
level  with  nation  or  country.  In  this 
fact  we  may  find  a  legitimate  reason  for 
the  distrust  of  class-consciousness  that 
prevails.  But,  thinking  more  deeply, 
in  the  same  fact  is  the  indorsement 
and  justification  for  the  only  move- 
ment which  is  to-day  setting  its  face 
toward  the  destruction  of  class  distinc- 
tions, and  which  has  thus  for  its  very 
object  the  annihilation  of  that  sense 
of  separateness  which  as  a  weapon  it 
must  temporarily  use. 


VI 

We  need  then  have  no  fear  lest  class- 
consciousness,  any  more  ithan  economic 
determinism,  catch  us  in  the  net  of 
materialism.  Mazzini  did  well  when 
he  turned  to  the  workers  as  the  hope  of 
the  future,  and  told  them  that  their 
duties  were  more  important  than  their 
rights;  only  he  should  have  stressed  the 
fact  that  in  claiming  their  rights  they 
are  fulfilling  the  most  disinterested  of 
duties.  Rising  to  this  altitude,  we  have* 
made  a  great  discovery;  as  Moody 's 
lovely  lyric  has  it,  we  have  found  a 
sky  'behind  the  sky.'  The  material- 
istic interpretation  of  history  tries  in 
vain  to  hold  us  within  the  zone  of  the 
lower  heavens,  for, — 

when  the  lure  is  cast 
Before  thy  heedless  flight 
And  thou  art  snared  and  taken  fast 

Within  one  sky  of  light, 
Behold  the  net  is  empty,  the  cast  is  vain, 
And  from  thy  circling  in  the  other  sky  the  lyric 
laughters  rain. 

Yet  there  are  always  new  heavens 
waiting,  nor  is  it  denied  us  to  fly  much 
higher  than  we  have  ventured  yet  into 
the  upper  air  of  pure  spiritual  passion. 
We  have  done  full  justice  to  the  teach- 
ing that  expounds  the  importance  of 
the  economic  base,  and  vindicates  the 
forces  rooted  in  economic  necessity  and 
self-interest.  But  another  question  is 
waiting,  nor  can  we  close  without  ask- 
ing once  more  whether  all  productive 
forces  are  directly  related  to  this  base, 
or  whether  we  may  reserve  a  place  for 
the  effective  power  of  pure  altruism. 

Whether  we  look  out  or  in,  the 
question  for  most  of  us  is  answered  in 
the  asking.  Heroic  devotion  springing 
from  ranges  quite  out  of  the  economic 
sphere  fills  the  human  annals;  and  this 
not  least  in  the  case  of  social  progress. 
From  the  days  of  John  Ball  to  those 
of  John  Howard,  philanthropists  who 
have  waged  brave  successful  battle 
against  abuses,  reformers  who  have 


330 


CLASS-CONSCIOUSNESS 


lifted  the  general  life  to  a  higher  level, 
have  appeared  from  any  and  every 
social  stratum,  drawing  their  inspira- 
tion from  depths  greater  than  class  can 
reach.  All  through  history,  the  press- 
ure of  the  unprivileged  toward  free- 
dom has  been  supplemented  at  crit- 
ical moments  by  the  undercurrent  of 
sympathy  in  the  hearts  of  the  priv- 
ileged, and  the  one  group  has  supplied 
leaders  to  the  other.  It  would  almost 
seem  that  the  socialist  movement  is 
particularly  rich  in  such  leaders.  Marx, 
if  you  come  to  that,  was  not  a  work- 
ing man;  nor  Lassalle,  nor  Morris,  nor 
Kropotkin,  nor  many  another  who  in 
prison  or  exile  has  proved  himself  true 
to  the  workers'  cause.  Among  contem- 
porary leaders  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the 
large  majority  are  from  the  middle 
class.  Looking  at  the  high  proportion 
of '  intellectuals '  among  effective  social- 
ists, one  is  even  a  little  bewildered. 
Yet  the  situation  is  simple.  It  is  evid- 
ent, whatever  radicals  may  say  to  the 
contrary,  that  if  the  proletariat  could 
produce  its  own  leaders  there  would  be 
no  need  of  social  revolution. 

The  cry  of  the  dispossessed  is  com- 
pelling. The  working  classes  must  show 
the  way  to  social  advance.  They  alone, 
free  from  sentimentality,  the  curse  of 
the  privileged,  and  from  abstract  theo- 
rizing, the  curse  of  the  scholastic,  have 
that  grim  experience  of  the  reaction  of 
economic  conditions  on  the  majority 
from  which  right  judgment  can  be 
born.  But  if  their  function  be  to  furnish 
momentum,  and  corporate  wisdom, 
the  power  of  individual  initiative  and 
directorship  will  often  in  the  nature  of 
things  be  generated  among  those  gov- 
erning classes  in  whom  these  gifts  have 
been  fostered.  If  education  and  admin- 
istrative experience  are  valuable  enough 
to  share,  it  is  obvious  that  the  dumb 
proletariat  must  to  a  certain  extent 
look  to  the  classes  that  possess  them 
for  the  revelation  of  its  own  sealed 


wisdom  and  the  guidance  of  its  con- 
fused powers.  The  enlightened  energy 
of  those  who  come  from  other  groups 
to  serve  it  should  not  be  slighted.  Their 
high  impulses,  their  rich  devotions,  are 
also,  to  ultimate  vision,  within,  not 
without,  the  evolutionary  process,  — 
a  process  broader,  deeper  than  current 
Marxianism  admits.  In  them  that 
wider  loyalty,  toward  which  class-con- 
sciousness itself  is  groping,  has  been 
born  already,  and  to  assert  that  they 
have  no  part  in  social  advance  and 
that  the  working  class  must  produce 
unaided  the  new  society,  would  be  to 
deny  democracy  at  the  root. 

The  best,  the  final  work  of  demo- 
cracy will  be  to  give  us  all  the  freedom 
of  the  City  of  the  Common  Life.  This 
all  Americans  know  in  theory.  Let  us 
beware  lest  we  deny  it  in  deed  by  with- 
holding our  faith  from  the  great  class- 
conscious  movement  of  the  working 
people,  which  alone  holds  in  practical 
form  the  ideal  of  a  world  where  divi- 
sions based  on  economic  accident  and 
arbitrary  causes  shall  be  obliterated, 
and  life  be  lifted  to  new  levels  of  free- 
dom. The  instinctive  sympathy  with 
proletarian  movements  should  cast 
aside  timidity  and  incertitude,  and 
realize  that  its  roots  strike  deep  into 
a  true  philosophic  and  religious  con- 
ception of  social  advance.  It  should 
imply,  not  only  indorsement,  but  coop- 
eration. So  only  the  effective  reality  of 
our  national  assumptions  can  be  vindi- 
cated, and  the  day  hastened  when  the 
Greater  Loyalty  shall  be  ruler  of  the 
world.  So  we  can  prove  that  the  ideal 
central  to  this  Republic  at  its  outset 
was  no  histrionic  Tree  of  Liberty  cut 
from  its  native  soil,  to  wither  even  as 
the  echoes  of  the  encircling  dance  and 
song  should  die  away,  but  a  growth 
firm-planted  in  the  fruitful  earth,  and 
slowly,  surely  developing  till  it  becomes 
a  Tree  of  Life  whose  leaves  shall  be  for 
the  healing  of  the  nations. 


EGALITE 


BY   HENRY   SEIDEL   CANBY 


A  STORY,  charming  if  not  truthful, 
was  told  in  the  Middle  Ages  of  the 
father  of  Thomas  a  Becket,  the  holy 
blissful  martyr.  While  crusading  in  the 
Holy  Land,  Gilbert  Becket  was  cap- 
tured, and  made  slave  to  a  Saracen.  It 
happened  that  God  gave  the  Saracen's 
daughter  both  heart  and  will  to  love 
Gilbert,  and  when  the  prisoner,  break- 
ing his  bonds,  made  his  way  homeward, 
she  followed  him,  knowing  only  Lon- 
don and  his  name.  God  was  her  lodes- 
man;  like  a  strayed  beast,  she  came 
to  London,  and  wandered  the  streets 
until,  by  chance,  she  came  to  Gilbert's 
door.  And  it  is  only  in  what  happened 
then  that  this  old  story  differs  from  the 
narrative  which  follows. 

Joe  Moon  was  an  American  of  the 
Americans.  That  is,  he  was  a  New  Eng- 
lander,  spoke  through  his  nose,  voted 
the  Republican  ticket,  chewed  as  well 
as  smoked,  and,  before  the  experiences 
now  to  be  recounted,  regarded  foreign 
lands  and  races  with  a  frank  and  pity- 
ing contempt.  Honest  in  all  private 
dealings,  industrious  up  to  the  limit  of 
union  hours,  he  did  not  fail  to  reveal 
the  independence  of  his  nature  by  a 
free-and-easy  rudeness  toward  those 
who  claimed  superiority  by  word,  deed, 
or  appearance.  Furthermore,  he  pos- 
sessed the  most  prized  of  American  vir- 
tues: he  was  practical,  as  was  clearly 
proven  by  his  career,  short  as  that  had 
been.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  had  left 
school,  and  therefore,  by  twenty-two, 
had  been  able  to  put  nine  unincum- 
bered  years  into  the  study  of  his  pro- 
fession, which  was  that  of  carpenter 


and  joiner.  One  weakness  alone  could 
be  charged  to  the  account  of  this  exem- 
plary youth,  and  even  on  this  point  his 
friends  differed,  some  averring  that  to 
ship  as  carpenter  on  an  Atlantic  liner 
showed  a  tendency  toward  unsteadi- 
ness, while  others  returned  that  Joe  had 
figured  out  a  clear  saving  of  a  dollar  a 
day  on  general  expenses  and  board. 

His  steamer,  a  squat  tub  with  the 
lines  of  a  wooden  shoe,  made  month- 
ly trips  to  Rouen  with  cattle  for  the 
French  markets.  Four  days  of  free- 
dom came  to  him  at  each  sixth  week's 
end  while  the  crew  were  unloading;  the 
rest  was  hard  work,  seasickness,  or 
boredom.  On  his  first  holiday,  he  was 
content  to  saunter  about  Rouen  and 
enjoy  the  sense  of  his  racial  superiority. 
The  workmen  wore  blouses,  and  clearly 
earned  no  more  than  a  dollar  a  day. 
The  streets  were  no  wider  than  alleys; 
the  churches  they  talked  about  were 
crumbling  and  run  down. 

His  second  arrival  was  in  June.  It 
was  night  when  he  landed,  a  night  full 
of  music,  merry  chatter,  and  moon- 
shine. He  sat  by  a  little  marble-topped 
table  in  front  of  the  Cafe  National, 
drank  his  bocks,  listened  with  equa- 
nimity to  the  orchestra,  and  felt  un- 
easily that  the  moving  crowd  before 
him,  gay,  voluble,  enjoying  itself  with- 
out fighting  and  without  being  drunk, 
was  made  up  of  units  more  expressive 
than  himself  and  almost  as  intelligent. 

On  his  third  trip,  he  made  a  little 
voyage  up  the  Seine  valley,  and  it  was 
in  a  cafe  by  Seine-side  in  Vernon  that 
he  met  Louise. 


332 


The  first  time,  he  gulped  at  his  ver- 
mouth and  cassis,  which  he  called 
'bellywash,'  and  watched  her  with  an 
admiring  stare  as  she  dashed  off  stale 
glasses,  whisked  on  fresh  ones,  and 
treated  the  customers  to  blague  which 
he  could  not  understand.  The  next 
time  he  ordered  whiskey,  and  got  some 
of  the  blague  himself.  'Mon  Dieu! 
Monsieur  pense  que  nous  avons  id  un 
bar  americain  ! '  A  sentence  passed  with 
a  shrug  which  made  him  feel  himself  a 
helpless  foreigner  in  a  land  of  wits. 

But  by  the  fourth  visit  he  had  pick- 
ed up  a  little  French,  and,  what  was 
more  important,  had  brought  with  him 
a  supply  of  home-bred  self-assurance. 
As  Louise  tripped  among  the  tables 
he  followed  her  with  brazen  glances; 
when  she  turned  jester,  he  called  her 
'a  fresh  mut'  in  English;  if  she  laughed 
at  his  vile  French  he  tried  to  kiss  her. 
That  night  she  put  on  her  newest  hat 
and  leaned  with  him  over  the  parapet 
of  the  Bridge  of  Lovers,  saying  smart 
things  in  Norman  of  the  stars  in  the 
water  (so  he  gathered),  and  darting 
starry  looks  at  him  which  were  more 
intelligible. 

The  last  time  was  nearly  fatal.  The 
cattle-ship  broke  a  propeller-blade  just 
as  she  swung  into  the  Seine  estuary, 
waddled  up  to  Rouen,  and  went  into 
dry-dock  for  a  ten  days'  rest.  Eight  of 
the  ten  belonged  to  him,  and  seven  of 
the  ten  he  spent  at  Vernon.  It  was  St. 
Martin's  summer.  You  could  still  sit 
with  comfort  at  a  green  cafe  table  on 
the  water  front;  you  could  lean  over 
the  parapet  of  the  Bridge  of  Lovers  by 
November  moonlight,  or,  in  the  slack 
hour  after  dejeuner,  watch  the  tows 
swing  down  the  river,  talk  of  America, 
the  carpenter's  trade,  and  the  girls  of 
France. 

The  seventh  day  was  like  early  sum- 
mer. A  hazy  sun  warmed  the  chalk 
cliffs  into  dusty  gold,  and  mellowed 
the  yellow  islands,  the  brown  water, 


and  the  infinitely  banded  fields.  It 
was  a  fete  day,  so  in  the  afternoon 
they  strolled  down  to  a  nameless  vil- 
lage by  a  bridge  where  was  an  auberge 
called  Le  Cafe  des  Trois  Poissons,  and 
there  they  had  an  omelet,  pommes 
sautees,  good  red  wine,  and,  for  him, 
many  glasses  of  eau  de  vie  de  cidre, 
which  is  strong,  good,  and  dangerously 
cheap.  The  early  dusk  found  them 
elbow  to  elbow,  face  in  face,  while  he 
told  her  how  they  did  things  at  home. 
'L'an  prochain,  that's  right,  ain't  it? 
voyez-vous,  I'll  shake  the  damned  old 
ship,  j'irai  de  la  bateau,  et  j'aurai  trois 
dollars,  that's  quinze  francs,  un  jour.' 
Her  piquant  face,  her  quick  replies, 
her  patience  when  she  did  not  under- 
stand, the  eau  de  vie,  the  quiet  of  the 
place,  led  him  on  and  on.  Before  they 
had  reached  the  Bridge  of  Lovers  on 
their  return,  he  had  kissed  her  three 
times,  and  tried  to  thirty  more.  Before 
he  left  her  at  the  door  of  the  cuisine  he 
had  said  more  than  he  cared  to  recall 
in  the  gray  and  drizzly  dawn. 

And  that  was  why  he  ran  back  to 
Rouen  one  day  ahead  of  time,  sent  her  a 
carte  postale  with  au  revoir  upon  it,  and 
fell  to  mending  cattle-pens  with  a  flus- 
tered heart.  When  the  ship  reached 
her  home  port  he  sent  her  another,  the 
finest  and  ugliest  picture  of  New  York 
that  he  could  find,  with  his  name  and 
Fairport  written  there,  no  more.  Three 
weeks  later  he  was  sawing  planks  in 
mid-air  on  the  scaffolds  of  an  unfinished 
club-house,  and  in  a  month  more  you 
would  never  have  guessed  that  Joe 
Moon  had  crossed  the  water,  tasted 
eau  de  vie  de  cidre,  or  made  love  to  a 
Norman  girl  on  Seine-side  in  St.  Mar- 
tin's summer. 

As  for  Louise,  she  frisked  no  less 
merrily  for  Joe's  departure.  Heavens! 
One  must  fill  the  bock  glasses,  fetch  the 
cigarettes  a  soixante  centimes  from  the 
debit  de  tabac,  and  make  the  addition,  in 
spite  of  lovers  fled  or  otherwise. 


fiGALITfi 


333 


'Mais  votre  Anglais,  est-ce  qu'il  est 
parti  seul?'  cried  Marie  the  laundress. 

'Gone?  No  indeed,' laughed  Louise. 
'  He  is  in  Paris  buying  me  a  present.' 

'You  love  me  no  more,'  said  Mon- 
sieur Folette  the  jeweler,  as  he  lit  his 
cigarette.  'I  have  seen  you  on  the 
bridge  with  your  Englishman  who 
looks  as  stupid  as  a  horse.' 

'Is  it  stupid  then  to  love  me!'  re- 
turned Louise. 

Indeed,  it  was  a  certain  heavy  seri- 
ousness in  Joe  Moon  that  attracted 
this  airy  mademoiselle  of  the  tables.  No 
other  man  had  ever  talked  '  les  affaires ' 
in  the  face  of  her  coquetry,  or  shown 
such  a  sublime  indifference  to  all  amen- 
ities of  love-making  less  tangible  than 
a  kiss. 

'Joe,'  she  would  say  to  him,  'figure 
to  yourself  that  we  were  in  your  Fair- 
port.  Where  then  would  you  take  me 
on  a  fete  day?' 

And  he  would  answer, '  Damned  if — 
I  don't  know.  Out  to  see  the  new 
buildings  on  the  boulevard,  I  guess.  I 
generally  go  there  on  Sundays.' 

Such  an  answer,  to  a  French  girl,  is 
ires  curieux,  and  the  French  are  fas- 
cinated by  the  curious. 

Or,  possibly,  the  personal  was  not 
the  strongest  of  motives.  The  serious 
Joe  became  voluble,  would  have  be- 
come eloquent  if  his  French  had  al- 
lowed him,  when  the  talk  turned  to  the 
land  of  opportunity.  The  American  is 
the  world's  greatest  boaster,  and  his 
boasting  makes  itself  heard,  for  he 
boasts  not  of  sentiments  and  ideals  but 
of  figures  and  facts.  The  Europeans  all 
listen  to  him;  no  wonder  Joe  fascinat- 
ed a  cool-headed  Norman  girl  with 
thrift  in  her  blood.  She  did  listen;  fur- 
thermore she  thought.  In  truth  she 
was  changing  in  her  mind  the  dollars 
of  a  prospective  wage  into  francs  when 
he  broke  down  her  guard  for  the  first 
kiss.  But  that  kiss  was  so  rude,  so 
strong,  the  arm  about  her  waist  had 


such  a  willful  power  to  it,  that  she  for- 
got her  sum. 

'You  think  me  an  American  girl,' 
she  cried  in  struggling,  and  then  won- 
dered longingly  just  what  the  sweet- 
hearts of  such  rude,  strong  men  were 
like. 

Joe  Moon  went  back  to  Fairport, 
Louise  back  to  her  cafe  tables,  where 
she  sang  her  snatches,  whisked  her 
dish-cloth  at  the  cats,  whistled  to  the 
birds  in  the  cage  over  the  patronne's 
desk,  dealt  repartee  to  the  clientele,  and 
hoarded  all  her  pourboires.  Each  Sat- 
urday night  she  reckoned  her  winnings, 
each  week  she  added  one  economy 
more.  When  she  took  to  wearing  felt 
slippers  to  save  shoes  (shoes  cost  in 
France) ,  the  patronne  had  her  say.  The 
patronne  was  a  dark  and  petulant  Gas- 
conne  who  screamed  when  she  was 
angry.  Louise  had  always  managed  her 
with  care,  but  this  time  she  laughed  at 
the  rebuke. 

'My  poor  little  one,'  rumbled  the 
patronne  majestically,  'if  you  are  im- 
pudent, out  you  go  on  the  streets.' 

Louise  giggled  shrilly. 

'Daughter  of  a  viper,'  shrieked  the 
mistress,  'you  insult  me;  I  who  give 
two  francs  a  day  to  a  slut  as  slovenly  as 
a  Bretonne!' 

'Two  francs,'  repeated  Louise  with  a 
shrug.  'Mon  Dieu!  In  America  where 
I  am  going  I  shall  have  five.' 

So  they  learned  in  Vernon  that 
Louise,  the  mademoiselle  at  La  Licorne, 
was  to  emigrate.  A  few  held  up  their 
hands ;  most  shrugged  approvingly.  One 
does  not  leave  Normandy  for  want,  but 
only  because  of  the  prospect  of  a  fort- 
une. The  petite  had  no  family,  few 
friends.  There  was  the  milliner  of  Char- 
tres  one  read  of  in  Le  Petit  Journal, 
who  had  made  a  million  in  New  York. 
Why  not?  Those  Americans  would 
buy  anything!  And  the  wages,  Mon 
Dieu! — Most  of  them  had  forgotten 
Joe  Moon. 


334 


fiGALITfi 


Not  so  Louise.  As  she  bumped  along 
in  third  class  towards  Cherbourg,  a 
pleasant  romance  drove  out  loneliness, 
scattered  homesickness.  She  felt  for  a 
souvenir  which  Joe  had  left  with  her, 
a  wire  nail,  if  you  please,  and  fingered 
it  lovingly.  She  spoke  his  name  half 
aloud,  Jo  Moo',  between  bites  of  bread 
and  draughts  of  vin  rouge,  laughing  at 
the  sound.  When  an  inspector  put  his 
head  in  at  the  window,  she  giggled, '  Ow 
d'  jou  do,'  so  that  even  that  piece  of 
machinery  smiled.  English  was  sweet 
upon  her  tongue,  not  least  sweet  to 
her.  Careful  Norman  that  she  was,  she 
had  not  failed  to  plan  out  the  progres- 
sion of  her  new  life :  a  good  place,  strict 
economy,  and  to  become  patronne  her- 
self as  soon  as  might  be.  But  her  heart 
sang  to  her  in  the  train  that  this  pretty 
progression  would  be  interrupted  —  by 
Joe  Moon.  In  either  case  one's  future 
was  secure! 

And  then  Cherbourg,  the  frightening 
hurry  of  the  port,  the  tender  piled  high 
with  trunks,  and  swarming  with  harsh 
people  who  talked  like  Joe  but  dressed 
much  more  finely;  the  little  crowd  of 
French  peasants  who  crouched  with  her 
on  the  lower  deck,  sniffling  women,  men 
staring  like  driven  cattle  until  she  too, 
creature  of  sunlight,  was  clouded,  and 
looked  back  at  the  huddled  quay  and 
green  France  beyond  with  a  new  sense 
of  their  value,  and  a  new  pang.  Then 
the  black  sides  of  the  vast  steamer, 
the  rough  voices  of  the  sailor-folk,  the 
smells  of  the  steerage, — a  sob,  a  wild 
forgetting  of  all  her  calculations,  all 
her  dreams,  sobs  which  shook  her  as 
she  crouched  over  the  thundering  pro- 
pellers, —  and  then  they  were  past  the 
mole  and  swinging  far  up,  far  down  on 
the  winter  ocean,  with  the  hills  and  the 
whole  world  swaying  far  away  behind. 

On  the  fifth  day  she  tottered  upon 
deck,  tasting  the  air  like  an  invalid  and 
gazing  curiously  as  one  to  whom  the 
world,  the  sea,  and  life  had  meant  no- 


thing. A  sailor  spoke  to  her  familiarly  in 
English,  and  another  pushed  her  aside 
as  he  swabbed  down  the  deck  before 
the  companionway.  She  felt  hurt  and 
lonely.  Was  this  the  people  she  was  to 
come  among!  The  men  of  the  peasant 
families  were  gathered  in  a  little  knot 
by  the  rail.  She  crept  nearer  to  them 
and  eagerly  heard  their  talk.  It  was  all 
of  their  pays,  the  price  of  wheat  and 
wine,  the  excellence  of  the  patron's  but- 
ter, and  how  Jacques  Lefevre  had  sold 
his  land.  They  were  Picards,  but  their 
gossip  in  patois  was  like  singing  to  her 
ears,  and  the  gray  ocean  an  awful 
thing.  She  felt  so  young,  so  lost,  so  in- 
finitely alone.  But  on  the  sixth  day 
the  sun  came  out,  the  water  turned  to 
sapphire,  and  white  gulls  circled  over 
the  wake.  With  the  sun,  the  Picard 
wives  crawled  from  the  noisome  hold 
and  chattered  weakly.  Their  talk  was 
all  of  the  new  land:  farms  in  Dakota, 
the  joy  of  freeholding,  the  abundance 
and  the  cheapness  of  the  food.  Louise 
crouched  at  the  edge  of  their  circle,  and 
was  glad  when  they  asked  for  her  name. 
Yes,  it  was  as  fiile  de  chambre  or  bonne 
that  she  hoped  to  launch  her  fortunes. 

'But,  mon  Dieu,  one  does  not  know! 
Perhaps  I  shall  marry  a  millionaire!' 
It  was  her  first  blague  since  she  had  left 
France.  And  if  a  blague,  yet  there  was 
always  Joe  Moon! 

New  York !  The  home-coming  Amer- 
ican stands  by  the  rail  and  speculates 
proudly  upon  the  emotions  which  must 
be  aroused  in  the  heart  of  the  simple 
immigrant  by  that  jagged  wall  of 
buildings  crowned  with  towers,  bril- 
liant with  myriads  of  windows,  and 
plumed  with  a  thousand  steam  jets. 
Perhaps;  but  curiosity,  surprise,  dis- 
tress are  quite  as  common  as  wonder 
or  fear.  The  Slav  and  the  Hun  may 
gape,  the  French  are  not  so  easily 
moved.  Louise  found  the  harbor  and 
the  brilliant  island  gay,  and  that 
pleased  her;  she  thought  the  massed 


EGALITE 


335 


office  buildings  tres  curieux,  and  a  little 
ugly.  Nothing  startled  her  until,  the 
landing  over  and  Ellis  Island  passed, 
she  was  slung  through  the  rattling  sub- 
way. Nothing  made  her  lose  her  sang 
froid  until,  in  company  with  a  miser- 
able drove  of  booted  Russians,  tawdry 
Italians,  and  filthy  Russian  Jews,  all, 
like  her,  labeled  with  a  destination,  she 
was  herded  up  the  steep  steps  to  Forty- 
second  Street  and  into  the  Grand  Cen- 
tral station.  For  the  jostling,  prosper- 
ous crowds  looked  curiously  at  the 
little  group,  curiously  and  pityingly  at 
her.  She  drew  a  little  away  from  the 
Russian  women  and  unconsciously  put 
her  hand  to  her  hat  and  to  her  collar, 
straightening  them  with  a  knowing 
French  twist.  But  the  crowd  made  no 
distinction.  'Immigrants,'  she  heard 
some  say  indifferently.  'Poor  things! ' 
whispered  others  more  kindly,  and  their 
tone  she  understood. 

The  train  dashed  eastward  at  what 
seemed  a  frightful  speed.  Unkempt 
fields,  tracts  of  waste  land,  and  black 
towns,  whirled  behind  her;  wooden 
houses  devoid  of  gardens,  dropped  here 
and  there  on  the  landscape,  brown 
meadows  hideous  with  signs.  Only  the 
men  in  the  car  and  on  station-plat- 
forms pleased  her.  They  looked  steady, 
serious,  like  Joe  Moon.  She  took  out 
her  one  souvenir,  the  wire  nail,  and 
fingered  it  stealthily. 

'  Excuse  me/  said  a  fat  woman  whose 
side  her  elbow  had  touched,  and 
glanced  at  her  defiantly.  For  a  second 
only  her  eyes  rested  upon  the  ticket 
pinned  to  the  French  girl's  dress,  but 
the  look  burned  like  a  tongue  of  flame. 
Louise  tore  the  paper  from  her  corsage, 
then,  in  quick  pride,  covered  the  place 
with  her  hand.  But  the  fat  woman 
never  looked  again;  and  thus  they  came 
into  Fairport. 

The  crowd  swept  her  from  the  car  and 
halfway  up  the  gaunt  platform  before 
she  could  stem  it  and  stand  thinking,  a 


slender  black  figure  before  an  unshape- 
ly bag.  Joe  Moons  kept  leaping  to  her 
eyes  in  the  hurrying  Fairport  throng; 
this  one  had  his  shoulders,  another  his 
plodding  walk,  a  third  a  brown  felt  hat 
that  almost  made  her  cry  his  name, 
and  at  each  fancied  recognition  she 
looked  hurriedly  about  her  to  see  if  the 
herd  were  still  near,  to  see  if  she  were 
still  branded  as  a  social  outcast,  as  an 
immigrant.  But  he,  and  he,  and  he,  — 
no  one  was  Joe  Moon.  And  the  train 
had  pulled  out  bearing  with  it  booted 
Russians  and  raucous  Italians,  leaving 
her  alone  and  respectable  again.  She 
thanked  St.  Maclou  that  she  had 
learned  it  was  not  commode  to  be  an 
immigrant  —  and  in  time,  before  she 
found  Joe  Moon. 

It  was  two  o'clock  on  a  Saturday  in 
March,  raw,  with  a  wet  wind  blowing, 
fingers  of  blue  sky  above,  and  a  pud- 
dled platform  below. 

'  I  must  have  a  place,'  Louise  thought 
first  of  all  when  the  crowd  had  left  her 
alone  there,  — '  I  must  have  a  place 
before  I  see  Joe  Moon/  And  knowing 
by  reputation,  if  not  by  name,  of  in- 
telligence-offices, she  looked  for  some 
one  to  guide  her. 

'Would  monsieur  le  sous-chef  de  la 
gare  kindly  direct  her  to — '  But  the 
compliment  was  lost  upon  monsieur, 
who  was  only  a  baggage-smasher  and 
'didn'  know  no  dago/  A  uniform  in 
the  station  shouted  at  her  from  under  a 
megaphone  with  a  rudeness  which  she 
had  already  learned  was  characteristic 
of  a  free  people.  A  woman  shook  her 
head  in  irritated  mystification.  She 
despaired.  No  one  could  understand 
her.  And  then  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
a  familiar  figure.  Not  that  she  knew 
the  person;  but  the  abstracted  glance, 
the  open  countenance,  the  book  in  the 
outer  pocket  all  proclaimed  him.  She 
had  seen  his  like  a  hundred  times  in 
Vernon.  The  book  then  was  red,  but 
the  creature  was  the  same.  They  knew 


336 


fiGALITfi 


French  words,  these  tourists,  if  not 
French. 

'Would  monsieur  have  the  great 
bounty  to  tell  her  — ' 

Monsieur,  it  was  clear,  would  try, 
and,  after  many  preliminaries  of  'Que 
voulez-vous'  and  '  Je  pense,'  he  did  his 
best.  Louise  noticed,  however,  a  sub- 
tle change.  In  Vernon  the  species  was 
free  and  unabashed,  proud,  if  anything, 
of  the  honor  of  conversation.  But  this 
specimen  was  suffering  from  something 
more  acute  than  bad  French.  He 
looked  to  right  and  to  left;  when  she 
fell  into  the  jesting  manner  which  al- 
ways pleased  them,  he  showed  signs  of 
departing.  Furthermore,  this  person, 
who  had  done  nothing  but  accumulate 
information  at  Vernon,  knew  little  or 
nothing  of  his  Fairport.  The  best  she 
could  secure  was  a  note-sheet,  with 
'intelligence-office'  written  upon  it, 
which  she  was  to  show  to  the  first  sage 
individual  who  should  be  met.  This 
kind  action  performed,  he  saw  another 
of  his  variety  approaching  and  saved 
himself  expeditiously  by  flight.  It  was 
very  curious  —  like  the  buildings  in 
New  York. 

So  she  drifted  helplessly  out  into  the 
city,  and  found  herself  in  an  ill-kept 
quarter  aswarm  with  a  brown  and 
dirty  race  which  she  knew  to  be  Ital- 
ian; and  from  there,  marveling,  she 
wandered  into  another  which  Russian 
Jews  and  even  stranger  aliens  possess- 
ed. Nor  were  these  any  longer  the 
passive  brutes  of  the  herd,  but  rough 
and  loud-mouthed,  jostling  her  on  their 
sidewalks,  and  gazing  at  her  foreign 
clothes  with  impudent  contempt.  She 
sought  for  a  gendarme  and,  finding  one, 
showed  her  little  note-sheet.  He  waved 
her  on  to  a  broader  street  on  which 
vast  trams,  bursting  with  men  and 
women,  clanged  and  jolted.  Here  she 
heard  English  again,  and  saw  sights  to 
be  understood,  restaurants,  clothing 
shops,  cafes.  Workmen  were  coming 


home  from  overtime  jobs,  and  once, 
meeting  a  row  of  carpenters,  Louise 
flinched  into  a  doorway  lest  she  should 
meet  Joe  before  the  time.  But  they 
were  all  strangers  whose  eyes  passed 
over  her  without  interest,  and  left  her 
safe,  though  hurt,  she  hardly  knew 
why.  Then  the  crowd  thickened  and 
carried  her  with  it,  unresisting.  It 
eddied  about  a  legless  beggar  and  his 
organ  on  the  curb,  swirled  through  a 
narrow  passageway  beneath  scaffold- 
ing, and,  meeting  a  counter-current, 
flung  her  from  the  channel  and  against 
the  windows  of  a  shop. 

In  the  doorway  above  her  stood  a 
pursy  little  fellow,  hands  on  hips,  a 
knowing  look  on  his  face.  She  had 
seen  his  like  a  hundred  times  in  Ver- 
non. 

*  Monsieur  speaks  French?'  she  ask- 
ed timidly. 

Monsieur's  eyes  left  the  crowd  and 
fell  upon  her  with  interest.  It  was 
clear  that  the  sound  of  his  native 
tongue  pleased  him,  that  it  stirred 
those  instinctive  notions  of  courtesy, 
which  few  Frenchmen  are  without. 
Louise  was  rescued  from  the  crowd  as 
an  exhausted  swimmer  from  an  eddy. 
She  panted  breathless  in  the  doorway 
beside  him.  What  could  he  do  for 
mademoiselle^  He  had  the  honor  to  be 
her  compatriot,  and  to  serve  her  would 
be  a  pleasure.  Louise  warmed  with 
thankfulness.  Again  she  held  forth  her 
note-sheet.  A  stupid  had  given  her  this 
at  the  railroad  station,  but  never  told 
her  how  to  find  her  way.  If  he  would 
be  so  amiable  as  to  help. 

The  intelligence-office,  so  it  proved, 
was  just  in  face  of  them.  She  might  see 
the  name  there  even  as  written  on  the 
paper.  And  then  they  chatted  for  an 
instant,  each  pleased  to  be  voluble  in 
the  familiar  tongue.  He  was  a  mer- 
chant, it  appeared,  once  of  Honfleur. 
He  sold  lace.  Twelve  girls  worked  in  his 
shop;  she  might  see  the  heads  of  six. 


£GALIT£ 


337 


'Ah,  but,  monsieur,  you  may  do  me 
a  favor  then,'  cried  Louise.  '  I  have  no 
room.  I  do  not  know  where  it  is  proper 
for  me  to  go.  Could  I  stay  at  the  pen- 
sion of  some  of  your  mesdemoiselles  for 
the  night  at  least?' 

The  face  of  the  shopkeeper  was 
comical  to  look  upon.  How  explain 
without  offense;  how  make  her  under- 
stand us  Americans,  it  seemed  to  say. 
But  mademoiselle  must  comprehend 
that  his  girls  were  shop-girls;  that  here 
in  America  the  shop-girl  had  a  certain 
enmity  for  those  who  went  into  serv- 
ice. One  gave  ennui  to  the  other.  It 
was  clear,  was  it  not?  But  assuredly  he 
would  find  her  lodgings  and  of  the  most 
respectable. 

'Mees  Riley,'  he  called.  A  tow- 
headed,  freckled  girl  in  a  soiled  shirt- 
waist lounged  to  the  door  and  chewed 
gum  violently  while  he  asked  ques- 
tions in  English.  Louise  saw  the  look 
of  curiosity  bent  upon  her  give  way  to 
a  disparagement  which  rang  in  the  tone 
of  her  answer. 

'Ther's  a  boardin'-house  for  them 
down  on  State  Street,  number  234,' 
were  the  words.  Louise  was  told  the  ad- 
dress; the  tone  needed  no  translation. 

Timid,  puzzled,  her  assurance  fail- 
ing, she  climbed  a  crooked,  dirty  stair- 
case to  the  intelligence-office,  knocked 
on  a  belabeled  door,  and  found  herself 
in  a  stuffy  room  before  a  desk.  A  row 
of  strays  from  all  races,  perched  awk- 
wardly each  in  a  chair,  stared  at  her 
stupidly. 

The  desk  proved  ingratiating  — 
knew  a  little  bad  French,  was  even 
smiling  when  it  had  changed  a  ten 
franc  gold  piece  and  given  back  a  few 
uncountable  pieces  of  a  still  strange 
coin.  Louise  faltered  certain  words 
which  went  to  fill  up  the  blanks  in  a 
formidable  printed  slip,  and,  obeying 
orders,  took  her  seat  with  the  awkward 
ones  at  the  end  of  the  room. 

A  pause.   She  looked  around  her,  at 

VOL.  107  -  NO.  3 


first  timidly,  then  with  more  boldness. 
For  they  were  not  frightening,  those 
others  who  were  waiting  for  a  place. 
One  was  black  with  big  lips,  a  Negress 
evidently;  another  had  the  small  eyes 
and  stupid  mouth  of  a  peasant;  none 
were  neat,  none  looked  as  if  they  could 
please  a  clientele,  or  make  an  addition 
of  six  courses  without  error.  A  sullen 
anger,  stirred  in  her  breast.  She  began 
to  understand.  Was  she  to  be  ranked 
with  these  because  her  trade  was  to 
serve?  Was  there  no  fraternity  in  this 
country?  Were  women  judged  only  by 
their  work? 

The  door  opened  and  a  little  old  lady 
pattered  in.  A  word  at  the  desk,  then 
she  came  straight  to  Louise  and  ad- 
dressed her  in  French.  Alas,  she  wanted 
a  good  cook  and  must  look  further 
down  the  line.  Next  bounced  in  an 
important  personage.  She  trafficked 
shrilly  with  the  desk,  and  then  ran 
down  the  row  of  girls  with  knowing 
eye.  At  Louise  she  hesitated,  sniffed 
'too  independent,'  and  ran  on.  After 
parleyings  she  bounced  out,  followed 
by  a  Swede  with  spiritless  face  and  no 
corsets.  Entered  a  pompous  dame  in 
rustling  silks  who  ignored  the  desk,  but 
tramped  mightily  up  and  down  the 
line.  She  paused  at  Louise,  asked  a 
haughty  question,  failed  to  understand 
her  'plait-il?'  and  rustled  out  of  the 
door  again. 

A  pause.  Louise  drooped  her  head. 
She  was  hungry,  but  that  was  nothing; 
weary,  but  weariness  was  a  familiar.  In 
truth,  she  was  humiliated,  discouraged, 
puzzled  by  it  all.  Why  was  the  sallow- 
faced,  demodee  mademoiselle  of  the  lace 
shop  better  than  she?  Why  did  these 
mesdames  look  at  her  so  angrily?  There 
was  something  bete  in  this  new  country! 

The  door  opened  to  admit  a  gaudy 
creature  in  a  kitchen-garden  hat  who 
strode  up  to  the  desk  and  announced 
that  she  wanted  a  girl.  Not  a  lazy  girl, 
not  a  stuck-up  smart  thing  who  did  n't 


338 


EGALITE 


know  a  lady  when  she  saw  her.  She  was 
going  to  get  married  to-morrow  and 
wanted  a  girl  as  would  be  satisfactory 
from  the  start.  No,  she  would  n't  pay 
more  than  three-fifty,  but  them  servant 
girls  were  n't  worth  more.  She  knew! 

Louise  hated  her  at  sight,  and  all  the 
other  waifs  seemed  to  hate  her  too,  for 
an  insulting  glance  down  the  line  was 
followed  by  a  chorus  of  whisperings. 

'A  shop-girl  till  jes'  a  week  ago  an' 
now  she  wants  a  lady  to  live  out  with 
her!  My  land! '"the  Negress  muttered, 
rolling  the  whites  of  her  eyes  at  Louise, 
who  caught  'shop-girl'  and  remem- 
bered her  experience  of  an  hour  ago. 
Was  it  possible  that  this  vulgar  woman* 
whose  clothes  were  impossible,  who 
talked  like  a  peasant,  and  acted  like  a 
demi-mondaine,  was  superior  to  her! 
She  shrugged,  set  her  eyes  alight  with 
French  impudence,  and  met  the  gaze  of 
the  newcomer  fierily. 

'What's  your  name?' 

'Plait-jl?' 

'Ladle!  Nice  names  in  this  office  — 
Oh,  she  does  n't  understand  English! 
Well,  I  don't  want  any  dagoes  in  my 
kitchen  —  and  nobody  named  Ladle 
anyhow!' 

The  desk  chuckled  politely;  even  the 
line  giggled.  Poor  Louise!  Uncompre- 
hending, she  struggled  with  the  rage  of 
those  who  fight  in  the  dark.  She  had 
been  made  ridiculous,  and  all  the  biting 
blague  which  rose  to  her  lips  was  of  no 
avail.  To  scream,  to  scratch  like  the 
drunken  women  on  the  quays  at  Rouen, 
would  have  been  a  relief.  And  even 
words  were  denied  her! 

The  door  opened,  and  in  came  — 
Joe  Moon.  Hesitant,  embarrassed, 
fumbling  with  his  hat  and  looking  only 
at  the  desk  and  her  enemy,  he  sham- 
bled across  the  room.  Louise  turned 
giddy  with  the  surprise  of  it,  and  then 
a  warm  rush  of  blood  made  her  tingle 
with  joy.  In  the  depths  of  her  hu- 
miliation somehow  he  had  found  her. 


He  had  followed  her  unasked.  He  had 
come  to  rescue  her  from  this  horror. 
She  watched,  breathless,  his  dear  fa- 
miliar movements,  saw  the  coat-collar 
that  was  always  turned  up,  the  necktie, 
as  ever,  under  his  ear.  He  spoke  a  sul- 
len word  to  the  desk,  and  turned.  Lou- 
ise, trembling,  half-rose  to  meet  him, 
and  their  eyes  met,  hers  dewy  with  ex- 
pectancy, his  round  with  utter  surprise. 
Their  glances  met  and  clung;  then,  in 
utter  shame,  Louise  sank  back  in  her 
chair.  For  Joe  Moon  had  flushed,  had 
known  her,  and,  like  a  whipped  dog, 
his  glance  had  slunk  away.  Confusion 
beat  in  her  ears;  a  thousand  horrid  sur- 
mises sprang  to  her  mind ;  then  despair, 
then  incredulity,  then  disbelief.  She 
raised  her  eyes  again,  and  saw  him, 
brick-red,  shame-faced,  but  dogged, 
moving  towards  the  door.  The  crea- 
ture's hand  was  on  his  arm;  pride  of 
possession  shone  in  her  eyes;  the  door 
closed. 

A  pause.  The  little  old  lady,  who 
had  been  pursuing  murmured  investiga- 
tions at  the  other  end  of  the  line,  pat- 
tered back  to  Louise.  'My  dear,'  she 
said,  'even  though  you  can't  cook,  I  like 
your  face  and  I  think  I  will  take  you. 
Will  you  come  to-night?' 

But  Louise  was  all  stone.  'No,  ma- 
dame,'  she  answered  dully.  'I  will 
never  go  into  service  —  never,  never, 
never! '  Suddenly  her  control  gave  way 
and  she  burst  into  passionate  tears. 
'Am  I  not  as  good  as  these  shop-girls?' 
she  sobbed. 

The  old  lady  looked  at  her  with 
pitying  comprehension.  'Don't  cry, 
my  dear,'  she  said.  '  Of  course  you  are. 
But  they  won't  admit  it  because  — 
well,  because  it  is  America.  But  per- 
haps you'll  be  able  to  say  some  day 
that  you  are  better  than  they  are,  and 
that — '  she  hesitated,  'well,  that  will 
be  because  it  is  America.  Won't  you 
come  with  me?' 

And  Louise  went, 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


BY   JOHN   MUIR 


July  15  [1869].— Followed  the  Mono 
Trail  up  the  eastern  rim  of  the  basin 
nearly  to  its  summit,  then  turned  off 
southward  to  a  small  shallow  valley 
that  extends  to  the  edge  of  the  Yo- 
semite,  which  we  reached  about  noon 
and  encamped.  After  luncheon  I  made 
haste  to  high  ground,  and  from  the  top 
of  the  ridge  on  the  west  side  of  Indian 
Canon  gained  the  noblest  view  of  the 
summit  peaks  I  have  ever  yet  enjoyed. 
Nearly  all  the  upper  basin  of  the  Mer- 
ced was  displayed,  with  its  sublime 
domes  and  canons,  dark  upsweeping 
forests  and  glorious  array  of  white 
peaks  deep  in  the  sky,  every  feature 
glowing,  radiating  beauty  that  pours 
into  our  flesh  and  bones  like  heat-rays 
from  fire.  Sunshine  over  all;  no  breath 
of  wind  to  stir  the  brooding  calm. 

Never  before  had  I  seen  so  glorious  a 
landscape,  so  boundless  an  affluence  of 
sublime  mountain  beauty.  The  most 
extravagant  description  I  might  give 
of  this  view  to  any  one  who  has  not 
seen  similar  landscapes  with  his  own 
eyes  would  not  so  much  as  hint  its 
grandeur,  and  the  spiritual  glow  that 
covered  it.  I  shouted  and  gesticulated 
in  a  wild  burst  of  ecstasy,  much  to  the 
astonishment  of  St.  Bernard  Carlo,  who 
came  running  up  to  me,  manifesting  in 
his  intelligent  eyes  a  puzzled  concern 
that  was  very  ludicrous,  and  had  the 
effect  of  bringing  me  to  my  common 
senses.  A  brown  bear  too,  it  would  seem, 
had  been  a  spectator  of  the  show  I  had 
made  of  myself,  for  I  had  gone  but  a 

1  Earlier  portions  of  this  journal  were  pub- 
lished in  the  January  and  February  Atlantic.  — 
THE  EDITORS. 


few  yards  when  I  started  one  from  a 
thicket  of  brush.  He  evidently  consid- 
ered me  dangerous,  for  he  ran  away 
very  fast,  tumbling  over  the  tops  of  the 
manzanita  bushes  in  his  haste.  Carlo 
drew  back  with  his  ears  depressed,  as  if 
afraid,  and  looked  me  in  the  face  as  if 
expecting  me  to  pursue,  for  he  had  seen 
many  a  bear  battle  in  his  day. 

Following  the  ridge,  which  made  a 
gradual  descent  to  the  south,  I  came  at 
length  to  the  brow  of  that  massive 
cliff  that  stands  between  Indian  Canon 
and  Yosemite  Falls,  and  here  the  far- 
famed  valley  came  suddenly  into  view 
throughout  almost  its  whole  extent:  the 
noble  walls,  sculptured  into  endless  va- 
riety of  domes  and  gables,  spires  and 
battlements  and  plain  mural  precipices, 
all  a-tremble  with  the  thunder  tones  of 
the  falling  water.  The  level  bottom 
seemed  to  be  dressed  like  a  garden, 
sunny  meadows  here  and  there  and 
groves  of  pine  and  oak,  the  river  of 
Mercy  sweeping  in  majesty  through 
the  midst  of  them  and  flashing  back 
the  sunbeams.  The  great  Tissiack  or 
Half  Dome,  rising  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  valley  to  a  height  of  nearly  a  mile, 
is  nobly  proportioned  and  lifelike,  the 
most  impressive  of  all  the  rocks,  hold- 
ing the  eye  in  devout  admiration,  call- 
ing it  back  again  and  again  from  falls 
or  meadows  or  even  the  mountains  be- 
yond,—  marvelous  cliffs,  marvelous  in 
sheer  dizzy  depth  and  sculpture,  types 
of  endurance.  Thousands  of  years  have 
they  stood  in  the  sky,  exposed  to  rain, 
snow,  frost,  earthquake,  and  avalanche, 
yet  they  still  wear  the  bloom  of  youth. 

I  rambled  along  the  valley-rim  to 

889 


340 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


the  westward;  most  of  it  is  rounded  off 
on  the  very  brink  so  that  it  is  not  easy 
to  find  places  where  one  may  look  clear 
down  the  face  of  the  wall  to  the  bot- 
tom. When  such  places  were  found, 
and  I  had  cautiously  set  my  feet  and 
drawn  my  body  erect,  I  could  not  help 
fearing  a  little  that  the  rock  might 
split  off  and  let  me  down;  and  what  a 
down — more  than  three  thousand  feet! 
Still  my  limbs  did  not  tremble,  nor  did 
I  feel  the  least  uncertainty  as  to  the  re- 
liance to  be  placed  on  them.  My  only 
fear  was  that  a  flake  of  the  granite, 
which  in  some  places  showed  joints 
more  or  less  open  and  running  parallel 
with  the  face  of  the  cliff,  might  give 
way.  After  withdrawing  from  such 
places  excited  with  the  view  I  had  got, 
I  would  say  to  myself,  '  Now  don't  go 
out  on  the  verge  again.'  But  in  the  face 
of  Yosemite  scenery  cautious  remon- 
strance is  vain;  under  its  spell  one's 
body  seems  to  go  where  it  likes,  with  a 
will  over  which  we  seem  to  have  scarce 
any  control. 

After  a  mile  or  so  of  this  memorable 
cliff  work  I  approached  Yosemite  Creek, 
admiring  its  easy,  graceful,  confident 
gestures  as  it  comes  bravely  forward 
in  its  narrow  channel,  singing  the  last 
of  its  mountain  songs  on  its  way  to  its 
fate,  —  a  few  rods  more  over  the  shin- 
ing granite,  then  down  half  a  mile  in 
snowy  foam  to  another  world,  to  be 
lost  in  the  Merced,  where  climate,  veg- 
etation, inhabitants,  all  are  different. 
Emerging  from  its  last  gorge,  it  glides 
in  wide  lace-like  rapids  down  a  smooth 
incline  into  a  pool,  where  it  seems  to 
rest  and  compose  its  gray,  agitated 
waters  before  taking  the  grand  plunge; 
then  slowly  slipping  over  the  lip  of  the 
pool  basin  it  descends  another  glossy 
slope  with  rapidly  accelerated  speed  to 
the  brink  of  the  tremendous  cliff,  and 
with  sublime,  fateful  confidence  springs 
out  free  in  the  air. 

I  took  off  my  shoes  and  stockings, 


and  worked  my  way  cautiously  down 
alongside  the  rushing  flood,  keeping  my 
feet  and  hands  pressed  firmly  on  the 
polished  rock.  The  booming,  roaring 
water  rushing  past  close  to  my  head 
was  very  exciting.  I  had  expected  that 
the  sloping  apron  would  terminate  with 
the  perpendicular  wall  of  the  valley, 
and  that  from  the  foot  of  it  where  it  is 
less  steeply  inclined  I  should  be  able  to 
lean  far  enough  out  to  see  the  forms 
and  behavior  of  the  fall  all  the  way 
down  to  the  bottom.  But  I  found  that 
there  was  yet  another  small  brow  over 
which  I  could  not  see,  and  which  ap- 
peared to  be  too  steep  for  mortal  feet. 
Scanning  it  keenly,  I  discovered  a  nar- 
row shelf  about  three  inches  wide  on 
the  very  brink,  just  wide  enough  for  a 
rest  for  one's  heels.  But  there  seemed 
to  be  no  way  of  reaching  it  over  so  steep 
a  brow. 

At  length,  after  careful  scrutiny  of 
the  surface,  I  found  an  irregular  edge 
of  a  flake  of  the  rock  some  distance 
back  from  the  margin  of  the  torrent. 
If  I  was  to  get  down  to  the  brink  at  all, 
that  rough  edge,  which  might  offer 
slight  finger-holds,  was  the  only  way. 
But  the  slope  beside  it  looked  dan- 
gerously smooth  and  steep,  and  the 
swift,  roaring  flood  beneath,  overhead, 
and  beside  me  was  very  nerve-trying. 
I  therefore  concluded  not  to  venture 
farther,  but  did  nevertheless.  Tufts 
of  artemisia  were  growing  in  clefts  of 
the  rock  near  by,  and  I  filled  my  mouth 
with  the  bitter  leaves,  hoping  they 
might  help  to  prevent  giddiness.  Then, 
with  a  caution  not  known  in  ordinary 
circumstances,  I  crept  down  safely  to 
the  little  ledge,  got  my  heels  well  plant- 
ed on  it,  then  shuffled  in  a  horizontal 
direction  twenty  or  thirty  feet  until 
close  to  the  outplunging  current,  which 
by  the  time  it  had  descended  thus  far 
was  already  white.  Here  I  obtained  a 
perfectly  free  view  down  into  the  heart 
of  the  snowy,  chanting  throng  of  comet- 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


341 


like  streamers  into  which  the  body  of 
the  fall  soon  separates. 

While  perched  on  that  narrow  niche 
I  was  not  distinctly  conscious  of  dan- 
ger. The  tremendous  grandeur  of  the 
fall  in  form  and  sound  and  motion  act- 
ing at  close  range  smothered  the  sense 
of  fear,  and  in  such  places  one's  body 
takes  keen  care  for  safety  on  its  own 
account.  How  long  I  remained  down 
there,  or  how  I  returned,  I  can  hardly 
tell.  Anyhow,  I  had  a  glorious  time, 
and  got  back  to  camp  about  dark,  en- 
joying triumphant  exhilaration,  soon 
followed  by  dull  weariness.  Hereafter 
I'll  try  to  keep  away  from  such  ex- 
travagant, nerve-straining  places.  Yet 
such  a  day  is  well  worth  venturing  for. 
My  first  view  of  the  High  Sierra,  first 
view  looking  down  into  Yosemite,  the 
death-song  of  Yosemite  Creek,  and  its 
flight  over  the  vast  cliff,  each  one  of 
these  is  of  itself  enough  for  a  great  life- 
long landscape  fortune  —  a  most  mem- 
orable day  of  days — enjoyment  enough 
to  kill,  if  that  were  possible. 

July  16.  —  My  enjoyments  yester- 
day afternoon,  especially  at  the  head 
of  the  fall,  were  too  great  for  good  sleep. 
Kept  starting  up  last  night  in  a  nervous 
tremor,  half-awake,  fancying  that  the 
foundation  of  the  mountain  we  were 
camped  on  had  given  way,  and  was 
falling  into  Yosemite  Valley.  In  vain 
I  roused  myself  to  make  a  new  begin- 
ning for  sound  sleep.  The  nerve-strain 
had  been  too  great,  and  again  and  again 
I  dreamed  I  was  rushing  through  the 
air  above  a  glorious  avalanche  of  water 
and  rocks.  One  time,  springing  to  my 
feet,  I  said, 'this  time  it  is  real — all 
must  die,  and  where  could  mountaineer 
find  a  more  glorious  death.' 

July  20.  —  Our  shepherd  is  a  queer 
character,  and  hard  to  place  in  this 
wilderness.  His  bed  is  a  hollow  made 
in  red,  dry-rot,  punky  dust  beside  a  log 


which  forms  a  portion  of  the  south  wall 
of  the  corral.  Here  he  lies  with  his  won- 
derful, everlasting  clothing  on,  wrapped 
in  a  red  blanket,  breathing  not  only  the 
dust  of  the  decayed  wood  but  also  that 
of  the  corral,  as  if  determined  to  take 
ammoniacal  snuff  all  night  after  chew- 
ing tobacco  all  day.  Following  the 
sheep,  he  carries  a  heavy  six-shooter 
swung  from  his  belt  on  one  side,  and 
his  luncheon  on  the  other.  The  ancient 
cloth  in  which  the  meat,  fresh  from  the 
frying-pan,  is  tied,  serves  as  a  filter 
through  which  the  clear  fat  and  gravy 
juices  drip  down  on  his  hip  and  leg 
in  clustering  stalactites.  This  oleagin- 
ous formation  is  soon  broken  up,  how- 
ever, and  diffused  and  rubbed  even- 
ly into  his  scanty  apparel,  by  sitting 
down,  rolling  over,  crossing  his  legs 
while  resting  on  logs,  etc.,  making  shirt 
and  trousers  water-tight  and  shiny. 

His  trousers  in  particular  have  be- 
come so  adhesive  with  the  mixed  fat  and 
resin,  that  pine-needles,  thin  flakes 
and  fibres  of  bark,  hair,  mica-scales,  and 
minute  grains  of  quartz,  hornblende, 
etc.,  feathers,  seed,  wings,  moth  and 
butterfly  wings,  legs  and  antennae  of  in- 
numerable insects,  or  even  whole  insects 
such  as  the  small  beetles,  moths,  and 
mosquitoes,  with  flower-petals,  pollen 
dust,  and  indeed  bits  of  all  plants,  ani- 
mals, and  minerals  of  the  region,  adhere 
to  them,  and  are  safely  imbedded,  so 
that,'though  far  from  being  a  naturalist, 
he  collects  fragmentary  specimens  of 
everything,  and  becomes  richer  than  he 
knows.  His  specimens  are  kept  pass- 
ably fresh  too  by  the  purity  of  the  air 
and  the  resiny  bituminous  beds  into 
which  they  are  pressed.  Man  is  a  mi- 
crocosm; at  least  our  shepherd  is,  or 
rather  his  trousers.  These  precious 
overalls  are  never  taken  off,  and  no- 
body knows  how  old  they  are,  though 
one  may  guess  by  then*  thickness  and 
concentric  structure.  Instead  of  wear- 
ing thin  they  wear  thick,  and  in  their 


342 


stratification  have  no  small  geological 
significance. 

Besides  herding  the  sheep,  Billy  is 
the  butcher,  while  I  have  agreed  to 
wash  the  few  iron  and  tin  utensils,  and 
make  the  bread.  Then,  these  small 
duties  done,  by  the  time  the  sun  is  fair- 
ly above  the  mountain-tops  I  am  be- 
yond the  flock,  free  to  rove  and  revel 
in  wildness  all  the  big,  immortal  days. 

Sketching  on  the  North  Dome.  It 
commands  views  of  nearly  all  the  val- 
ley, besides  a  few  of  the  high  moun- 
tains. I  would  fain  draw  everything  in 
sight,  —  rock,  tree,  and  leaf.  But  lit- 
tle can  I  do  beyond  mere  outlines,  — 
marks  with  meanings  like  words,  read- 
able only  to  myself;  yet  I  sharpen  my 
pencils  and  work  on  as  if  others  might 
possibly  be  benefited.  Whether  these 
picture-sheets  are  to  vanish  like  fallen 
leaves  or  go  to  friends  like  letters,  mat- 
ters not  much,  for  little  can  they  tell 
to  those  who  have  not  themselves  seen 
similar  wildness,  and  like  a  language 
have  learned  it. 

No  pain  here,  no  dull  empty  hours, 
no  fear  of  the  past,  no  fear  of  the 
future.  These  blessed  mountains  are 
so  compactly  filled  with  God's  beauty, 
no  petty  personal  hope  or  experi- 
ence has  room  to  be.  Drinking  this 
champagne-water  is  pure  pleasure,  so 
is  breathing  the  living  air,  and  every 
movement  of  limbs  is  pleasure,  while 
the  whole  body  seems  to  feel  beauty 
when  exposed  to  it  as  it  feels  the  camp- 
fire  or  sunshine,  entering  not  by  the 
eyes  alone,  but  equally  through  all 
one's  flesh,  like  radiant  heat,  making 
a  passionate  ecstatic  pleasure-glow  not 
explainable.  One's  body  then  seems 
homogeneous  throughout,  sound  as  a 
crystal. 

Perched  like  a  fly  on  this  Yosemite 
dome,  I  gaze  and  sketch  and  bask, 
oftentimes  settling  down  into  dumb 
admiration  without  definite  hope  of 
ever  learning  much,  yet  with  the  long- 


ing, unresting  effort  that  lies  at  the  door 
of  hope,  humbly  prostrate  before  the 
vast  display  of  God's  power,  and  eager 
to  offer  self-denial  and  renunciation 
with  eternal  toil  to  learn  any  lesson  in 
the  divine  manuscript. 

It  is  easier  to  feel  than  to  realize,  or 
in  any  way  explain,  Yosemite  grandeur. 
The  magnitudes  of  the  rocks  and  trees 
and  streams  are  so  delicately  harmon- 
ized, they  are  mostly  hidden.  Sheer 
precipices  three  thousand  feet  high  are 
fringed  with  tall  trees  growing  close 
like  grass  on  the  brow  of  a  lowland  hill, 
and  extending  along  the  feet  of  these 
precipices  a  ribbon  of  meadow  a  mile 
wide  and  seven  or  eight  long  that  seems 
like  a  strip  a  farmer  might  mow  in  less 
than  a  day.  Waterfalls  five  hundred  to 
one  or  two  thousand  feet  high  are  so 
subordinated  to  the  mighty  cliffs  over 
which  they  pour,  they  seem  like  wisps 
of  smoke,  gentle  as  floating  clouds, 
though  their  voices  fill  the  valley  and 
make  the  rocks  tremble.  The  moun- 
tains, too,  along  the  eastern  sky,  and 
the  domes  in  front  of  them,  and  the 
succession  of  smooth,  rounded  waves 
between,  swelling  higher,  with  dark 
woods  in  their  hollows,  serene  in  mass- 
ive, exuberant  bulk  and  beauty,  tend 
yet  more  to  hide  the  grandeur  of  the 
Yosemite  temple,  and  make  it  appear 
as  a  subdued,  subordinate  feature  of 
the  vast  harmonious  landscape.  Thus 
every  attempt  to  appreciate  any  one 
feature  is  beaten  down  by  the  over- 
whelming influence  of  all  the  others. 
And  as  if  this  were  not  enough,  lo,  in 
the  sky  arises  another  mountain-range 
with  topography  as  rugged  and  sub- 
stantial-looking as  the  one  beneath  it, 
—  snowy  peaks  and  domes  and  shad- 
owy Yosemite  valleys,  —  another  ver- 
sion of  the  snowy  Sierra,  a  new  creation, 
heralded  by  a  thunderstorm. 

How  fiercely,  devoutly  wild  is  Na- 
ture in  the  midst  of  her  beauty-loving 
tenderness,  —  painting  lilies,  watering 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


343 


them,  and  caressing  them  with  gentle 
hand;  going  from  flower  to  flower 
like  a  gardener,  while  building  rock- 
mountains  and  cloud-mountains  full 
of  lightning  and  rain.  Gladly  we  run 
for  shelter  beneath  an  overhanging  cliff, 
and  examine  the  reassuring  ferns  and 
mosses,  gentle  love-tokens  growing  in 
cracks  and  chinks.  Daisies  too  and 
ivesias,  confiding  wild  children  of  light 
too  small  to  fear.  To  these  one's  heairt 
goes  home,  and  the  voices  of  the  storm 
become  gentle. 

Now  the  sun  breaks  forth,  and  fra- 
grant steam  arises.  The  birds  are  out 
singing  on  the  edges  of  the  groves.  The 
west  is  flaming  in  gold  and  purple, 
ready  for  the  ceremony  of  the  sunset, 
and  back  I  go  to  camp  with  my  notes 
and  pictures,  the  best  of  them  printed 
in  my  mind  as  dreams.  A  fruitful  day, 
without  measured  beginning  or  end- 
ing. A  terrestrial  eternity.  A  gift  of 
good  God. 

Wrote  to  my  mother  and  a  few 
friends,  mountain  hints  to  each.  They 
seem  as  near  as  if  within  voice-reach  or 
touch.  The  deeper  the  solitude  the  less 
the  sense  of  loneliness,  and  the  nearer 
our  friends.  Now  bread  and  tea,  fir 
bed  and  good-night  to  Carlo,  a  look 
at  the  sky  lilies,  and  death-sleep  until 
the  dawn  of  another  Sierra  to-morrow. 

July  21. — Sketching  on  the  dome, — 
no  rain;  clouds  at  noon  about  quarter 
filled  the  sky,  casting  shadows  with  fine 
sffect  on  the  white  mountains  at  the 
heads  of  the  streams,  and  a  soothing 
cover  over  the  gardens  during  the  warm 
hours. 

Saw  a  common  housefly  and  a  grass- 
hopper and  a  brown  bear.  The  fly  and 
grasshopper  paid  me  a  merry  visit  on 
the  top  of  the  dome,  and  I  paid  a  visit 
to  the  bear  in  the  middle  of  a  small 
garden  meadow  between  the  dome  and 
the  camp,  where  he  was  standing  alert 
among  the  flowers  as  if  willing  to  be 


seen  to  advantage.  I  had  not  gone  more 
than  half  a  mile  from  camp  this  morn- 
ing when  Carlo,  who  was  trotting  on  a 
few  yards  ahead  of  me,  came  to  a  sud- 
den, cautious  standstill.  Down  went 
tail  and  ears,  and  forward  went  his 
knowing*  nose,  while  he  seemed  to  be 
saying,  'Ha,  what's  this?  A  bear,  I 
guess.'  Then  a  cautious  advance  of  a 
few  steps,  setting  his  feet  down  softly . 
like  a  hunting  cat,  and  questioning  the 
air  as  to  the  scent  he  had  caught,  until 
all  doubt  vanished.  Then  he  came 
back  to  me,  looked  me  in  the  face,  and 
with  his  speaking  eyes  reported  a  bear 
near  by;  then  led  on  softly,  careful  like 
an  experienced  hunter  not  to  make  the 
slightest  noise,  and  frequently  looking 
back  as  if  whispering,  'Yes,  it's  a  bear; 
come  and  I'll  show  you.' 

Presently  we  came  to  where  the  sun- 
beams were  streaming  through  between 
the  purple  shafts  of  the  firs,  showing 
that  we  were  nearing  an  open  spot; 
and  here  Carlo  came  behind  me,  evi- 
dently sure  that  the  bear  was  very  near. 
So  I  crept  to  a  low  ridge  of  moraine 
boulders  on  the  edge  of  a  narrow  gar- 
den meadow,  and  in  this  meadow  I 
felt  pretty  sure  the  bear  must  be. 

I  was  anxious  to  get  a  good  look  at 
the  sturdy  mountaineer  without  alarm- 
ing him;  so  drawing  myself  up  noise- 
lessly behind  one  of  the  largest  of  the 
trees,  I  peered  past  its  bulging  but- 
tresses, exposing  only  a  part  of  my 
head;  and  there  stood  neighbor  Bruin 
within  a  stone-throw,  his  hips  cover- 
ed by  tall  grass  and  flowers,  and  his 
front  feet  on  the  trunk  of  a  fir  that 
had  fallen  out  into  the  meadow,  which 
raised  his  head  so  high  that  he  seemed 
to  be  standing  erect.  He  had  not  yet 
seen  me,  but  was  looking  and  listening 
attentively,  showing  that  in  some  way 
he  was  aware  of  our  approach.  I 
watched  his  gestures,  and  tried  to  make 
the  most  of  my  opportunity  to  learn 
what  I  could  about  him,  fearing  he 


344 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


would  catch  sight  of  me  and  run  away. 
For  I  had  been  told  that  this  sort  of 
bear,  the  cinnamon,  always  ran  from 
his  bad  brother  man,  never  showing 
fight  unless  wounded  or  in  defense  of 
young. 

He  made  a  telling  picture,  stand- 
ing alert  in  the  sunny  forest  garden. 
How  well  he  played  his  part,  harmon- 
izing in  bulk  and  color  and  shaggy 
hair  with  the  trunks  of  the  trees  and 
lush  vegetation,  as  natural  a  feature 
as  any  other  in  the  landscape.  After 
examining  at  leisure,  noting  the  sharp 
muzzle  thrust  inquiringly  forward,  the 
long  shaggy  hair  on  his  broad  chest, 
the  stiff  erect  ears  nearly  buried  in  hai/, 
and  the  slow  heavy  way  he  moved  his 
head,  I  thought  I  would  like  to  see  his 
gait  in  running,  so  I  made  a  sudden 
rush  at  him,  shouting  and  swinging  my 
hat  to  frighten  him,  expecting  to  see 
him  make  haste  to  get  away.  But  to 
my  dismay  he  did  not  run  or  show  any 
sign  of  running.  On  the  contrary  he 
stood  his  ground,  ready  to  fight  and  de- 
fend himself,  lowered  his  head,  thrust 
it  forward,  and  looked  sharp  and  fierce 
at  me.  Then  I  suddenly  began  to  fear 
that  upon  me  would  fall  the  work  of 
running;  but  I  was  afraid  to  run,  and 
therefore,  like  the  bear,  held  my  ground. 

We  stood  staring  at  each  other  in 
solemn  silence  within  a  dozen  yards  or 
thereabouts,  while  I  fervently  hoped 
that  the  power  of  the  human  eye  over 
wild  beasts  would  prove  as  great  as  it  is 
said  to  be.  How  long  our  awfully  stren- 
uous interview  lasted  I  don't  know,  but 
at  length  in  the  slow  fullness  of  time 
he  pulled  his  huge  paws  down  off  the 
log,  and  with  magnificent  deliberation 
turned  and  walked  leisurely  up  the 
meadow,  stopping  frequently  to  look 
back  over  his  shoulder  to  see  whether 
I  was  pursuing  him,  then  moving  on 
again,  evidently  neither  fearing  me 
very  much  nor  trusting  me.  He  was 
probably  about  five  hundred  pounds  in 


weight,  a  broad  rusty  bundle  of  ungov- 
ernable wildness,  a  happy  fellow  whose 
lines  have  fallen  in  pleasant  places.  The 
flowery  glade  in  which  I  saw  him  so 
well,  framed  like  a  picture,  is  one  of 
the  best  of  all  I  have  yet  discovered, 
a  conservatory  of  Nature's  precious 
plant  people.  Tall  lilies  were  swinging 
their  bells  over  that  bear's  back,  with 
geraniums,  larkspurs,  columbines,  and 
daisies  brushing  against  his  sides.  A 
place  for  angels,  one  would  say,  instead 
of  bears. 

July  23.  —  Another  midday  cloud- 
land,  displaying  power  and  beauty  that 
one  never  wearies  in  beholding,  but 
hopelessly  unsketchable  and  untell- 
able.  What  can  poor  mortals  say  about 
clouds?  While  a  description  of  their 
huge,  glowing  domes  and  ridges,  shad- 
owy gulfs  and  canons  and  feather-edged 
ravines  is  being  tried,  they  vanish,  leav- 
ing no  visible  ruins.  Nevertheless  these 
fleeting  sky-mountains  are  as  substan- 
tial and  significant  as  the  more  lasting 
upheavals  of  granite  beneath  them. 
Both  alike  are  built  up  and  die,  and  in 
God's  calendar  difference  of  duration 
is  nothing.  We  can  only  dream  about 
them  in  wondering,  worshiping  admir- 
ation, happier  than  we  dare  tell  even  to 
friends  who  see  furthest  in  sympathy, 
glad  to  know  that  not  a  crystal  or 
vapor  particle  of  them,  hard  or  soft,  is 
lost,  —  that  they  sink  and  vanish  only 
to  rise  again  and  again  in  higher  and 
higher  beauty.  As  to  our  own  work, 
duty,  influence,  etc.,  concerning  which 
so  much  fussy  pother  is  made,  it  will 
not  fail  of  its  due  effect,  though  like  a 
lichen  on  a  stone  we  keep  silent. 

July  24.  —  Clouds  at  noon  occupy- 
ing about  half  the  sky  gave  half  an 
hour  of  heavy  rain  to  wash  one  of  the 
cleanest  landscapes  in  the  world.  How 
well  it  is  washed!  The  sea  is  hardly 
less  dusty  than  the  ice-burnished  pave- 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


345 


ments  and  ridges,  domes  and  canons, 
and  summit  peaks  plashed  with  snow 
like  waves  with  foam.  How  fresh  the 
woods  are  and  calm  after  the  last  films 
of  clouds  have  been  wiped  from  the 
sky.  A  few  minutes  ago  every  tree  was 
excited,  bowing  to  the  roaring  storm, 
waving,  swirling,  tossing  its  branches 
in  glorious  enthusiasm  like  worship. 
But  though  to  the  outer  ear  these  trees 
are  now  silent,  their  songs  never  cease. 
Every  hidden  cell  is  throbbing  with 
music  and  life,  every  fibre  thrilling  like 
harp-strings,  while  incense  is  ever  flow- 
ing from  the  balsam  bells  and  leaves. 

No  wonder  the  hills  and  groves  were 
God's  first  temples,  and  the  more  they 
are  cut  down  and  hewn  into  cathedrals 
and  churches  the  farther  off  and  dim- 
mer seems  the  Lord  himself.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  stone  temples.  Yonder 
to  the  eastward  of  our  camp-grove 
stands  one  of  Nature's  cathedrals  hewn 
from  the  living  rock,  almost  conven- 
tional in  form,  about  two  thousand 
feet  high,  nobly  adorned  with  spires 
and  pinnacles,  thrilling  under  floods  of 
sunshine  as  if  alive  like  a  grove-temple, 
and  well  named  'Cathedral  Peak.' 

Even  Shepherd  Billy  turns  at  times 
to  this  wonderful  mountain-building, 
though  apparently  deaf  to  all  stone-ser- 
mons. Snow  that  refused  to  melt  in  fire 
would  hardly  be  more  wonderful  than 
unchanging  dullness  in  the  rays  of  God's 
beauty.  I  have  been  trying  to  get  him 
to  walk  to  the  brink  of  Yosemite  for  a 
view,  offering  to  watch  the  sheep  for 
a  day,  while  he  should  enjoy  what  tour- 
ists come  from  all  over  the  world  to 
see.  But  though  within  a  mile  of  the 
famous  valley,  he  will  not  go  to  it, 
even  out  of  mere  curiosity. 

'  What,'  says  he,  '  is  Yosemite  but  a 
canon,  —  a  lot  of  rocks, —  a  hole  in  the 
ground,  — a  place  dangerous  about  fall- 
ing into, — a  d d  good  place  to  keep 

away  from?' 

'  But  think  of  the  waterfalls,  Billy, 


—  just  think  of  that  big  stream  we 
crossed  the  other  day,  falling  half  a 
mile  through  the  air,  —  think  of  that 
and  the  sound  it  makes.  You  can  hear 
it  now  like  the  roar  of  the  sea.' 

Thus  I  pressed  Yosemite  upon  him, 
like  a  missionary  offering  the  gospel, 
but  he  would  have  none  of  it.  '  I  would 
be  afraid  to  look  over  so  high  a  wall,' 
he  said. '  It  would  make  my  head  swim; 
there  is  nothing  worth  seeing  anyway, 
only  rocks,  and  I  see  plenty  of  them 
here.  Tourists  that  spend  their  money 
to  see  rocks  and  falls  are  fools,  that 's 
all.  You  can't  humbug  me.  I  've  been 
in  this  country  too  long  for  that.' 

Such  souls,  I  suppose,  are  asleep,  or 
smothered  and  befogged  beneath  mean 
pleasures  and  cares. 

July  26.  —  How  boundless  the  day 
seems  as  we  revel  in  these  storm-beaten 
sky-gardens  amid  so  vast  a  congrega- 
tion of  onlooking  mountains.  Strange 
and  admirable  it  is  that  the  more  sav- 
age and  chilly  and  storm-chafed  the 
mountains,  the  finer  the  glow  on  their 
faces  and  the  finer  the  plants  they  bear. 
The  myriads  of  flowers  tingeing  the 
mountain-top  do  not  seem  to  have 
grown  out  of  the  dry,  rough  gravel  of 
disintegration,  but  rather  they  appear 
as  visitors,  a  cloud  of  witnesses  to 
Nature's  love  in  what  we  in  our  timid 
ignorance  and  unbelief  call  howling 
desert.  The  surface  of  the  ground,  so 
dull  and  forbidding  at  first  sight,  be- 
sides being  rich  in  plants,  shines  and 
sparkles  with  crystals,  —  mica,  horn- 
blende, feldspar,  quartz,  and  tourma- 
line. The  radiance  in  some  places  is 
so  great  as  to  be  fairly  dazzling,  keen 
lance-rays  of  every  color  flashing,  spar- 
kling in  glorious  abundance,  joining 
the  plants  in  their  fine,  brave  beauty- 
work,  — every  flower,  every  crystal,  a 
window  opening  into  heaven,  a  mirror 
reflecting  the  Creator. 

From  garden  to  garden,   ridge  to 


346 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


ridge,  I  drifted  enchanted,  now  on  my 
knees  gazing  into  the  face  of  a  daisy, 
now  climbing  again  and  again  among 
the  purple  and  azure  flowers  of  the 
hemlocks,  now  down  into  the  treasuries 
of  the  snow,  or  gazing  afar  over  domes 
and  peaks,  lakes  and  woods,  and  the 
billowy  glaciated  fields  of  the  upper 
Tuolumne,  and  trying  to  sketch  them. 
In  the  midst  of  such  beauty,  pierced 
with  its  rays,  one's  body  is  all  one 
tingling  palate.  Who  would  n't  be  a 
mountaineer!  Up  here  all  the  world's 
prizes  seem  nothing. 

July  30.  —  Ants,  flies,  and  mosquitoes 
seem  to  enjoy  this  fine  climate.  A  few 
house-flies  have  discovered  our  camp. 
The  Sierra  mosquitoes  are  courageous 
and  of  good  size,  some  of  them  measur- 
ing nearly  an  inch  from  tip  of  sting  to 
tip  of  folded  wings.  Though  less  abund- 
ant than  in  most  wildernesses,  they 
occasionally  make  quite  a  hum  and  stir, 
and  pay  but  little  attention  to  time 
or  place.  They  sting  anywhere,  any 
time  of  day,  wherever  they  can  find 
anything  worth  while,  until  they  are 
themselves  stung  by  frost.  The  large 
jet-black  ants  are  only  ticklish  and 
troublesome  when  one  is  lying  down 
under  the  trees.  Noticed  a  borer  drill- 
ing a  silver  fir;  ovipositor  about  an 
inch  and  a  half  in  length,  polished  and 
straight  like  a  needle.  When  not  in  use 
it  is  folded  back  in  a  sheath,  which 
extends  straight  behind  like  the  legs  of 
a  crane  in  flying.  This  drilling,  I  sup- 
pose, is  to  save  nest-building  and  the 
after  care  of  feeding  the  young.  Who 
would  guess  that  in  the  brain  of  a  fly 
so  much  knowledge  could  find  lodg- 
ment? How  do  they  know  that  their 
eggs  will  hatch  in  such  holes,  or  after 
they  hatch,  that  the  soft  helpless  grubs 
will  find  the  right  sort  of  nourishment 
in  silver-fir  sap? 

This  domestic  arrangement  calls  to 
mind  the  curious  family  of  gall-flies. 


Each  species  seems  to  know  what  kind 
of  plant  will  respond  to  the  irritation 
or  stimulus  of  the  puncture  it  makes, 
and  the  eggs  it  lays,  in  forming  a 
growth  that  not  only  answers  for  a 
nest  and  home,  but  also  provides  food 
for  the  young.  Probably  these  gall-flies 
make  mistakes  at  times  like  anybody 
else,  but  when  they  do  there  is  sim- 
ply a  failure  of  that  particular  brood, 
while  enough  to  perpetuate  the  spe- 
cies do  find  the  proper  plants  and 
nourishment.  Many  mistakes  of  this 
kind  might  be  made  without  being  dis- 
covered by  us.  Once  a  pair  of  wrens 
made  the  mistake  of  building  a  nest  in 
the  sleeve  of  a  workman's  coat,  which 
was  called  for  at  sundown,  much  to 
the  consternation  and  discomfiture  of 
the  birds.  Still  the  marvel  remains 
that  any  of  the  children  of  such  small 
people  as  gnats  and  mosquitoes  should 
escape  their  own  and  their  parents' 
mistakes,  as  well  as  the  vicissitudes  of 
the  weather  and  hosts  of  enemies,  and 
come  forth  in  full  vigor  and  perfection 
to  enjoy  the  sunny  world.  When  we 
think  of  the  small  creatures  that  are 
visible,  we  are  led  to  think  of  many 
that  are  smaller  still,  and  lead  us  on 
and  on  into  infinite  mystery. 

August  2.  —  Clouds  and  showers 
about  the  same  as  yesterday.  Sketch- 
ing all  day  on  the  North  Dome  until 
four  or  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
when,  as  I  was  busily  employed  think- 
ing only  of  the  glorious  Yosemite  land- 
scape, trying  to  draw  every  tree  and 
every  line  and  feature  of  the  rocks,  I 
was  suddenly  and  without  warning  pos- 
sessed with  the  notion  that  my  friend 
Professor  J.  D.  Butler,  of  the  State 
University  of  Wisconsin,  was  below  me 
in  the  valley,  and  I  jumped  up  full  of 
the  idea  of  meeting  him,  with  almost 
as  much  startling  excitement  as  if  he 
had  suddenly  touched  me  to  make  me 
look  up. 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


347 


Leaving  my  work  without  the  slight- 
est deliberation,  I  ran  down  the  west- 
ern slope  of  the  dome  and  along  the 
brink  of  the  valley-wall,  looking  for 
a  way  to  the  bottom,  until  I  came  to  a 
side  canon,  which,  judging  by  its  ap- 
parently continuous  growth  of  trees 
and  bushes,  I  thought  might  afford  a 
practical  way  into  the  valley,  and  im- 
mediately began  to  make  the  descent, 
late  as  it  was,  as  if  drawn  irresistibly. 
But  after  a  little,  common  sense  stopped 
me  and  explained  that  it  would  be  long 
after  dark  ere  I  could  possibly  reach 
the  hotel,  that  the  visitors  would  be 
asleep,  that  nobody  would  know  me, 
that  I  had  no  money  in  my  pockets, 
and  moreover  was  without  a  coat.  I 
therefore  compelled  myself  to  stop,  and 
finally  succeeded  in  reasoning  myself 
out  of  the  notion  of  seeking  my  friend 
in  the  dark,  whose  presence  I  only  felt 
in  a  strange,  telepathic  way.  I  suc- 
ceeded in  dragging  myself  back  through 
the  woods  to  camp,  never  for  a  moment 
wavering,  however,  in  my  determina- 
tion to  go  down  to  him  next  morning. 

This  I  think  is  the  most  unexplain- 
able  notion  that  ever  struck  me.  Had 
some  one  whispered  in  my  ear  while  I 
sat  on  the  dome,  where  I  had  spent  so 
many  days,  that  Professor  Butler  was 
in  the  valley,  I  could  not  have  been 
more  surprised  and  startled.  When  I 
was  leaving  the  university  he  said, 
'Now  John,  I  want  to  hold  you  in  sight 
and  watch  your  career.  Promise  to 
write  me  at  least  once  a  year.'  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  him  in  July  at  our 
first  camp  in  the  Hollow,  written  in 
May,  in  which  he  said  that  he  might 
possibly  visit  California  some  time  this 
summer,  and  therefore  hoped  to  meet 
me.  But  inasmuch  as  he  named  no 
meeting-place,  and  gave  no  directions 
as  to  the  course  he  would  probably  fol- 
low, and  as  I  would  be  in  the  wilder- 
ness all  summer,  I  had  not  the  slightest 
hope  of  seeing  him,  and  all  thought  of 


the  matter  had  vanished  from  my 
mind  until  this  afternoon,  when  he 
seemed  to  be  wafted,  bodily  almost, 
against  my  face.  Well,  to-morrow  I 
shall  see,  for,  reasonable  or  unreason- 
able, I  feel  I  must  go. 

August  3.  —  Had  a  wonderful  day. 
Found  Professor  Butler  as  the  compass 
needle  finds  the  pole.  So  last  evening's 
telepathy,  transcendental  revelation, 
or  whatever  else  it  may  be  called,  was 
true;  for  strange  to  say,  he  had  just 
entered  the  valley  by  way  of  the  Coul- 
terville  Trail,  and  was  coming  up  the 
valley  past  El  Capitan  when  his  pre- 
sence struck  me.  Had  he  then  looked 
toward  the  North  Dome  with  a  good 
glass  when  it  first  came  in  sight,  he 
might  have  seen  me  jump  up  from  my 
work  and  run  toward  him.  This  seems 
the  one  well-defined  marvel  of  my  life 
of  the  kind  called  supernatural;  for,  ab- 
sorbed in  glad  Nature,  spirit-rappings, 
second-sight,  ghost-stories,  etc.,  have 
never  interested  me  since  boyhood, 
seeming  comparatively  useless  and  in- 
finitely less  wonderful  than  Nature's 
open,  harmonious,  songful,  sunny, 
everyday  beauty. 

This  morning  when  I  thought  of  hav- 
ing to  appear  among  tourists  at  a  hotel, 
I  was  troubled  because  I  had  no  suit- 
able clothes,  and  at  best  am  desperate- 
ly bashful  and  shy.  I  was  determined  to 
go,  however,  to  see  my  old  friend  after 
two  years  among  strangers;  got  on  a 
clean  pair  of  overalls,  a  cashmere  shirt, 
and  a  sort  of  jacket,  the  best  my  camp 
wardrobe  afforded,  tied  my  notebook 
on  my  belt,  and  strode  away  on  my 
strange  journey,  followed  by  Carlo.  I 
made  my  way  through  the  gap  discov- 
ered last  evening,  which  proved  to  be 
Indian  Canon.  There  was  no  trail  in 
it,  and  the  rocks  and  brush  were  so 
rough  that  Carlo  frequently  called  me 
back  to  help  him  down  precipitous 
places. 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN   THE  SIERRA 


Emerging  from  the  canon  shadows, 
I  found  a  man  making  hay  on  one  of 
the  meadows,  and  asked  him  whether 
Professor  Butler  was  in  the  valley.  'I 
don't  know,'  he  replied,  'but  you  can 
easily  find  out  at  the  hotel.  There  are 
but  few  visitors  in  the  valley  just  now. 
A  small  party  came  in  yesterday  after- 
noon, and  I  heard  some  one  called  Pro- 
fessor Butler,  or  Butterfield,  or  some 
name  like  that.' 

In  front  of  the  gloomy  hotel  I  found 
a  tourist  party  adjusting  their  fishing- 
tackle.  They  all  stared  at  me  in  silent 
wonderment  as  if  I  had  been  seen  drop- 
ping down  through  the  trees  from  the 
clouds,  mostly,  I  suppose,  on  accounf  of 
my  strange  garb.  Inquiring  for  the  of- 
fice, I  was  told  it  was  locked,  and  that 
the  landlord  was  away,  but  I  might 
find  the  landlady,  Mrs.  Hutchings,  in 
the  parlor.  I  entered  in  a  sad  state  of 
embarrassment,  and  after  waiting  in 
the  big,  empty  room,  and  knocking  at 
several  doors,  the  landlady  at  length 
appeared,  and  in  reply  to  my  question 
said  she  rather  thought  Professor  But- 
ler was  in  the  valley,  but  to  make  sure 
she  would  bring  the  register  from  the 
office. 

Among  the  names  of  the  last  arriv- 
als, I  soon  discovered  the  professor's 
familiar  handwriting,  at  the  sight  of 
which  bashfulness  vanished;  and  hav- 
ing learned  that  his  party  had  gone 
up  the  valley,  probably  to  the  Vernal 
and  Nevada  Falls,  I  pushed  on  in  glad 
pursuit,  my  heart  now  sure  of  its  prey. 
In  less  than  an  hour  I  reached  the  head 
of  the  Nevada  Canon  at  the  Vernal 
Falls,  and  just  outside  of  the  spray 
discovered  a  distinguished-looking  gen- 
tleman who,  like  everybody  else  I  have 
seen  to-day,  regarded  me  curiously  as 
I  approached.  When  I  made  bold  to 
inquire  if  he  knew  where  Professor  But- 
ler was,  he  seemed  yet  more  curious  to 
know  what  could  possibly  have  hap- 
pened that  required  a  messenger  for 


the  professor,  and  instead  of  answering 
my  question  he  asked  with  military 
sharpness,  'Who  wants  him?' 

'I  want  him/I  replied,  with  equal 
sharpness. 

'Why!  Do  you  know  him?' 

'  Yes, '  I  said.    '  Do  you  know  him  ? ' 

Astonished  that  any  one  in  the  moun- 
tains could  possibly  know  Professor 
Butler,  and  find  him  as  soon  as  he  had 
reached  the  valley,  he  came  down  to 
meet  the  strange  mountaineer  on  equal 
terms,  and  courteously  replied,  'Yes,  I 
know  Professor  Butler  very  well.  I  am 
General  Alvord,  and  we  were  fellow 
students  in  Rutland,  Vermont,  long 
ago,  when  we  were  both  young.' 

'But  where  is  he  now?'  I  persisted, 
cutting  short  his  story. 

'He  has  gone  beyond  the  falls  with 
a  companion  to  try  to  climb  that  big 
rock,  the  top  of  which  you  see  from 
here.' 

His  guide  now  volunteered  the  in- 
formation that  it  was  the  Liberty  Cap 
Professor  Butler  and  his  companion 
had  gone  to  climb,  and  that  if  I  wait- 
ed at  the  head  of  the  fall  I  would  be 
sure  to  find  them  on  their  way  down. 
I  therefore  climbed  the  ladders  along- 
side the  Vernal  Fall,  and  was  pushing 
forward,  determined  to  go  to  the  top  of 
Liberty  Cap  Rock  in  my  hurry  rather 
than  wait,  if  I  should  not  meet  my 
friend  sooner.  So  heart-hungry  at  times 
may  one  be  to  see  a  friend  in  the 
flesh,  however  happily  full  and  care- 
free one's  life  may  be. 

I  had  gone  but  a  short  distance, 
however,  above  the  brow  of  the  Ver- 
nal Fall,  when  I  caught  sight  of  him  in 
the  brush  and  rocks,  half-erect,  grop- 
ing his  way,  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  vest 
open,  hat  in  his  hand,  —  evidently 
very  hot  and  tired.  When  he  saw  me 
coming,  he  sat  down  on  a  boulder  to 
wipe  the  perspiration  from  his  brow 
and  neck;  and  taking  me  for  one  of  the 
valley  guides,  he  inquired  the  way  to 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


349 


the  fall  ladders.  I  pointed  out  the  path, 
marked  with  little  piles  *of  stones,  on 
seeing  which  he  called  his  companion, 
saying  that  the  way  was  found.  But  he 
did  not  yet  recognize  me.  Then  I  stood 
directly  in  front  of  him,  looked  him  in 
the  face,  and  held  out  my  hand. 

He  thought  that  I  was  offering  to 
assist  him  in  rising.  'Never  mind,'  he 
said. 

Then  I  said, '  Professor  Butler,  don't 
you  know  me? ' 

'I  think  not,'  he  replied;  but  catch- 
ing my  eye,  sudden  recognition  follow- 
ed, and  astonishment  that  I  should 
have  found  him  just  when  he  was  lost 
in  the  brush  and  did  not  know  that  I 
was  within  hundreds  of  miles  of  him. 
'John  Muir,  John  Muir,  where  have 
you  come  from?' 

Then  I  told  him  the  story  of  my 
feeling  his  presence  when  he  entered  the 
valley  last  evening  when  he  was  four  or 
five  miles  distant,  as  I  sat  sketching 
on  the  North  Dome.  This  of  course 
only  made  him  wonder  the  more. 
Below  the  foot  of  the  Vernal  Fall  the 
guide  was  waiting  with  his  saddle- 
horse,  and  I  walked  along  the  trail  chat- 
ting all  the  way  back  to  the  hotel,  talk- 
ing of  school-days,  friends  in  Madison, 
of  the  students,  how  each  had  pro- 
spered, etc.,  ever  and  anon  gazing  at 
the  stupendous  rocks  about  us,  now 
growing  indistinct  in  the  gloaming, 
and  again  quoting  from  the  poets,  —  a 
rare  ramble. 

It  was  late  ere  we  reached  the  hotel, 
and  General  Alvord  was  awaiting  his 
arrival  for  dinner.  When  I  was  intro- 
duced he  seemed  yet  more  astonished 


than  the  professor  at  my  descent  from 
cloudland,  and  my  going  straight  to  my 
friend  without  knowing  in  any  ordin- 
ary way  that  he  was  even  in  California. 
They  had  come  on  direct  from  the  East, 
had  not  yet  visited  any  of  their  friends 
in  the  State,  and  considered  themselves 
un  discoverable. 

As  we  sat  at  dinner  the  general  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  and  looking  down  the 
table  thus  introduced  me  to  the  dozen 
guests  or  so,  including  the  staring  fish- 
erman mentioned  above. 

*This  man,  you  know,'  he  said, '  came 
down  out  of  these  huge  trackless  moun- 
tains, you  know,  to  find  his  friend  Pro- 
fessor Butler  here,  the  very  day  he 
arrived.  And  how  did  he  know  he  was 
here?  He  just  felt  him,  he  says.  This 
is  the  queerest!  case  of  Scotch  far- 
sightedness I  ever  heard  of,'  etc.,  etc. 
While  my  friend  quoted  Shakespeare: 
'  More  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Ho- 
ratio, than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  phil- 
osophy.' 'As  the  sun  ere  he  has  risen 
sometimes  paints  his  image  in  the  firm- 
ament, e'en  so  the  shadows  of  events 
precede  the  events,  and  in  to-day  al- 
ready walks  to-morrow.' 

Had  a  long  conversation  after  dinner 
over  Madison  days.  The  Professor 
wants  me  to  promise  to  go  with  him 
some  time  on  a  camping  trip  in  the 
Hawaiian  Islands,  while  I  tried  to  get 
him  to  go  back  with  me  to  camp  in  the 
High  Sierra.  But  he  says,  'Not  now.' 
He  must  not  leave  the  general;  and  I 
was  surprised  to  learn  they  are  to  leave 
the  valley  to-morrow  or  next  day.  I  'm 
glad  I  'm  not  great  enough  to  be  missed 
in  the  busy  world. 


(To  be  continued.} 


BOYS  AND  THE  THEATRE 


BY  FREDERICK   WINSOR 


ANY  one  at  all  familiar  with  boys 
at  the  present  time,  and  with  their  in- 
terests and  their  amusements,  cannot 
help  being  struck  by  their  familiarity 
with  the  theatre.  In  the  life  of  the 
city-bred  boy  of  to-day,  the  stage  oc- 
cupies a  very  large  place;  indeed  it  is 
often  his  most  absorbing  interest.  So 
universal  is  this  condition  that  not  to 
know  the  songs  of  the  latest  'musical 
show,'  not  to  have  seen  the  last  catchy 
piece  played  at  any  of  the  leading 
theatres,  puts  a  boy  at  once  out  of 
touch  with  his  fellows.  Hence  the  in- 
sistence with  which  many  a  boy  pleads 
with  his  astonished  parents  to  be 
allowed  to  go  to  this  or  that  perform- 
ance. His  parents  would  not  be  so 
astonished  if  they  could  hear  the  talk 
of  any  group  of  school-boys  from  a  city 
day-school  or  of  boarding-school  boys 
just  back  at  work  after  a  vacation. 
The  stage  is  the  staple  subject  of  con- 
versation, and  the  boy  who  has  n't 
seen  the  shows  is  as  much  out  of  it  as  a 
man  is  out  of  it  at  St.  Andrews  if  he 
can't  talk  golf. 

Many  parents  of  boys  from  fourteen 
to  eighteen  find  themselves  allowing 
much  greater  liberty  to  their  sons  than 
they  themselves  were  ever  allowed  at 
the  same  age  in  the  matter  of  the  the- 
atre, simply  because  the  custom  has 
become  so  universal:  it  is  easier  to 
allow  your  boy  to  do  what  'all  the 
other  boys  do,'  than  it  is  to  consider 
seriously  the  real  bearing  of  the  mat- 
ter and  do  what  the  boy's  own  good 
requires.  It  is  to  such  parents  that 
this  article  is  addressed,  in  the  hope 

850 


that  they  will  find  in  it  matter  to 
strengthen  their  convictions  and  a  suf- 
ficient argument  to  make  them  stand 
firm  against  this  growing  custom  of 
allowing  boys  almost  indiscriminate 
freedom  in  attending  the  theatre. 

Certain  of  the  evils  which  result 
from  much  theatre-going  are  so  obvi- 
ous that  they  call  for  no  more  than 
cursory  mention  here.  It  is  a  self- 
evident  truth,  for  example,  that  grow- 
ing boys  need  more  sleep  than  their 
elders,  and  that  frequent  theatre- 
going  is  bad  for  their  health.  It  is 
equally  obvious  that  at  this  formative 
period  in  a  boy's  life  his  taste  is  being 
moulded  and  determined  just  as  surely 
as  his  mind  and  character,  and  that  to 
let  him  go  to  any  but  a  few  selected 
plays  results  in  equipping  him  for  life 
with  a  taste  which  must  inevitably  be 
indiscriminating,  if  not  positively  de- 
moralized. A  still  more  serious,  though 
perhaps  not  quite  so  obvious,  result  of 
the  atmosphere  of  the  stage  is  the 
craving  to  which  it  caters  for  compli- 
cated and  artificial  amusements.  It  is 
a  crying  evil  of  our  modern  life  that 
simple  pleasures  are  so  rare.  The 
ramble  through  the  fields  and  woods, 
ending  with  a  picnic  luncheon,  which 
used  to  delight  their  parents,  no  longer 
satisfies  our  children;  one  must  tear 
through  the  country  by  motor-car  and 
lunch  at  some  far-away  inn.  The  even- 
ing around  the  fireside,  with  reading 
or  story-telling  or  'round'  games,  has 
given  place  to  dancing  or  an  entertain- 
ment provided  by  a  hired  performer; 
and  the  taste  for  the  theatre  is  but 


BOYS  AND  THE  THEATRE 


351 


another  example  of  this  unhealthy  ap- 
petite for  artificiality  and  excitement. 
It  is  not,  however,  the  purpose  of  this 
article  to  develop  these  phases  of  the 
matter.  Our  boys'  health,  their  taste, 
and  their  manner  of  life,  are  all  of  sec- 
ondary importance  to  their  morals. 

There  are  some  of  us  who  believe 
that  the  question  in  the  marriage  serv- 
ice, 'Wilt  thou  keep  thee  only  unto 
her  so  long  as  ye  both  shall  live?'  has 
its  application  long  before  a  man  comes 
with  his  bride  to  the  church  to  make 
there  his  vows  before  the  altar.  The 
ideal  of  keeping  himself  unspotted  and 
unsullied,  for  the  sake  of  playing  fair 
with  the  unknown  woman  whom  he 
will  some  day  marry,  is  often  the 
strongest  incentive  that  a  young  man 
can  have  to  keep  himself  clear  of  de- 
moralizing influences  and  to  lead  a 
decent,  clean  life.  We  all  of  us  desire 
more  than  all  else  that  our  sons  may 
have  this  ideal,  but  do  we  always  re- 
member that  it  will  not  grow  of  itself, 
and  that  its  very  life  depends  on  the 
atmosphere  in  which  a  boy  lives,  and 
on  the  public  opinion  which  feeds  and 
nourishes  it?  Are  we  not  apt  to  forget 
that  such  an  ideal  has  not  yet  won  a 
recognized  place  in  the  world,  but  that 
it  is  rather  to-day  a  vision  which  has 
still  to  be  accepted  as  a  moral  prin- 
ciple by  humanity  in  general?  Truth, 
justice,  temperance,  courage,  loving 
service,  are  pretty  much  the  same  all 
the  world  over,  and  are  everywhere 
recognized  as  among  the  virtues;  but 
there  is  hardly  a  nation  from  Japan  to 
England  that  recognizes  continence 
as  a  virtue;  only  here  in  the  United 
States  will  you  meet  any  sort  of  uni- 
versal sympathy  with  this  ideal,  or 
even  any  general  understanding  of  it. 
We  must  jealously  guard  against  every 
influence  that  tends  to  weaken  it  if  we 
are  to  preserve  it  in  our  sons  as  a  living 
vital  force  in  their  lives,  and  we  must 
recognize  that  they  are  surrounded  by  a 


multitude  of  such  influences;  and  of  all 
this  multitude,  indiscriminate  theatre- 
going  is  the  most  dangerous  and  the 
most  subtle. 

The  truth  of  this  statement  is  per- 
haps not  very  commonly  realized.  Nine 
people  out  of  ten  would  probably  say 
that  bad  books  were  much  more  dan- 
gerous to  boys  than  bad  plays;  and  so 
we  find  that,  as  a  rule,  parents  are  more 
particular  about  what  a  boy  reads  than 
about  the  shows  that  he  sees  acted. 
An  examination  of  the  facts,  however, 
will  be  enough  to  show  that  for  several 
reasons  the  effect  of  a  play,  good  or 
bad,  upon  a  boy's  mind  is  more  pene- 
trating, more  comprehensive,  and  more 
lasting,  than  the  effect  of  a  book.  This 
is  because  the  book  appeals  only  to  the 
boy's  imagination.  What  he  reads  can 
only  be  made  real  to  him  by  mental 
pictures,  which  will  vary  in  intensity 
with  the  ability  of  the  author  and  with 
the  vividness  of  the  imagery  supplied 
by  the  boy's  own  mind.  His  only 
means  of  keeping  in  his  memory  what 
he  sees  on  the  printed  page  is  the  power 
of  his  vision,  physical  and  mental.  The 
play,  on  the  other  hand,  appeals  to  the 
ear  as  well  as  to  the  eye,  and  it  leaves 
nothing  to  the  imagination.  What  the 
boy  sees  is  a  fragment  of  real  life, 
where  the  people  involved  are  not  crea- 
tures of  his  fancy  but  real  living, 
breathing  men  and  women.  What  they 
say,  for  better  or  worse,  is  printed  on 
his  memory,  not  in  the  dead  symbols 
of  letters,  but  in  words  and  actions 
instinct  with  vital,  moving  force.  Eye 
and  ear  and  the  actor's  art  combine 
to  sear  the  experience  into  his  soul 
till  it  is  almost  as  if  he  himself  had 
lived  it. 

To  understand  what  is  put  before 
him  and  to  make  it  real,  the  boy's 
imagination  is  not  once  called  into  play, 
but  this  does  not  mean  that  his  imag- 
ination is  necessarily  idle.  Suppose  that 
the  play  is  filled  with  vulgar  innuendo, 


352 


BOYS  AND  THE  THEATRE 


with  speeches  bordering  on  the  inde- 
cent, and  suppose  that  the  chorus 
queens  are  openly  flirting  with  men 
in  the  audience  and  exhibiting  their 
personal  charms  in  the  way  which  the 
press-agent  calls  'dashing,'  but  which 
decent  people  call  disgusting.  Do  you 
suppose  that  the  boy  does  n't  perceive 
these  things,  and  that  they  do  not 
excite  him,  and  that  his  imagination 
does  n't  work  over-time?  To  para- 
phrase Kipling  — 

Johnny  ain't  a  bloomin'  fool, 
You  bet  that  Johnny  sees; 

or  to  use  Johnny's  own  language, 
'There's  very  little  that  gets  by  him.' 
Yes,  his  imagination  is  very  busy,  and 
it  leads  him  beyond  the  stage  that  lies 
immediately  under  his  eyes.  He  hears 
live  men  and  women  saying  impossible 
things,  and  he  asks  himself  what  kind 
of  people  they  must  be  off  the  stage, 
what  sort  of  things  they  say  to  each 
other  in  private  at  rehearsals,  if  they 
can  say  things  as  broad  as  this  in  pub- 
lic. He  follows  in  his  mind  the  ac- 
quaintance between  the  peach  in  the 
chorus  and  the  chappie  in  the  second 
row,  which  he  imagines  he  sees  begin- 
ning under  his  very  eyes,  never  guess- 
ing that  the  flirtation  is  probably  as 
much  a  part  of  the  girl's  acting  as  her 
dancing  is.  We  who  are  older  take 
these  things  less  seriously;  we  have 
become  accustomed  to  them,  therefore 
blind  to  them,  as  we  are  blind  to  the 
misery  that  we  pass  unheeded  on  the 
city  streets,  the  horrors  of  the  bill- 
boards along  our  railways,  or  the  un- 
sightly dump-heaps  in  our  suburbs;  but 
our  boys  see  and  note  them  all. 

This  does  not  mean  that  our  boys 
are  bad;  it  means  that  they  are  boys, 
young  animals  filled  with  animal  life 
and  animal  instincts,  facing  a  strange 
and  fascinating  world  about  which 
they  are  intensely  curious.  A  certain 
side  of  this  world  they  know  only 
through  hearsay,  hearsay  of  a  strange, 


furtive,  sneaking,  underground  kind, 
but  of  a  kind  which  no  boy  can  escape. 
It  is  not  possible,  in  an  article  devoted 
to  play-going  for  boys,  to  dwell  on  the 
matter  of  the  duty  of  parents  to  give 
their  boys  a  sound,  wholesome  know- 
ledge of  the  shadows  of  life  as  well  as 
of  its  brighter  aspects;  but  the  duty  is 
there,  the  duty  of  giving  a  boy  a  pure- 
minded  knowledge  of  life,  instead  of 
leaving  this  knowledge  to  come  to  him 
by  chance.  Parents  neglect  this  duty, 
and  the  vast  majority  of  boys  have  no 
clearer,  juster  knowledge  of  life  than 
what  they  have  been  able  to  get  from 
these  underground  channels;  they  can- 
not fail  to  be  excited  by  the  apparent 
justification  of  their  information  af- 
forded by  vulgar  shows,  since  these 
shows  are  actually  the  only  publicly 
tolerated  demonstrations  which  im- 
morality is  allowed  to  make  in  our 
world  of  to-day,  —  so  far,  certainly,  as 
our  boys  see  the  world. 

Ever  since  the  Elizabethan  period 
the  theatre  has  been  the  agent  and  the 
ally  of  vice.  It  will  not  do  to  cry  out 
that  a  good  play  is  as  great  an  influ- 
ence for  good  as  a  good  sermon,  or  to 
name  the  noble  and  the  pure  men  and 
women  who  have  from  time  to  time 
honored  the  profession  of  acting  with 
their  presence  in  it.  No  one  wants  boys 
to  be  kept  away  from  uplifting  plays, 
and  no  one  is  trying  to  throw  mud  at 
the  actor's  art  or  the  men  and  women 
of  blameless  life  who  make  it  their  pro- 
fession. The  warning  is  directed  against 
the  unworthy  plays,  and  against  those 
who  make  use  of  the  stage  as  a  me- 
dium of  advertising  and  publicity  for 
immorality.  It  is  a  notorious  fact  that 
to-day,  as  in  the  past,  the  stage  has  lent 
itself  to  such  purposes;  and  our  boys 
cannot  escape  the  demoralizing  influ- 
ence of  the  mere  knowledge  of  this  fact 
if  they  go  much,  and  without  guidance, 
to  the  theatre. 

Three  kinds  of  plays  are  dangerous 


BOYS  AND  THE  THEATRE 


353 


to  boys:  the  'problem  play,'  the  sala- 
cious farce,  and  the  'musical  show.'  Of 
these,  the  first  is  the  least  dangerous; 
the  last,  the  most.  The  '  problem  play ' 
is  not  apt  at  any  rate  to  treat  infidelity 
as  amusing,  but  is  apt  to  paint  it  in 
its  true  light,  and  to  give  us  at  least  a 
glimpse  of  its  harrowing  consequences. 
The  salacious  farce,  of  course,  is  as 
demoralizing  as  anything  can  be,  but 
we  are  on  our  guard  against  it.  The 
danger  is  that  it  does  not  always  carry 
its  character  written  in  its  title,  and 
that  we  may  allow  our  children  to 
attend  it  without  ascertaining  before- 
hand what  it  is  really  like.  Such  a  play 
was  recently  described  as  follows  in  a 
Boston  paper  in  the  column  devoted  to 
plays  then  being  given  at  the  New 
York  theatres:  'French  farce  a  VAmeri- 
caine  —  with  its  sprightliness  thick- 
ened into  dullness,  its  glitter  coated 
with  commonness,  and  its  wit  coarsen- 
ed into  vulgar  innuendo.  Already  seen 
and  liked  in  Boston.'  Of  course,  if  we 
knew  in  advance  that  it  was  coarse  and 
suggestive,  we  should  be  forewarned, 
but  the  trouble  is  that  we  depend 
on  the  judgment  of  a  friend.  'Oh, 
it 's  a  great  show,'  says  he;  'have  n't 
enjoyed  anything  so  much  for  years. 
I  laughed  till  my  sides  ached.  Clev- 
erly acted,  too.  You  ought  to  see 
it.'  He  is  n't  thinking  of  its  effect  on  a 
boy;  the  morals  or  lack  of  morals  of 
the  piece  made  no  impression  on  him; 
he  is  a  man  grown,  and  his  morals 
were  established  long  ago.  It  amused 
him,  that's  all.  So  we,  urged  on  by 
Johnny,  who  is  crazy  to  go  to  the  The- 
atre with  a  big  T,  any  theatre,  and 
knowing  that  none  of  the  other  pieces 
now  playing  are  worth  seeing  from 
any  point  of  view,  remember  our  old 
friend's  enthusiasm,  and  delight  Johnny 
with  our  consent.  Moral :  don't  let  your 
children  see  a  play  that  you  have  n't 
seen  yourself. 

'Musical    comedy,'    however,    pre- 
701..  107 -NO.  3 


sents  the  real  difficulty  and  danger, 
and  it  is  dangerous  because  its  influ- 
ences are  insidious.  A  piece  comes  to 
town  and  captivates  the  whole  city. 
The  music  is  catchy,  the  girls  are 
pretty,  the  dances  are  graceful,  the 
chorus  is  well  drilled,  and  the  ensemble 
is  an  artistic  masterpiece  that  delights 
the  eye.  We  see  it  and  are  charmed  by 
it,  and  we  take  the  children.  But  when 
we  sit  down  in  cold  blood  and  analyze 
the  thing,  we  are  somewhat  horrified 
to  realize  the  atmosphere  we  have  al- 
lowed them  to  breathe.  The  scene  was 
laid  in  Paris.  We  remember  that  the 
hero  enters  the  scene  half-drunk,  at 
which  every  one  is  mildly  amused,  that 
he  announces  that  he  has  been  sum- 
moned to  attend  his  lordship,  and  much 
to  his  disgust  has  had  to  interrupt  a 
supper-party  at  which  he  had  been 
entertaining  a  party  of  cocatt.es  over 
the  recollection  of  whose  attractions  he 
smacks  his  lips,  and  he  then  proceeds 
to  sing  a  song  about  them  in  which  he 
calls  them  all  by  their  pet  names. 
Snatches  of  this  song  recur  at  intervals 
all  through  the  piece.  The  young  man 
is  a  kind  of  libertine  that  we  should 
not  allow  our  sons  to  know  in  real  life, 
but  we  have  taken  them  to  the  theatre 
to  be  introduced  to  him  at  long  range. 
We  remember  that  the  chief  comic  in- 
cident of  the  play  is  where  a  man  finds 
another  man,  whom  he  knows  to  be 
married,  shut  up  in  a  summer  house 
with  a  woman  whose  identity  is  a  mys- 
tery to  him,  but  whom  he  knows  to  be 
not  the  man's  wife.  He  peeks  through 
the  keyhole  and  chuckles  with  glee 
over  what  he  sees  going  on  inside. 
Then  he  suddenly  discovers  that  the 
woman  is  his  own  wife,  and  —  every- 
body laughs;  the  theatre  is  shaken  from 
floor  to  roof  by  the  public's  apprecia- 
tion of  this  humorous  situation!  You 
may  protest  that  the  whole  play  is  non- 
sense, and  that  it  is  absurd  to  suggest 
taking  anything  in  it  seriously,  —  but 


354 


BOYS  AND  THE  THEATRE 


the  protest  won't  stand  when  you  are 
dealing  with  children  and  their  ideals. 

Let  us  not,  however,  interrupt  our 
recollections  of  the  play.  We  remem- 
ber that  the  last  scene  was  laid  kin 
an  immoral  resort  in  Paris,  where  we 
would  not  for  worlds  allow  our  sons 
to  go  till  they  had  reached  years  of 
discretion,  —  till  they  had  become  in 
fact  sufficiently  discreet  not  to  want  to 
go  there.  This  scene  is  so  acted  in 
French  in  Paris  itself  that  the  restau- 
rant-life is  entirely  subordinated  to  the 
movement  of  the  play.  The  manners 
and  customs  of  this  famous  resort  are 
not  obtruded  upon  the  audience  more 
than  can  be  helped.  As  we  have  per- 
mitted our  boys  to  see  it,  however,  in 
New  York  and  Chicago,  it  is  as  near 
an  accurate  picture  of  the  life  of  the 
place  as  can  be  put  on  the  stage. 

Now,  what  do  our  boys  take  away 
from  such  a  show  besides  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  music?  They  take  away 
from  it,  in  the  first  place,  a  series  of 
photographs  of  costumes  and  postur- 
ings  which  we  should  confiscate  with 
horror  if  we  found  them  in  their  pos- 
session as  actual  pasteboard  realities. 
They  are  none  the  less  real,  and  we 
ourselves  have  furnished  them  to  our 
boys  by  taking  them  to  such  a  play. 
But  that  is  a  small  matter  in  compari- 
son to  the  fact  that  they  take  away 
with  them  the  idea  that  drunkenness, 
infidelity,  and  immorality  are  laugh- 
ing matters.  All  about  them  they  have 
seen  people  laughing  at  them,  and  we 
have  been  sitting  placidly  by  their 
sides,  laughing  too. 

The  writer  begs  to  be  indulged  in  a 
bit  of  personal  experience.  The  strong- 
est influence  in  his  life  to  keep  him  from 
any  temptation  to  the  abuse  of  in- 
toxicants has  not  been  the  knowledge  of 
their  disastrous  effects,  it  has  not  been 
any  discourse  against  their  use  that  he 
ever  read  or  heard,  or  even  his  pers- 
onal observation  of  their  frightfully 


demoralizing  effect.  It  has  been  the 
recollection  of  the  attitude  of  mind  of 
his  parents  toward  drunkenness,  their 
horror  of  it,  and  their  unconcealed 
disgust  when  any  one  made  light  of  it. 
As  soon  would  he  have  thought  of 
making  a  mock  of  epilepsy  in  his  par- 
ents' presence  as  of  drunkenness.  And 
it  is  his  firm  belief  that  if  we  wish  to 
instill  into  our  boys  a  longing  for  clean 
living,  for  purity  of  mind,  and  for 
continence,  we  can  only  do  it  by  show- 
ing them  at  every  opportunity  that 
we  have  such  a  horror  of  immorality 
and  infidelity  that  even  incongruities 
which  would  seem  funny  to  us  in  any 
other  connection,  cannot  pierce  our 
repugnance  for  the  nauseating  medium 
in  which  they  are  presented. 

So  we  come  naturally  to  the  second 
rule  which  every  parent  should  follow 
in  connection  with  his  children's  the- 
atre-going. Not  only  should  he  know 
of  his  own  knowledge  that  the  play  is 
worth  the  child's  seeing,  but  he  should 
go  with  him  and  talk  it  over  with  him 
afterward.  Let  the  children  have  the 
benefit  of  our  taste  and  judgment.  If 
part  of  the  show  disgusted  us,  make  it 
evident  to  our  boys  that  it  did.  As  we 
sit  beside  them  and  see  it  through  their 
eyes,  we  shall  find  our  discrimination 
wonderfully  quickened  and  our  stand- 
ards wonderfully  purified. 

By  all  means,  then,  send  your  child- 
ren sometimes  to  the  theatre;  don't 
neglect  an  influence  in  education  so 
quickening  and  so  potent.  Use  it,  how- 
ever, with  moderation  and  discrimina- 
tion, taking  only  the  good.  Make  it, 
for  your  boy,  instead  of  an  exciting, 
debasing  thing,  a  means  of  teaching 
reverence  for  womankind,  a  tonic  for 
his  sense  of  chivalry,  and  a  reinforce- 
ment of  this  highest  of  moral  ideals, 
this  American  ideal  of  manly  pureness. 
Let  the  influence  of  the  stage  help  him 
so  to  live  that  his  bride  looking  straight 
into  his  eyes  may  be  content. 


IN  PRAISE   OF  PARROTS 


BY   FRANKLIN  JAMES 


WHEN  Madame  de  Serigny  finally 
embraced  me  she  said,  'And  now  I  am 
going  to  give  you  a  little  souvenir  of 
the  Sacre  Creur:  I  have  told  Manuel  to 
carry  Jo  to  your  hotel  to-night,  cage 
and  all,  to  take  on  your  long  journey 
home.  Guard  him  well,  dear  child,  for 
the  sake  of  your  old  friends  at  the  con- 
vent.' I  was  much  too  overcome  to 
thank  the  Madame  Superior  adequate- 
ly. For  two  years  I  had  gone  to  the 
convent  regularly,  every  Thursday 
afternoon,  ostensibly  to  visit  my  sister 
(no  boy  of  five  is  ever  much  excited 
about  that),  actually  to  see  the  charm- 
ing ladies  of  the  Sacre  Coeur,  —  and 
chiefly  to  walk  through  the  adorable 
gardens  with  the  never-to-be-forgotten 
Madame  de  Bardon,  whom  I  stoutly 
regarded  as  the  most  beautiful  saint 
outside  of  the  calendar.  I  can  realize 
now,  thirty-five  years  later,  that  she 
must  have  been  very  young,  and  that 
she  must  have  been  exquisitely  pretty 
in  her  white  veil,  not  being  then  fully 
'professed.' 

The  objective  of  our  walk  was  always 
the  lodge  of  Manuel,  the  old  garden- 
er, with  whom  either  I  —  or  perhaps 
Madame  de  Bardon  —  was  a  prime 
favorite,  for  he  always  had  a  generous 
gouter  for  us,  consisting  of  a  kind  of 
gingerbread  full  of  currants,  and  some 
deliciously  mild  wine,  which  I  have 
never  been  able  subsequently  to  iden- 
tify. I  don't  remember  whether  Ma- 
dame de  Bardon  ever  took  any  of  the 
gouter,  because  I  was  always  much  too 
excited  over  Jo,  who,  in  his  turn,  swung 
excitedly  in  his  cage,  talking  Spanish 


which  I  could  not  understand,  and  in- 
variably ending  with  a  wild  laugh, 
after  which,  as  if  out  of  breath,  he 
would  gasp,  'O,  la-la-la!'  Whenever  I 
would  ask  him  'Comment  ga  va,  Jo?' 

—  or,  lapsing  into  American,  '  Hello, 
Polly! '  —  he  would  merely  wink  know- 
ingly.   But  at  'Tu  veux  du  gouter, 
hein?'  he  would  carefully  take  a  bit 
of  gingerbread  from  my  fingers,  put 
his  bill  up  in  the  air,  and  gravely  ex- 
claim, in  Manuel's  deep  guttural  voice, 
'Deo  gratias!'  to  the  ill-concealed  de- 
light of  Manuel  and  the  obvious  per- 
plexity of  Madame  de  Bardon. 

My  intercourse  with  Jo  was  never 
really  satisfactory,  because  his  conver- 
sation was  almost  exclusively  in  Span- 
ish, the  white-haired  gardener  being 
an  expatriated  Andalusian.  What  little 
French  he  knew  was  delivered  in  Man- 
uel's, to  me,  puzzling  Iberian  accent,  — 
and,  of  course,  he  had  no  English  at  all. 
'He's  too  old  to  learn  French,'  explain- 
ed Manuel.  'I  try  to  learn  him  these 
eighteen  years,  eh,  old  Jose?  —  but  he 
come  to  me  from  the  Azores  with  only 
Spanish — but  of  a  profanity,  Madame 

—  now  corrected,  thank  God.'   Never- 
theless I  would  chatter  gayly  with  Jo, 
for  would  he  not  chuckle  when  I  laugh- 
ed, and  would  he  not  groan  sympa- 
thetically when  I  told  him  the  story  of 
St.  Laurent,  or   St.  Estephe,  learned 
perhaps  that  morning  at  the  Brothers' 
Academy,  and  would  he  not  whistle 
perfectly  enchantingly?    Surely  there 
was  never  a  more  intelligent  or  sym- 
pathetic creature.    It  was  always  too 
soon  when  Madame  de  Bardon  whis- 

355 


356 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARROTS 


pered  to  me  that  the  hour  of  Vespers 
was  near.  After  shaking  hands  with 
Manuel  and  thanking  him,  I  would 
say  good-bye  to  Jo  in  the  little  Spanish 
the  gardener  had  taught  me,  at  which 
Jo  would  reply,  first  cordially,  then 
sinking  to  a  plaintive  whisper,  then 
ending  with  a  rheumatic  mumble: 
*  Adios,  senor, — adios — adios — adios. 
O,  la-la-la.' 

Sometimes  as  we  hurried  along  the 
rose-bordered  path  of  pinkish  gravel, 
Madame  de  Bardon  and  I,  I  could 
hear,  as  if  from  beyond  the  now  van- 
ishing gardener's  lodge,  a  strange  £ud- 
den  uproar,  like  the  cawing  of  an  in- 
furiated crow  or  the  warning  screams 
of  a  malignant  peacock.  But  Madame 
de  Bardon  was  always  silently  whis- 
pering her  'preparation,'  and  I  could 
n't  ask  her  about  the  noise.  And  then 
as  we  neared  the  convent,  quiet  haven 
of  mellow  Caen  stone  with  two  slender 
poplars  before  the  side  portal,  I  natur- 
ally forgot  everything  else.  If  I  then 
remembered  Jo,  he  was  simply  an 
adorable  little  gray-and-green  fluff  on 
the  very  fringe  of  my  consciousness. 

On  this  day  of  parting,  however,  my 
beloved  Madame  de  Bardon,  because, 
probably,  of  some  religious  duties,  did 
not  accompany  me  on  my  little  tour- 
nee  of  the  gardens,  but,  instead,  the 
stately  Superior,  Madame  de  Serigny. 
This  was  a  great  honor,  of  course,  but 
I  none  the  less  keenly  regretted  the 
substitution,  —  until  this  wholly  unex- 
pected golden  gift  of  Jo,  which  ren- 
dered me  so  ecstatically  incoherent 
that  I  could  remember  my  manners 
only  well  enough  to  kiss  Madame's 
slender  white  hand,  and  babble  child- 
ish ineptitudes  in  French  and  English. 
Then  with  an  armful  of  Malmaison 
roses  —  '  pour  Madame  ta  mere,  avec 
tous  mes  voeux  de  bon  voyage '  —  I 
took  my  final  adieux  of  the  convent, 
never  to  see  it  again. 

That  evening  Jo  arrived  at  our  apart- 


ments, but  after  I  had  been  put  to  bed. 
With  him  came  a  little  note  which  I 
found  on  my  plate  at  breakfast.  '  My 
dear  Franc,  ois,'  it  began,  in  the  elegant, 
angular,  long-looped  con  vent  script  (the 
barbarous  '  Franklin '  of  my  name  had 
been  promptly  changed  two  years  be- 
fore from  its  abbreviated  '  Frank '  into 
its  softer  Gallic  equivalent)  — 

'My  dear  Francois,  I  regret  that  I 
could  not  give  you  in  person  my  part- 
ing wishes,  but  I  am  kindly  permitted 
to  send  them  to  you.  That  you  will 
ever  be  a  good  little  boy,  and  there- 
fore happy,  will  be  in  my  prayers.  I 
trust  you  will  cherish  little  Jo;  and  re- 
member, in  so  doing,  that  our  good  St. 
Francois,  your  Patron,  preached  even 
to  the  birds  of  the  air.  That  he  may 
always  guard  you  is  the  wish  of  your 
friend  in  Notre  Seigneur,  Marie-He- 
lene  Bardon  de  Segonzac,  R.  S.  C.' 

And  so  Jo  was  really  mine,  and  be- 
gan with  me  a  new  life  in  New  York. 
After  the  long  voyage,  during  which  I 
saw  little  of  him,  he  was  at  last  in- 
stalled with  high  ceremony  in  the  din- 
ing-room at  home.  His  cage  was  ever 
the  first  thing  to  greet  my  eyes  when 
I  hurried  in  to  breakfast  each  day;  and 
after  performing  my  filial  duties,  I  had 
to  go  over  and  wish  Jo  good-morn- 
ing before  I  could  think  of  porridge  or 
other  grosser  matters.  His  cage  stood 
on  a  console  in  front  of  one  of  the  long 
French  windows  that  opened  on  the 
little  garden,  or  'yard,'  at  the  back  of 
the  house,  and  the  grape  arbor  that 
arched  above  the  window  shaded  him 
pleasantly  from  the  morning  sun.  The 
cage  seemed  to  me  enormous :  and  indeed 
it  really  was  an  extraordinary  fantasy 
in  gilt  wire,  shaped,  to  my  mind,  some- 
what like  the  mortuary  chapel  of  the 
Orleans  family  at  Dreux,  which  I  had 
seen  the  year  before.  There  were  two 
perches  at  different  levels,  and  above 
the  upper  one  was  a  delightful  swing. 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARROTS 


357 


The  floor  was  sanded,  and  the  two 
porcelain  semi-circular  cups  on  the 
rez-de-chaussee  were  usually  filled,  one 
with  hemp-seed  and  the  other  with 
cold  cafe-au-lait.  A  third  cup,  like  an 
upper  balcony,  was  reserved  for  more 
fleeting  delicacies,  such  as  a  leaf  of 
lettuce,  a  'green  pepper,  or  a  Malaga 
grape  or  two,  which  he  adored. 

The  coffee  for  a  long  time  perplexed 
me.  I  was  not  allowed  to  have  coffee; 
chocolate  for  breakfast  with  a  great 
deal  of  hot  milk,  and  occasionally  in 
the  afternoon  an  exciting  cup  of  cam- 
bric tea  was  all  I  might  aspire  to.  Why, 
then,  was  my  comparatively  tiny  gray- 
green  friend  permitted  this  mature, 
dignified  beverage?  Nothing  was  too 
good  for  Jo,  of  course,  but  still  I  had 
to  find  out  the  reason  for  this  discrim- 
ination. 'But,  my  dear,'  explained  my 
mother,  'you  know  you  are  only  a 
little  boy  yet  —  five  "going  on  six," 
is  n't  it?  —  while  Jo  is  quite  a  grown- 
up parrot.'  And  then  I  unexpectedly 
remembered  that  Manuel  had  spoken 
of  Jo's  failure  to  master  French  in 
eighteen  years,  —  and  he  must  have 
learned  Spanish  before  even  that!  It 
suddenly  flashed  across  me  that  Jo  was 
very  old  indeed.  And  from  being 
merely  an  obvious  delight,  he  slowly 
became,  in  addition,  a  baffling  person- 
ality, possessed  of  the  great  wisdom  of 
ripened  years,  —  twenty,  twenty-one, 
who  knew?  —  and  unable  to  express  it 
in  a  way  that  I  could  understand.  At 
once  each  farrago  of  nonsense  that  he 
occasionally  rattled  off  became  charged 
with  a  serious,  if  unknowable,  import, 
and  as  I  could  never  hope,  until  I  was 
grown  up,  to  learn  Spanish,  I  deter- 
mined to  spare  no  pains  in  teaching  Jo 
English. 

Looking  back  thirty-five  years,  I 
wonder  at  the  patience  of  the  little 
boy  who  daily  spent  an  hour  after  his 
own  tasks,  trying  to  teach  a  third 
language  to  an  absurdly  ruffled  little 


bundle  of  parti-colored  feathers,  to 
whom  old  Manuel's  efforts  of  eighteen 
years  had  failed  to  impart  a  second. 
I  can  remember  how  Jo  would  cock  his 
head  on  one  side,  his  eyes  never  leaving 
me  as  he  dilated  and  contracted  their 
amber  pupils,  while  I  gravely  attempt- 
ed endless  verbal  experiments,  some- 
times even  singing  rhymes  to  him  in 
hope  that  the  music  would  lighten  his 
difficulties.  He  generally  would  at- 
tempt some  vocalization  in  harmony 
with  the  rhymes.  He  would  at  least 
always  laugh  gently  when  I  sang :  — 

Cackle!  cackle!  cackle!  said  the  old  white  hen; 
Gobble!  gobble!  gobble!  said  the  turkey  then; 
Ba!  ba!  ba!  said  the  old  black  sheep; 
Bow!  wow!  wow!  said  the  doggie  in  his  sleep. 

And  he  would  croon  a  soft,  wordless 
accompaniment  when  I  sang  one  of 
my  mother's  favorite  little  songs :  — 

Some  one  stole  my  heart  away, 
Riding  on  a  load  of  hay,  — 

At  any  rate,  I  know  'Handsome,  sun- 
burned Johnny  Brown '  was  one  of  Jo's 
favorites  also.  'Ding,  dong,  bell,  — 
Pussy 's  in  the  well,'  he  never  cared  for, 
but  then,  neither  did  I;  but  'Kitty  of 
Coleraine,'  on  the  other  hand,  he  found 
quite  stirring,  and  his  thick  grayish- 
pink  tongue  would  cluck  stumblingly 
over  a  meaningless  attempt  at  its  pat- 
tering rhythm.  The  fact  remains,  how- 
ever, that  poor  Jo  never  mastered  more 
than  an  absurdly  few  English  phrases. 
But  discouragement  was  far  in  the 
future  for  me  then,  for  did  he  not  event- 
ually learn  to  say,  with  quite  tolerable 
distinctness,  'How  d'  ye  do,  Jo?'  and 
'All  right!'  And  although  it  disturbed 
me,  I  nevertheless  felt  a  secret  pride 
in  him  when  his  'O,  la-la-la!'  became 
finally,  thanks  to  Norah,  who  tended 
his  cage,  a  deprecating  'O  Lord,  Lord, 
Lord!' 

Perhaps  Jo's  most  engaging  trait, 
as  the  years  slowly  passed,  was  his  love 
of  music,  or,  rather,  his  sensitiveness 


358 


to  it.  Every  afternoon  from  half-past 
three  till  five  my  sister  used  to  practice 
on  the  piano,  and  I  thought  then  that 
no  one  ever  played  more  charmingly. 
I  used  to  snuggle  into  a  big  chair  in 
the  library  off  the  drawing-room,  with 
a  favorite  book,  Ivanhoe,  or  Leather- 
Stocking,  or  even  Don  Quichotte,  full 
of  enchanting  little  French  engravings. 
And  then  I  would  try  to  read  and  listen 
to  the  music  at  the  same  time,  —  a 
difficult  feat.  And  Jo,  from  the  dining- 
room,  would  follow  the  music  even 
more  attentively.  The  first  twe"nty 
minutes  of  the '  Gradus  ad  Parnassum,' 
or  the  'Well-Tempered  Clavichord,' 
always  bothered  him,  and  he  would 
wander  from  perch  to  perch,  hanging 
on  to  the  wires  with  his  bill  while  one 
claw  groped  for  the  next  wooden  bar; 
then,  after  landing,  he  would  shake 
himself  till  the  little  green  feathers 
about  his  neck  were  ruffled  out  to 
twice  their  usual  circumference.  If 
scales  and  arpeggi  were  the  programme 
for  the  moment,  he  would  simply  bur- 
row his  bill  into  the  cup  of  hemp-seed 
and  scatter  it  about  recklessly — obvi- 
ously, like  myself,  preferring  anything 
to  scales  and  arpeggi.  But  when  what 
I  called  the  'real  music'  came,  Jo  was 
a  different  creature.  Usually  it  began 
with  the  little  waltz  of  Chopin,  where 
the  cat  is  chasing  its  tail,  —  music  to 
which  only  a  Columbine  could  dance. 
Jo  now  would  raise  excitedly  first  one 
claw  and  then  the  other  in  the  air, 
or  he  would  draw  himself  to  his  full 
height,  hunching  his  shoulders  and 
stretching  his  neck;  and  then  he  would 
emit  the  most  ecstatic  little  laugh,  very 
soft,  but  very  high,  somewhat  the  way 
Columbine  herself  might  laugh.  But 
this  always  stopped  at  the  more  lyrical 
second  theme,  when  he  would  quietly 
sway  from  side  to  side  with  half-closed 
eyes,  only  to  break  into  the  ghost  of  a 
chuckle  at  the  resumption  of  the  first 
theme,  —  and  then,  'da  capo.' 


During  some  of  the  Polonaises  he 
would  chatter  vehemently  in  Spanish; 
but  perhaps  the  second  sonata,  that  in 
B  flat  minor,  moved  him  most  of  all. 
With  the  'Marche  Funebre'  he  would 
begin  muttering,  for  all  the  world  like 
the  bassoons  in  Berlioz's  'Marche  au 
supplice,'  and  I  could  even  catch  occa- 
sionally his  deprecating '  O  Lord,  Lord, 
Lord!'  With  the  transition  into  D  flat 
major,  he  would  begin  to  cry,  very 
gently,  but  as  if  there  were  little  more 
in  life  for  him;  and  I  know  that  my 
sister  used  to  wring  the  last  drop  of 
sentimentality  out  of  the  theme  just  to 
hear  Jo's  exquisitely  delicate  grief.  By 
this  time,  on  autumn  afternoons,  the 
light  was  growing  '  entre  chien  et  loup,' 
and  I  would  forego  my  Don  Quichotte 
and  wait  luxuriously  for  the  final  rondo 
of  the  sonata.  When  this  came  crash- 
ing to  its  close,  Jo  would  give  a  little 
trilling  falsetto  ''Hur-r-r-ah!'  which  I 
had  managed  to  teach  him;  and  then 
all  three  of  us  would  laugh  together 
and  have  a  piece  of  gingerbread  in  the 
dusk  of  the  dining-room. 

I  must  not,  however,  give  the  im- 
pression that  Jo  was  always  good; 
indeed,  I  doubt  if  half  his  trespasses 
were  ever  told  me  at  the  time.  But  I 
remember  well  the  fright  he  gave  us 
one  morning,  when  he  nipped  Norah's 
finger  as  she  was  giving  him  fresh 
coffee.  Then,  as  she  drew  back,  and 
as  the  door  of  his  cage  was  open  at  the 
moment,  he  flew  forth  valiantly  into 
the  room,  and  with  a  swoop  of  unac- 
customed flight,  alighted  on  the  gilded 
frame  of  the  portrait  of  my  grandfather 
above  the  chimney-piece,  and  poised 
there  jabbering  and  laughing  shrilly, 
I  can  see  his  little  angry  figure  now, 
ruffling  itself  above  my  grandfather  in 
his  white  stock  and  velvet  coat-collar, 
and  I  can  remember  our  corporate 
excitement.  My  mother  hurriedly 
threw  a  napkin  over  her  lace  breakfast- 
cap  (not  even  very  old  ladies  wear 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARROTS 


359 


those  charming  morning-caps  any 
longer,  alas!),  and  my  sister  fled  to  the 
glass  door  leading  to  the  library.  At 
length  my  father  succeeded  in  calming 
Jo  enough  to  induce  him  to  step  gin- 
gerly off  the  picture-frame  and  on  to 
the  ivory  handle  of  his  walking-stick, 
which  I  had  run  for;  and  I  had  the 
final  triumph  of  putting  him  back  into 
his  cage,  where  he  walked  to  and  fro 
excitedly,  rolling  out  an  occasional 
defiant  '  All  right !  —  all  right ! '  When 
several  years  later  I  first  read  'The 
Raven,'  I  don't  think  that  that  bird  of 
omen  moved  me  half  so  much  as  Jo 
did;  and,  somehow,  the  bust  of  Pallas 
always  seemed  benignantly  to  resem- 
ble my  grandfather.  At  any  rate,  the 
mental  picture  the  poem  created  was 
robbed  of  the  thrill  of  the  unexpected, 
thanks  to  little  Jo. 

Although  he  had  done  no  real  harm, 
it  was  decided  to  clip  one  of  his  wings. 
After  that,  he  was  every  now  and  then 
let  out  (given  'shore  liberty,'  my  father 
called  it),  and  one  no  longer  feared  for 
one's  hair.  But  I  have  never  yet  un- 
derstood why  all  women  assume  that 
bats  and  parrots  will  promptly  rush  for 
their  coiffures  and  destroy  them;  be- 
cause they  really  don't. 

Jo  walking  on  terra  firma  was  not 
very  graceful;  his  ambling  gait  was  a 
fairly  uncertain  waddle,  and  every  little 
while  in  his  hurry  he  would  give  a  side 
stroke  to  the  floor  with  his  bill  to  help 
himself  along.  His  objective  was  in- 
variably the  leg  of  a  chair  or  anything 
to  climb.  Sometimes,  however,  it 
would  be  discovered  that  his  wing 
feathers  had  grown  faster  than  was 
expected;  and  one  April  morning, 
lured  by  a  hurdy-gurdy  at  the  front 
of  the  house,  a  little  green  projectile 
whirled  out  of  the  open  drawing-room 
window  and  landed  high  in  the  bud- 
ding branches  of  the  chestnut  tree  at 
the  edge  of  the  sidewalk.  Here  his 
gay  chattering  roused  the  neighbor- 


hood, a  rattle  of  Spanish  interspersed 
with  .hilarious  laughter  and  clucking. 
Norah  and  I  presently  stood  at  the 
edge  of  the  small  crowd  that  promptly 
gathered,  Norah  wringing  her  hands, 
and  I  acutely  embarrassed  and  fear- 
ful for  Jo's  safety.  At  last  Mr.  Flynn 
shoved  his  way  through  us  (Mr.  Flynn, 
the  policeman,  was  a  great  crony  of 
Norah's  and  mine),  and  seeing  the 
trouble,  prepared  for  action.  I  had  the 
unspeakable  privilege  of  holding  his 
brass-buttoned  coat  and  helmet  while 
he  climbed  the  tree  (after  that,  when- 
ever I  read  of  Zaccheus  I  never  knew 
which  to  think  of,  Jo  or  Mr.  Flynn), 
and  we  all  encouraged  his  upward  pro- 
gress. When  he  got  well  within  range, 
and  held  out  his  huge  hand  for  Jo 
to  perch  upon  it,  Jo,  of  course,  nipped 
his  finger,  and  retreated  higher.  Mr. 
Flynn  put  his  finger  to  his  mouth, 
ruminated,  and  then  descended  to  the 
first  branch.  On  his  second  ascent  he 
carried  Norah's  apron  with  him.  After 
a  breathless  struggle  he  at  last  entered 
the  house  with  an  agitated  white 
bundle,  and  the  cheering  crowd  rapidly 
dispersed.  When  domestic  peace  was 
finally  restored,  Mr.  Flynn  was  much 
petted  by  Norah  and  the  cook,  and 
my  mother  sent  him  down  a  glass  of 
port;  while  I  enjoyed  the  occasion 
which  permitted  me  to  examine  his 
stick,  his  gloves,  his  whistle  —  in  short, 
all  of  his  wonderful  equipment.  I 
could  just  hear  Jo  upstairs,  scolding 
himself. 

But  one  trait  of  Jo's  I  have  withheld 
till  I  can  conceal  it  no  longer:  he  would 
scream,  and  a  more  distressing  noise 
I  have  rarely  heard.  Now  a  dog  howls 
when  he  is  lonely,  a  cat  wauls  (the 
word  must  be  right,  for  it  comes  from 
'caterwaul')  because  of  some  combat- 
ive or  amative  impulse;  but  a  parrot 
screams  through  sheer  boredom.  I 
sometimes  think  it  is  the  only  creature 
that  shares  with  us  that  secondary 


360 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARROTS 


curse  which  followed  our  ejection  from 
Eden,  —  ennui.  And  I  know  that  if 
Noah  fed  his  animals  well,  and  if  they 
had  plenty  of  room  for  exercise,  the 
only  creatures  who  rebelled  vocally 
against  the  dire  tedium  of  the  voyage, 
and  the  creatures  who  made  the  most 
noise,  bar  none,  were  the  two  little 
papingoes  (as  our  forefathers  used  to 
call  them).  At  any  rate,  Jo  would 
scream,  and  I  now  realized  the  source 
of  the  fearful  din  that  sometimes  dis- 
turbed me  as  I  left  old  Manuel's  lodge 
with  Madame  de  Bardon.  At  break- 
fast or  at  luncheon  everything  would 
be  progressing  peacefully,  when  sud- 
denly, for  no  reason  at  all,  there  would 
come  from  Jo  a  succession  of  piercing, 
raucous  yells.  Conversation  at  once 
became  impossible.  Then  Norah  or  I 
would  rush  to  his  cage  and  offer  him 
a  frantic  variety  of  food,  anything, 
everything  at  hand.  But  all  would  be 
impatiently  rejected  or  ignored,  and 
the  uproar  would  go  on  until  exhaus- 
tion set  in,  or  until  Jo  was  removed  to 
the  library  and  a  cloth  was  thrown  over 
his  cage. 

I  remember  once,  at  his  removal  in 
disgrace,  my  father,  with  a"  little  laugh 
that  scarcely  hid  an  ebbing  patience, 
exclaimed,  'And  really,  my  dear,  I 
used  sometimes  to  wonder  at  Madame 
de  Serigny's  generosity  in  her  little 
gift  of  our  Jo!'  My  mother  hurriedly 
brushed  aside  the  remark,  the  mean- 
ing of  which  I  did  n't  at  all  grasp  at 
the  time,  although  I  understand  it 
now.  And  yet  I  wonder  now  which 
of  us  would  do  much  better  than 
little  Jo,  caged  far  away  from  the 
beautiful  enchanted  land  of  our  early 
years,  were  it  not  for  the  growth  of 
new  and  different  ambitions,  or,  they 
being  thwarted,  for  the  quieting  disci- 
pline of  Christian  patience.  '  I  can't  get 
out!'  was  the  plaintive  cry  of  Sterne's 
starling;  but  I  never  believed  in  that 
starling  (his  creator  was  a  rank  senti- 


mentalist), and  I  can  understand  Jo's 
robustly  pagan,  frenzied  hubbub  far 
better. 

So  here  you  have  Jo's  small  person- 
ality: his  virtues,  which  may  seem 
trivial  enough  to  one  who  has  not  loved 
him  since  childhood,  his  vagrancies, 
and  the  one  great  flaw  in  his  charm. 
A  very  ordinary  little  bird,  you  will 
say,  but  I  cannot  see  him,  as  I  should, 
with  the  critical  vision  of  middle  life. 
I  will  admit  that  he  has  shown  a  flash 
of  genius  but  once  in  his  long  and  pos- 
sibly futile  career.  That  was  when, 
because  of  my  sister's  illness,  he  was 
sent  away  on  a  visit  to  old  Mrs.  Ren- 
frew. His  occasional  noise  and  laugh- 
ter was  a  disturbing  note  in  the  hush- 
ed house;  and  as  Mrs.  Renfrew  owned 
a  famously  talkative  parrot,  it  was 
thought  that  Jo  might  pick  up  a  few 
phrases  from  a  teacher  of  his  own 
species.  Of  course,  Jo  did  not.  But  it 
is  still  told  how  on  one  memorable  day 
Mrs.  Renfrew's  parrot  burst  into  a 
wild  hullabaloo,  crying  at  the  top  of  its 
voice,  'Fire!  fire!  fire!  —  turn  out  — 
turn  out!  —  here  they  come!  —  Hi-yi- 
yi-yi!'  —  a  long,  deafening  uproar. 
Jo,  in  his  adjoining  cage,  raised  one 
claw,  then  the  other,  and  blinked. 
When  the  racket  subsided,  he  gave  a 
little  gasp  and  exclaimed  slowly,  'O 
my  God!' 

One  cannot  account  for  these  start- 
lingly  apposite  reactions  in  a  'lower' 
animal,  in  what  Descartes  called  a 
'bete  machine.'  Perhaps  —  very  prob- 
ably —  they  mean  nothing.  But  some- 
times (though,  thank  God,  rarely) 
when  an  acquaintance  or  friend  reacts 
on  something  I  have  said,  I  wonder  if 
the  feeling  that  prompts  his  reply,  or 
the  mind  that  directs  it,  is,  ultimately, 
at  all  like  my  own.  The  philosophers, 
at  least  some  of  them,  say  that  we 
can  never  really,  finally,  know.  And 
speculation  in  this  direction,  for  all 
except  the  philosophers,  leads  to  a 


IN  PRAISE  OF  PARROTS 


361 


haunting  doubt  of  most  things;  one 
has  to  take  one's  own  kind  on  trust. 
So  when  I  extend  this  form  of  trust 
even  to  Jo's  elementary  little  reactions, 
I  know  that  I  shall  be  thought  un- 
scientific, and  probably  childish;  but 
then,  the  good  Saint  Francis  was  won- 
derfully both  when  he  besought  his 
little  feathered  flock  to  trust  in  the 
goodness  of  God.  And  life  is  surely 
a  pleasanter  thing  this  way. 

A  few  years  more,  and  I  went  away 
to  school,  where  my  life  was  filled  with 
fresh  interests  and  excitements.  Holi- 
days and  long  vacations,  however, 
brought  nie  home,  and  there  not  the 
least  friendly  fact  was  Jo,  who  always 
gave  me,  it  seemed,  a  very  special  wel- 
come. Gradually  the  years  ran  each  a 
little  more  swiftly,  till  I  reached  the 
University  and  beyond.  And  then, 
one  by  one,  Jo's  little  circle  departed 
this  life,  until  only  he  and  I  were  left 
to  cherish  the  happy  memories  of  our 
long  journey  together.  Jo  still  seems 
to  me  very  old  indeed,  for  to  his  thirty- 
five  years  with  me  I  must  add  at  least 
his  eighteen  with  Manuel  (now,  un- 
doubtedly, a  faithful  gardener  to  Our 
Lady,  to  whom,  in  the  old  days,  he  so 
humbly  dedicated  his  choicest  flow- 
ers) .  Fifty- three,  at  least !  — '  fifty-four, 
going  on  fifty-five'?  —  who  knows? 
Years  ago  I  would  occasionally  read 
with  awe  some  stray  newspaper  para- 
graph, in  which  would  be  told  the 
length  of  life  of  various  animals: 
whales,  I  remember  (or  was  it  turtles?), 
were  said  to  live  to  an  incredible  age, 
—  I  forget  the  exact  tale;  but  parrots, 
with  what  accuracy  I  cannot  say,  were 
nearly  always  allotted  a  round  century. 
How  near  this  cycle  my  venerable 
little  friend  may  be,  I  do  not  know;  I 
can  give  only  the  authentic  records 
that  I  have.  Jo's  declining  days  are 
carefully  shielded;  and  once  every  year 
at  least,  I  pay  him  a  visit  at  my  dear 
old  aunt's,  in  whose  quiet  dining-room 


he  now  dwells.  He  will  still  let  me 
gently  rub  the  top  of  his  little  green 
head;  and  when  I  ask  him,  'How  d'ye 
do,  Jo?'  he  will  still  answer  cheerfully, 
'All  right  T  So  I  know  that  although 
he  no  longer  has  a  little  boy  to  play 
with,  or  the  charming  music  of  long 
ago  to  listen  to,  and  although  he  seems 
to  grow  a  bit  more  silent  each  year, 
it  is  still  well  with  Jo. 

Several  years  since,  I  was  journeying 
in  southwestern  Mexico,  through  a 
jungle  chiefly  of  cactus,  twenty  feet 
high  and  more.  I  had  long  grown  accus- 
tomed to  the  brilliant  flowers  and  the 
fantastic  vines  and  orchids  that  flung 
themselves  high  overhead;  and  as  the 
afternoon  waned  I  had  lapsed  into  a 
brown  study,  punctuated  only  by  the 
hoof-beats  of  my  horse  and  the  quicker 
patter  of  the  burro  behind,  on  which 
rode  my  little  mozo,  Porfirio,  —  a  si- 
lent Don  Quichotte  and  a  silent  squire. 
Suddenly  there  was  a  fluttering  whir 
of  wings  and  a  gay  cry  from  Porfirio: 
'Look,  Don  Francisco!  —  the  pretty 
parrots!'  And  a  rippling  little  green 
cloud  of  birds  whirled  up  from  the 
thicket  and  away  to  the  left,  —  the 
first  I  had  ever  seen  in  freedom.  A 
flash  of  brilliant  emerald  as  the  sun- 
light struck  them,  a  few  sharp  cries 
on  a  high  note,  and  they  were  gone. 
When  I  relapsed  into  my  brown  study, 
my  thoughts  were  thousands  of  leagues 
away,  with  little  Jo  as  their  curiously 
persistent  focus;  and  a  sudden  nostal- 
gia seized  me,  of  a  kind  that  comes  to 
a  man  rarely,  but  sometimes  with  an 
exquisite  poignancy,  —  the  nostalgia 
for  one's  childhood,  that  enchanted, 
lost  country,  which  I  hope  Heaven  will 
resemble,  at  least  a  little  bit. 

And  then  I  wondered  what  my  next 
long  journey  would  be.  Perhaps  to 
the  convent  of  the  Sacre  Cceur! 
Madame  de  Serigny  would  be  gone 
these  many  years.  But  Madame  de 
Bardon  might  be  there,  a  gentle, 


362 


HOMESICKNESS 


beautiful  old  nun  of  sixty.  She  would 
not  recall  the  name  on  my  visiting- 
card  when  it  reached  her;  but  when 
she  received  me,  I  should  surely  make 
her  remember.  Then  of  course  we 
should  visit  the  Chapel  first,  and  I 
should  have  her  arrange  for  a  candle 
to  be  lighted,  —  not,  perhaps,  in  honor 
of  Saint  Francis,  to  whose  care  she 
commended  me  so  long  ago,  but  surely 
in  honor  of  Saint  Margaret,  my  sister's 


Patron,  and  one  for  Saint  Katharine, 
my  mother's.  And  then  perhaps  we 
should  walk  through  the  gardens  to 
the  lodge,  and  if  only  little  Jo  could 
be  there,  I  know  he  would  air  to  Ma- 
dame de  Bardon  his  later  accomplish- 
ments; I  know  he  would  say  at  last, 
in  a  little  boy's  childish  treble,  'All 
right! — all  right!'  Or  perhaps  he 
would  revert  to  old  Manuel's  deeper 
tones,  and  cry  out,  'Deo  gratias!' 


HOMESICKNESS 


BY  CHARLES  GRANT  MATTHEWS 


Toward  yonder  purple  ridges 
Low  in  the  twilight  sky, 

With  mighty  rush  of  pinions 
The  wild  goose  rideth  by. 

I  cannot  tell  what  anguish, 
Sudden  and  sweet  and  dim, 

Out  of  the  leaden  present 
Calleth  me  after  him. 


O  mountains  of  the  southland, 
What  was  it  came  and  went? 

A  lost  bird  speeding  homeward 
After  the  day  is  spent? 


THE  SLAVE  PLANTATION  IN  RETROSPECT 


BY   WINTHROP   MORE   DANIELS 


THE  race  question  in  the  South  is  at 
last  beginning  to  be  approached  in  a 
temper  fairly  free  from  partisan  bias. 
But  the  institution  which  bequeathed 
us  the  race  question  still  awaits  dis- 
passionate historical  appraisal.  De- 
spite the  lapse  of  almost  half  a  century, 
the  embers  of  the  great  conflict  in 
which  slavery  perished  are  still  hot,  if 
one  but  deeply  stir  the  ashes.  It  is 
therefore  to  be  accounted  a  rare  piece 
of  good  fortune  that  the  first  two  vol- 
umes of  the  Documentary  History  of 
American  Industrial  Society  *  delineate 
the  'peculiar  institution'  wholly  from 
the  economic  point  of  view.  Professor 
Phillips  has  ranged  far  in  his  quest  of 
illuminating  excerpts,  but  has  discern- 
ingly garnered  only  what  is  untouched 
by  political  rancor.  The  diary  of  the 
planter,  the  journal  of  the  traveler, 
the  account-book  of  the  merchant,  the 
private  report  of  the  overseer,  the  cor- 
respondence of  friends,  the  advertise- 
ment, news  item,  and  editorial,  the  per- 
sonal testimonial,  the  confession  of  the 
convict,  the  public  petition,  the  crim- 

1  The  Documentary  History  of  American  In- 
dustrial Society,  edited  by  John  R.  Commons, 
Ulrich  B.  Phillips,  Eugene  A.  Gilmore,  Helen  L. 
Sumner,  and  John  B.  Andrews,  and  published  by 
the  Arthur  H.  Clark  Company,  Cleveland,  Ohio, 
will  be  completed  in  ten  volumes  of  which  eight 
have  already  appeared.  The  first  two  volumes, 
entitled,  Plantation  and  Frontier,  1649-1863, 
selected,  collated,  and  edited,  with  Introduction, 
by  Ulrich  B.  Phillips,  Ph.D.,  Professor  of  His- 
tory and  Political  Science,  Tulane  University  of 
Louisiana,  relate  wholly  to  the  economic  fortunes 
of  the  South.  The  remaining  volumes  are  devoted 
to  the  Labor  Movement  in  the  United  States  up 
to  1880. 


inal  records  of  parish  and  county,  the 
private  contract,  and  the  occasional 
local  ordinance,  —  all  have  contrib- 
uted to  the  deftly  arranged  mosaic  set 
before  us  in  Plantation  and  Frontier. 
The  illustrative  material  has  been  or- 
ganized around  various  topics  of  card- 
inal importance,  such  as  Plantation 
Routine,  Plantation  Vicissitudes,  Slave 
Labor,  Negro  Qualities,  'Poor  Whites,' 
Migration,  Frontier  Society,  so  that 
each  assemblage  of  documents  bears  a 
common  character. 

It  is  due  perhaps  to  a  too  sedulous 
avoidance  of  the  political  aspect  of 
slavery  that  the  statute-book  has  been 
drawn  on  so  sparingly  to  produce 
this  composite  picture.  And  it  is,  of 
course,  true  that  the  politics  of  slavery 
is  a  domain  quite  by  itself.  The  earl- 
iest colonial  statutes  against  slave  im- 
portations, —  most,  if  not  all,  of  them 
frustrated  by  the  Crown,  —  the  North- 
west Ordinance  of  1787,  the  Constitu- 
tion's delimitation  of  the  life  of  the 
foreign  slave  trade,  the  Missouri  Com- 
promise, the  Kansas-Nebraska  Bill,  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law,  the  Emancipa- 
tion Proclamation,  and  the  Thirteenth 
Amendment,  —  all  these  are  only  some 
of  the  greater  landmarks,  extinct  vol- 
canoes as  it  were,  in  the  seismic  tract 
of  national  politics.  They  would  have 
been  quite  out  of  place  in  a  treatise  like 
this. 

But  there  is  another  kind  of  fun- 
damental legal  monument  at  whose 
absence  among  so  much  that  is  pertin- 
ent we  must  somewhat  wonder.  An 
instance  in  point  is  the  assimilation  of 

863 


364 


THE  SLAVE  PLANTATION  IN  RETROSPECT 


the  offspring  of  mixed  unions  to  the 
servile  status  of  the  mother.  Almost 
the  entire  institution  of  slavery  was 
profoundly  affected  by  this  single  jurid- 
ical custom.  It  reflected  an  attitude 
of  the  white  toward  the  subject  race 
that  is  certainly  deserving  of  notice. 
Moreover  the  varying  legal  status  of 
the  colored  race  as  regards  rights  both 
personal  and  real,  such  as  the  slave's 
peculium,  seems  so  essential  a  part  of 
the  true  inwardness  of  slavery  that  its 
omission  is  at  least  remarkable.  Nor 
is  the  rejoinder  quite  adequate  that  the 
two  volumes  are  designed  to  portray 
the  plantation  rather  than  slavery,  for 
the  economics  of  the  plantation  were 
the  economics  of  slavery,  and  as  Pro- 
fessor Phillips  rightly  contends  at  the 
outset,  industrial  history  is  concerned 
'  in  the  main  with  men  and  manners.  It 
is  a  phase  of  social  history ' ;  and  social 
history  has  no  mirror  comparable  to 
the  statute-book. 

Regrettable  as  is  the  omission  of 
statute  and  adjudication,  their  ab- 
sence carries  a  very  real  compensation. 
The  portraiture  of  the  economic  life  of 
the  South  by  means  of  less  technical 
documents  gains  thereby  in  immediate 
intelligibility.  An  enactment  or  a  lead- 
ing legal  decision  may  be  of  most  pro- 
found social  significance,  but  it  com- 
monly speaks  an  alien  tongue.  It  re- 
quires too  often  an  interpreter,  while 
the  intimacy  of  everyday  intercourse 
speaks  for  itself.  Matter  of  fact  ar- 
rests a  thousand  auditors  where  the 
abstractions  of  the  forum  engage  but 
few.  The  integration  of  the  various 
cycles  of  illustrative  material  moreover 
is  skillfully  effected  by  Professor  Phil- 
lips's  prefatory  essay.  This  introduc- 
tion serves  admirably  both  to  outline 
the  general  character  of  the  plantation 
system,  and  to  knit  into  a  congruous 
fabric  the  diverse  strands  of  evidence 
contained  in  the  various  sections  of  the 
two  volumes.  It  is  as  though  a  scholar- 


ly lecturer  first  traversed  with  an  in- 
telligent audience  the  essential  histor- 
ical movements  of  a  period,  before 
throwing  upon  the  screen  the  concrete 
pictures  to  exemplify  the  living  reality. 

'When  Virginia  was  founded,  the 
word  plantation  had  the  meaning  of  the 
modern  word  colony.  The  Jamestown 
settlement  was  the  plantation  of  the 
London  Company  in  the  sense  that  the 
Company  had  founded  it  and  exercised 
jurisdiction  over  it.'  But  before  long 
'plantation'  came  to  signify,  not  the 
planting  of  colonists,  but  the  planting 
of  staples.  Essential  to  the  plantation, 
as  Professor  Phillips  insists,  was  a  labor 
force  of  considerable  size,  generally  in 
bondage,  subdivided  into  groups  work- 
ing each  under  supervision,  and  pro- 
ducing a  commodity  intended,  not  for 
consumption  at  home,  but  for  sale  in 
the  market. 

The  farm  was  differentiated  from  the 
plantation  not  so  much  by  the  farm's 
smaller  area  as  by  its  self-directing 
labor,  and  by  its  affording  the  cultivator 
his  immediate  subsistence.  The  duel 
between  the  farm  and  the  plantation 
epitomizes  the  greater  part  of  the  ante- 
bellum  industrial  history  of  the  South. 
The  struggle  moreover  was  an  oft- 
renewed  fight,  and  not  a  single  pitched 
battle.  In  the  same  territory,  as,  for 
example,  in  seaboard  Virginia,  the 
early  supremacy  of  the  plantation 
yielded  later,  when  the  soil's  pristine 
fertility  had  been  exhausted,  to  the 
farm.  And  in  general,  while  the  su- 
perior efficiency  of  the  plantation  for 
the  raising  of  staples  vanquished  the 
farm  system  in  the  short  run,  Provid- 
ence for  once  fought  against  the  '  big 
battalions '  and  was  bent  on  according 
the  final  victory  to  the  smaller  con- 
testant. 

Not  the  least  merit  of  Professor 
Phillips's  illuminating  introduction  is 
his  demonstration  that  a  purely  chron- 
ological method  will  not  suffice  for  the 


THE  SLAVE  PLANTATION  IN  RETROSPECT 


365 


history  of  the  plantation  regime.  The 
same  cycle  of  alternate  triumphs  and 
reverses  as  between  the  two  industrial 
claimants  for  the  soil  of  the  South  was 
rehearsed  in  different  regions  at  very 
different  periods.  The  pell-mell  rush 
into  the  uplands  of  the  ulterior  when 
Whitney's  gin  had  made  the  short- 
staple  cotton  commercially  profitable, 
carried  the  struggle  ever  onward  to  the 
Mississippi.  Frontiering  was  only  the 
onward  lip  of  the  migratoryjwave  which 
in  the  Southwest  coveted  the  exploita- 
tion of  virgin  soil  by  the  labor  of  the 
slave-gang.  The  essential  service  of 
these  two  volumes  is  the  picture  they 
afford  of  the  vie  intime  of  the  planta- 
tion, and  the  emphasis  they  throw  on 
the  frontiersman  as  the  advance  guard 
of  the  slave  planter. 

What  then  was  the  typical  character 
of  the  slave  plantation  of  the  South? 
Was  it  essentially  a  mild  patriarchal 
form  of  industrial  organization,  in 
which  the  master  safeguarded  the  real 
interests  of  his  slave  dependents,  them- 
selves incapable  of  self-government  or 
self-support?  Or  was  it  in  the  main  a 
tyrannous  exploitation  of  the  African 
for  the  profit  of  his  owner? 

The  questions  just  suggested  deserve 
an  answer  less  than  they  deserve  ana- 
lysis and  criticism.  They  are  keyed  up 
to  a  note  of  hectic  moral  expectancy, 
and  betray  an  anticipation  of  sweeping 
approval  or  condemnation  which  the 
judicial,  many-sided  study  of  history 
must  invariably  disappoint.  The  slave 
plantation  bore  a  character  impressed 
upon  it  by  the  industrial  conditions  of 
its  day  and  age.  As  these  varied,  the 
plantation  varied;  and  while  the  char- 
acter of  the  individual  owner  often 
notably  shaped  for  his  lifetime  the  gen- 
eral tone  and  character  of  his  own  es- 
tate, the  manifold  influences  of  the 
economic  environment  controlled  in 
the  long  run. 

'The  plantation  system  was  evolved 


to  answer  the  specific  need  of  meeting 
the  world's  demand  for  certain  staple 
crops  in  the  absence  of  a  supply  of  free 
labor.'  The  primary  impulse  was  un- 
deniably commercial,  in  a  day  when 
humanitarian  or  social  considerations 
sat  lightly  upon  the  master  class.  The 
lot  of  the  white  redemptioner  upon  the 
early  tobacco  plantation  was,  to  say 
the  least,  not  enviable;  while  the  Afri- 
can, removed  but  a  span  from  savage- 
ry, lacked  all  claim  to  any  customary 
rights  which  sheltered  the  English- 
born  subject  from  abject  degradation. 
And  yet  there  were  mitigations,  if  not 
compensations,  to  the  slave,  in  the  sit- 
uation; in  the  rude  plenty  that  un- 
bounded land  of  unimpaired  fertility 
at  first  afforded;  in  the  self-interest  of 
the  far-sighted  planter,  alive  to  the 
fact  that  his  continued  profit  depended 
on  the  physical  well-being  of  his  bonds- 
men; and  in  the  Englishman's  in- 
grained habit  of  feeling  no  inconsider- 
able measure  of  personal  responsibility 
for  the  essential  comfort  of  man  or 
beast  subject  to  his  domination. 

This  preliminary  characterization  of 
the  plantation  system  requires  almost 
indefinite  qualification  and  amend- 
ment. 'The  plantation  system,'  Pro- 
fessor Phillips  tells  us,  'had  independ- 
ent origins  in  the  Spanish  West  Indies 
and  in  English  Virginia.'  The  West 
Indian  type  radiated  outward  from 
Charleston,  South  Carolina.  Thither 
the  Barbadian  English  had  migrated 
in  1670.  By  1694  they  had  begun  the 
cultivation  of  rice  by  slave  labor.  It  is 
difficult  to  escape  the  conviction  that 
the  Virginia  type  of  plantation  was  im- 
mensely more  humane  than  the  Car- 
olina type.  In  part  this  was  due  to  the 
larger  size  of  the  slave-gangs  worked  on 
the  Carolina  rice-swamps.  Some  ap- 
preciable taint  of  Spanish  inhumanity, 
it  may  be  conjectured,  had  infected  the 
morale  of  the  system.  Moreover  the 
frequent  absenteeism  of  the  Carolina 


366 


THE  SLAVE  PLANTATION  IN  RETROSPECT 


plantation  owner,  caused  by  the  mias- 
mic  character  of  the  region,  completed 
the  opportunity  for  the  more  than  fit- 
ful emergence  of  oppression  on  the  part 
of  overseer  and  driver. 

Perhaps  no  contrast  is  more  marked 
in  the  documents  cited  by  Professor 
Phillips  than  the  exacting  solicitude 
shown  by  the  more  humane  plantation 
owners  for  their  slaves  as  over  against 
the  uniform  incompetence  of  the  hired 
overseers,  who  seem  as  a  class  to  have 
been  both  incapable  and  unfeeling. 
The  instructions  issued  by  the  owners 
to  their  agents  and  managers  often 
expressly  prohibit  cruel  or  excessive 
punishment;  allow  a  direct  appeal  by 
the  slave  from  the  overseer  to  the  mas- 
ter; guard  against  excessive  tasking; 
provide  for  proper  medical  attendance 
and  nursing;  authorize  kitchen  gardens 
and  minor  opportunities  for  the  slaves 
to  earn  money;  and  establish  regular 
religious  instruction.  On  the  other 
hand,  Olmsted  is  quoted  as  to  the  char- 
acter of  the  overseer:  — 

'I  asked  why  he  did  not  employ  an 
overseer.' 

'Because  I  do  not  think  it  right  to 
trust  to  such  men  as  we  have  to  use,  if 
we  use  any,  for  overseers.' 

'  Is  the  general  character  of  overseers 
bad?' 

'They  are  the  curse  of  the  country, 
sir;  the  worst  men  in  the  community.'  1 

And  yet  the  unfortunate  overseer 
must  not  be  condemned  without  due 
allowance.  He  had  to  contend  against 
the  mean  status  among  his  own  race 
that  his  employment  too  frequently 
involved.  He  had  to  cope  with  fire  and 
flood;  with  drought  and  crop  failure; 
with  the  frequent  ravages  of  fatal  epi- 
demics, especially  cholera,  among  his 
hands.  More  vexatious  than  all  else, 
and  more  trying  to  nerves  and  temper, 
was  the  task  of  exacting  unwilling  la- 
bor from  the  blacks.  Their  incorrigible 

1  Journey  in  the  Seaboard  Slave  States  (1856). 


tendency  to  eye-service,  to  laziness, 
lying,  petty  thieving,  quarrelsomeness, 
and  malingering,  would  have  taxed  the 
patience  of  far  better  men  than  over- 
seers for  the  most  part  were.  Besides,  a 
salary  of  four  to  five  hundred  dollars 
a  year  was  not  likely  to  command  the 
combined  virtues  of  a  Moses  and  a 
Numa.  And  so  we  catch  in  the  records 
the  constantly  recurring  complaint  of 
the  overseer  concerning  his  tantalizing 
and  vexatious  lot.  Thus  in  1771  one 
of  these  taskmasters  from  the  Custis 
estate  writes  to  Washington  about  a 
runaway:  '.  .  .he  went  away  for  no 
provocation  in  the  world  bot  So  lazey 
he  will  not  worke  and  a  greater  Roge  is 
not  to  be  foun.'  Another  instance  may 
be  found  in  the  letter  to  Miss  Telfair 
when  the  overseer  of  her  Georgia  plan- 
tation writes  despairingly  in  1836:  * .  .  . 
so  soon  as  I  am  absent  from  either 
[gang]  they  are  subject  to  quarrel  and 
fight,  or  to  idle  time,  or  beat  or  abuse 
the  mules,  and  when  called  to  account, 
each  Negro  present  .  .  .  will  deny  all 
about  the  same.' 

Perhaps  the  least  inadequate  an- 
swer to  the  question  broached  above  as 
to  the  essential  character  of  the  plan- 
tation is  to  say  that  the  moral  level  of 
its  community  life  depended  on  the 
presence  or  absence  of  certain  well- 
defined  factors.  If  the  plantation 
owner  felt  his  responsibility,  —  and 
very  generally,  I  think,  this  was  the 
case,  —  if  he  avoided  absenteeism,  and 
made  his  authority  felt  by  his  personal 
presence;  if  the  social  ties  of  an  old  es- 
tablished neighborhood  had  created  its 
crust  of  beneficent  custom;  if  the  field- 
hands  on  the  plantation  were  neither 
too  few  nor  too  numerous;  if  the  char- 
acter of  the  work,  such  as  the  raising  of 
cotton  or  tobacco,  excluded  insanitary 
conditions  of  work  and  life  (such  as  fre- 
quently prevailed  on  the  rice  and  sugar 
plantation) ;  if  neither  financial  misfor- 
tune, nor  the  death  of  the  owner,  nor 


367 


the  partition  of  his  property,  led  to  the 
dispersal  of  his  slaves;  and,  above  all, 
if  the  absence  of  greed  for  quick  and 
exorbitant  profits  shut  out  frequent 
accessions  to  the  slave  hands  and  pre- 
vented the  reduction  of  the  whole 
gang  to  a  mere  profit-getting  machine, 
as  on  the  frontier,  —  the  plantation  ri- 
gime  may  be  regarded  in  relation  to  its 
time  as  an  efficient  and  fairly  merciful 
industrial  system,  which  sheltered  a 
backward  people,  and  'incidentally 
trained  a  savage  race  to  a  certain  de- 
gree of  fitness  for  life  in  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  community.' 

On  the  other  hand,  every  qualifica- 
tion which  limits  the  conditional  ver- 
dict just  rendered,  denotes  a  door  of 
potential  abuse  and  perversion.  The 
unfeeling,  the  immoral,  the  mercurial, 
and  the  rapacious  master  and  overseer 
—  and  such  there  were  —  distorted 
the  homely  virtues  of  the  rSgime.  Its 
moral  level  was  perhaps  at  its  highest 
when  its  heyday  of  economic  profit- 
ableness was  past,  or  at  least  when 
the  quest  of  immediate  profit  was  tem- 
pered by  higher  and  more  humane  con- 
siderations. 

At  best,  the  regime  was  doomed  to  be 
but  temporary,  for  its  existence  came 
to  depend  on  unexhausted,  virgin  soil, 
and  the  geographical  confines  of  plan- 
tationdom  had  been  all  but  reached  by 
1860.  Given  some  system  of  soil-re- 
newal, sugar  and  cotton  might  have 
been  raised  for  some  years  longer  by 
slave  labor,  for  in  both  cases  large 
gangs  could  be  worked  at  routine  tasks 
every  month  in  the  year.  Tobacco  cul- 
ture required  labor  for  but  a  portion  of 
the  twelvemonth,  and  the  slave's  cost 
in  days  of  comparative  idleness  be- 
came prohibitive  economically.  The 
growing  of  cereals  required  hired  help 
for  only  a  fraction  of  the  year,  and  was 
clearly  beyond  the  competitive  capa- 
bilities of  the  slave  plantation.  More- 
over the  self-directing  labor  of  the 


factory  system  confirmed  the  mono- 
poly of  manufactures  to  free  soil. 

The  seamy  side  of  slavery  was  ob- 
vious and  dramatic;  its  beneficent  as- 
pect was  largely  hidden  and  silent. 
The  slave  trade  and  the  slave  mart 
focused  the  cruelty  of  slavery,  although 
the  renting  out  of  slaves  to  alien  task- 
masters, and  the  legal  disabilities  im- 
posed upon  '  free  persons  of  color,'  were 
almost  equally  poignant  in  their  pathos. 
The  horrors  of  blood  and  torture  in 
which  the  infrequent  slave  conspira- 
cies were  extinguished  were  unspeak- 
able, although,  it  must  be  confessed,  the 
holocaust  seems  the  product  of  race 
antagonism  with  its  implacable  cruel- 
ty rather  than  of  slavery  proper.  The 
attitude  of  the  master  to  his  '  people,' 
as  he  termed  his  slaves,  was  in  gen- 
eral one  of  patriarchal  control  where 
their  well-being  was  a  constant  care 
conscientiously  borne. 

But  despite  the  detestation  which 
the  South  showed  for  inhumanity  to- 
ward the  Negro,  the  two  volumes  illus- 
trate to  the  life  the  inevitable  way  in 
which  slavery  was  bound  to  occasion 
the  deepest  misery  to  the  best  of  the 
subject  race.  For  example,  an  anony- 
mous pamphlet  of  about  1808,  entitled 
A  Tour  in  Virginia,  relates  how  'two 
blanched  and  meagre-looking  wretches 
were  lolling  in  their  one-horse  chair, 
protected  from  the  excessive  heat  of 
the  noonday  sun  by  a  huge  umbrella, 
and  driving  before  them  four  beings  of 
the  African  race,  fastened  to  each  other 
by  iron  chains  fixed  round  the  neck  and 
arms,  and  attended  by  a  black  woman, 
a  reliance  on  whose  conjugal  or  sisterly 
affection  prevented  the  application  of 
hand-cuffs  or  neck-collars';  while  'the 
people  on  the  road  loaded  the  inhuman 
drivers  with  curses  and  execrations.' 

A  counterpart  to  the  foregoing  is  the 
petition  of  a  free  Negress,  Lucinda,  who 
refused  to  remove  from  Richmond,  Vir- 
ginia, to  Tennessee,  'as  in  Richmond 


368 


THE  SLAVE  PLANTATION  IN  RETROSPECT 


she  had  a  husband  .  .  .  from  whom 
the  benefits  and  privileges  to  be  de- 
rived from  freedom,  dear  and  flattering 
as  they  are,  could  not  induce  her  to  be 
separated.'  She  was  threatened  with 
the  forfeiture  of  her  freedom  because, 
against  the  law,  she  had  remained 
over  a  year  after  her  emancipation  in 
Virginia,  and  feared  compulsory  sale 
and  separation  from  her  husband.  'To 
guard  against  such  a  heart-rending  cir- 
cumstance, she  would  prefer,  and  here- 
by declares  her  consent,  to  become  a 
slave  to  the  owner  of  her  husband.' 

The  intimate  and  vital  flashes  which 
these  two  volumes  frequently  turn  upon 
slavery  and  its  economic  shell,  the 
plantation,  are  paralleled  by  the  judi- 
ciously chosen  vignettes  of  frontier  life 
in  the  South.  To  be  sure,  it  savors 
something  of  special  pleading  in  valida- 
tion of  the  title  Plantation  and  Fron- 
tier, to  claim  that  the  '  full  type  of  the 
frontier'  was  not  found  north  of  Mason 
and  Dixon's  line,  'in  that  the  United 
States  Army  policed  the  Indians,  and 
the  popular  government  was  admin- 
istered directly  under  the  Federal 
authority.'  The  northwestern  frontiers- 
man had  begun  to  penetrate  the  wild- 
erness before  the  United  States  Army 
existed;  and  if  local  government  in  that 
vast  region  was  'administered  directly 
under  the  Federal  authority,'  we  have 
been  sadly  misled  by  many  competent 
historians.  The  various  types  of  mi- 
gration in  the  South,  however,  are  well 
exemplified  in  the  round  hundred  pages 
devoted  to  the  topic.  The  early  re- 
demptioner  whose  service  had  expired 
on  the  seaboard  plantation,  the  small 
cultivator  of  tobacco  in  the  same  re- 
gion who  had  been  worsted  by  the  com- 
petition of  the  large  planter,  the'artisan 
who  found  the  black  laboring  popula- 
tion of  riparian  Virginia  little  to  his  lik- 
ing, were  all  lured  to  the  'back  coun- 
try.' By  1740  the  tongue  of  migration 
had  extended  to  within  fifty  miles  of 


the  Blue  Ridge  Mountains.  After  1798 
a  second  impetus  was  given  the  west- 
ward movement  by  the  eager  quest 
for  cotton  lands,  and  the  upland  regions 
of  the  South  were  rapidly  invaded. 
The  earlier  pioneers,  often  displaced 
by  the  oncoming  of  the  planter,  sold 
their  lands,  and  pushed  deeper  into  the 
wilderness. 

In  this  motley  throng  of  migrants 
were  to  be  found  various  well-defined 
types.  At  the  one  extreme  there  was 
the  restless  adventurer  like  Gideon 
Lincecum,  who  in  1818  'had  been 
reared  to  a  belief  and  faith  in  the  plea- 
sure of  frequent  change  of  country'; 
who  looked  upon  the  long  journey  to 
Alabama  of  '  about  five  hundred  miles, 
all  wilderness,'  with  'much  pleasure,' 
and  who  felt  'as  if  I  was  on  a  big  camp 
hunt.'  The  sting  of  pioneering  was  in 
the  blood,  and  like  others  of  the  breed 
'  he  hoped  to  realize  a  profit  from  it,  as 
soon  as  people  should  move  into  the 
country.' 

At  the  other  end  of  the  series  was  to 
be  found  the  gentleman-farmer  type, 
like  Colonel  Leonard  Covington,  whose 
tobacco  lands  were  unprofitable,  and 
who  in  1808  looked  cautiously  toward 
betaking  himself  with  his  family  and 
slaves  to  Mississippi,  there  to  retrieve 
his  fortunes.  He  writes  to  his  brother 
for  various  particulars,  and  adds,  'I 
have  a  thousand  more  questions  in  my 
head,  but,  pushed  for  time  just  now, 
must  hope  you  will  say  everything 
that  I  could  ask,  not  forgetting  poli- 
ticks, the  state  of  religion,  if  there  be 
much  amongst  you.  As  to  dealings  gen- 
erally, are  the  folks  pretty  punctual, 
or  is  there  much  use  for  lawyers?' 

It  is  possible  that  the  cautious  in- 
quiry about  'the  state  of  religion,  if 
there  be  much  amongst  you '  may  have 
been  elicited  by  the  news  of  the  de- 
sperado, the  'bad  man,'  and  the  affrays 
in  which 'every  frontier  is  prolific;  char- 
acters like  Colonel  Bishop,  and  that 


THE  SLAVE  PLANTATION  IN  RETROSPECT 


369 


'pinck  of  purity  and  truth,  George  W. 
Wacaser,'  who  on  election  day  'at- 
tacked two  gentlemen  riding  in  a  car- 
riage and  with  the  butts  of  their 
muskets,  in  a  most  shocking  manner, 
bruised  and  mangled  their  heads  and 
bodies.' 

If  the  imagination  be  allowed  to 
range  over  the  facts  disclosed  by  the 
history  of  slavery  in  the  new  world,  the 
dramatic  magnitude  of  the  great  epi- 
sode becomes  almost  oppressive.  Wes- 
ton,  in  the  Progress  of  Slavery  (1857), 
called  attention  to  the  fact  that  instead 
of  America's  being  settled  by  the  Euro- 
pean races,  'the  truth  really  is,  that 
America,  including  its  islands,  has  been 
settled  chiefly  from  Africa,  and  by  Ne- 
groes';  and  that  prior  'to  the  com- 
mencement of  the  present  century,  the 
number  of  Negroes  brought  hither  had 
probably  exceeded  the  whole  number 
of  Europeans  of  all  nationalities,  who 
had  emigrated  hither,  twenty-fold,  or 
even  more.'  The  Encyclopaedia  Amer- 
icana (1851)  computed  the  Negroes 
taken  for  transportation  to  the  new 
world  during  the  last  three  centuries 
at  'above  forty  millions,  of  whom 
fifteen  or  twenty  per  cent  die  on  the 
passage.' 

This  age-long  panorama  of  millions 
of  Africans,  wrenched  from  their  orig- 
inal habitat  and  forced  by  the  rigorous 
tutelage  of  slavery  to  subdue  an  un- 

VOL.  107  -  NO,  3 


tamed  continent,  has  a  gloomy  grand- 
eur to  it  which  at  once  enforces  the 
fatefulness  of  human  history  and  the 
cruel  masterfulness  of  the  dominant 
race. 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 
Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 
This  monstrous    thing,  distorted    and   soul- 
quenched  ? 
How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape  ? 

At  the  bar  of  history,  justice  for  this  age- 
long agony  of  unconjectured  tears  can 
hardly  be  required  at  the  hands  of  less 
than  the  whole  Caucasian  family.  So 
far  as  amends  are  concerned,  it  matters 
now  comparatively  little  that  the  mere 
legal  bond  of  servitude  has  been  de- 
stroyed. It  boots  not  that  our  own  for- 
bears may  have  escaped  the  immediate 
contact  with  the  slave,  or  even  that  our 
own  kindred  vicariously  for  us  may 
have  paid  by  their  blood  for  some  in- 
finitesimal part  of  a  cosmic  sin.  Behind 
it  all  there  stands  an  atavic  transgres- 
sion which  the  individual  can  never  ex- 
piate; a  racial  iniquity  beyond  private 
atonement;  a  corporate  cruelty  whose 
blood  is  upon  us  and  our  children.  The 
recognition  of  the  abject  status  of  a 
wronged  race  must  furnish  at  the  same 
time  the  indispensable  basis  for  the 
white  man's  responsibility  for  the  Ne- 
gro, and  the  base  of  departure  for  the 
steep  and  arduous  ascent  which  the 
African  himself  must  make. 


THE  UNPAINTED  PORTRAIT 


BY   ELLEN    DUVALL 


FOR  one  who  averred  that  he  partic- 
ularly hated  bustle,  Urquhart  felt  that 
the  lines  had  fallen  unto  him  in  ex- 
ceptionally pleasant  places.  The  old- 
fashioned  house,  amply  pillared  and 
porticoed,  standing  sheltered  and  priv- 
ate in  the  middle  of  its  old-fashioned 
and  spacious  garden,  with  the  nobly 
satisfying  live-oaks,  and  stately  mag- 
nolias now  in  full  Abloom;  the  affluent 
quiet  and  peace  — 

'Truly,  Ashford,  I  wonder  you  don't 
come  home  oftener,'  he  commented 
warmly,  glancing  about  with  interest, 
as  the  two  friends  sat  on  one  of  the 
side  porticoes  after  dinner. 

Ashford,  with  evident  relish  of  the 
other's  unqualified  admiration,  re- 
turned, '  Yes,  it 's  really  fine,  singularly 
and  subtly  harmonious.  Everything 
is  so  in  keeping;  the  grounds  with  their 
laying  out  and  adornment;  the  house 
with  its  size,  shape,  and  furnishings,  — 
I  often  ask  myself  what  touch  I  would 
add,  and  am  forced  to  confess  I  can 
suggest  nothing.' 

'You  did  n't  do  it,  then?'  said  Ur- 
quhart in  surprise. 

'No,  it's  my  mother's  work;  her 
home  is  her  masterpiece,  and  she  thor- 
oughly loves  and  enjoys  it.'  He  paused 
a  moment,  then  added,  'And  she  has 
wisdom  enough  to  know  when  she  has 
achieved  the  due  effect;  so  many  peo- 
ple keep  on  tinkering  till  they  spoil  all.' 

'You  must  inherit  your  talent  from 
her,'  said  Urquhart  with  interest. 

'I  suppose  I  do,  though  it's  only  in 
the  last  few  years  that  I've  been  be- 
ginning to  think  so,'  replied  Grantham 

370 


Ashford  candidly.  It  would  have  been 
crass  affectation  in  him  to  minimize  in 
the  least  his  rich  and  rare  talent;  more- 
over, his  reputation  was  too  well  estab- 
lished for  him  not  to  have  become 
accustomed  to  all  forms  and  degrees 
of  flattery,  to  say  nothing  of  sincere 
appreciation.  He  was  a  really  delight- 
ful person  to  praise,  for  he  treated  his 
talent  as  impersonally,  or  as  third-per- 
sonally,  as  did  Caesar  the  Gallic  War, 
so  that  his  friends  and  acquaintance 
felt  unconsciously  at  liberty  often  and 
openly  to  discuss  his  work. 

'It  may  not  impress  you  at  first,' 
continued  Ashford,  '  but  the  sense  and 
truth  of  it  sink  gradually  in  and  cause 
a  feeling  of  perfect  rest.  Harmony, 
harmony,  everywhere,  in  mass,  form, 
and  color,  —  with  here  and  there  just 
that  sharp  fillip  of  unexpected  con- 
trast that  affords  the  imagination  its 
necessary  stimulus.  Here  I  always  feel 
that  momentary  poise  and  thrill  — 
what  the  gushing  call  "  inspiration  "  — 
which  precede  more  active  work;  and 
I  'm  apt  to  do  my  best  work  after  being 
here.' 

He  spoke  lightly,  and  with  a  certain 
frankness  rather  unusual;  for,  on  the 
whole,  Ashford  was  a  somewhat  self- 
contained  man. 

The  two  friends  were  on  the  south 
portico,  and  could  look  over  the  gar- 
den where  the  land  sloped  gently  down 
to  a  broad  expanse  of  water.  Warm 
enough  to  sit  out  of  doors  with  com- 
fort, the  May  evening  was  perfect,  and 
the  pale  bluish  light  of  the  as  yet 
starless  sky  bathed  all  things  with  its 


THE  UNPAINTED  PORTRAIT 


371 


shadowless  flood.  Both  men  were  sen- 
sitive enough  to  keep  silence  awhile  be- 
fore the  matchless  beauty  of  evening. 

'Of  course,  you've  done  a  portrait 
of  your  mother?'  remarked  Urquhart 
presently,  as  if  many  impressions  were 
coming  to  a  focus. 

Ashford  smiled,  and  leaned  forward 
from  the  depths  of  his  chair.  'You 
know  you've  always  said  that  my 
ninety-nine  magnificent  successes  only 
throw  into  stronger  relief  my  one- 
hundredth  failure.  Well,  of  all  faces, 
my  mother's  is  just  my  consummate 
miss.  I've  tried  again  and  again,  and 
always  with  the  same  result,  —  what 
comes  from  my  hand  is  a  sort  of 
wooden  sphinx.  Yet  if  there  is  a  face 
a  portrait-painter  ought  to  know,  it  is 
his  mother's.  And  I  assuredly  do  know 
mine;  but  it  escapes  me.  You  who 
theorize  and  speculate  to  the  queen's 
taste,  how  will  you  account  for  this?' 

Urquhart  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed.  'How  can  I  answer?  I've 
never  met  your  mother,  never  even 
seen  her,  and  you,  yourself,  have  said 
very  little  about  her.  I  've  heard  from 
others  that  she's  a  delightful  woman, 
charming,  very  good  company;  but 
that 's  not  much  to  go  upon.' 

'If  you  would  know  her,  look 
around,'  said  Ashford  gayly. 

'Easier  said  than  done,'  returned 
Urquhart  earnestly.  'All  I  can  say  is, 
evidently  a  person  of  perfect  taste, 
and  —  as  faith  embraces  works  —  one 
who  balances  perfect  taste  with  a  con- 
summate sense  of  perfect  comfort.' 

Ashford  laughed  satirically.  'Most 
people  appreciate  the  comfort  far  more 
than  the  taste.' 

But  Urquhart  seemed  to  have  taken 
his  friend's  question  seriously,  and  to 
be  considering.  He  laid  his  cigar  in  the 
ash-tray  on  the  table  between  them, 
and  gazed  keenly  about  the  lovely 
grounds  as  if  to  evoke  from  them  the 
secret  of  their  owner's  being. 


'If  there's  anything  more  beautiful 
and  suggestive  than  a  flowering  tree,  I 
don't  know  it,'  he  said  presently,  after 
a  prolonged  survey.  'Look  at  that 
magnolia;  it's  a  realization  of  the  Her- 
maphroditus  of  the  Greeks,  —  mascul- 
ine strength  combined  with  feminine 
beauty.' 

Ashford,  who  was  a  long-featured, 
handsome  man,  with  a  temperamental 
seriousness  of  expression,  turned  his 
naturally  grave  eyes  thoughtfully  upon 
his  friend.  'Now  I  never  think  of  that 
sort  of  thing,'  he  observed. 

'Well,  you  don't  have  to,  it's  rank 
sentimentality,'  returned  Urquhart, 
laughing; '  but  I  get  heaps  of  enjoyment 
out  of  it.  If  you  can't  amuse  yourself 
with  your  own  mind,  what  can  you 
amuse  yourself  with?' 

'But  why  does  n't  my  mind  work  in 
something  the  same  way?'  persisted 
Ashford  musingly;  'I  think  I'm  some- 
thing like  Thackeray,  — no  head  above 
the  eyes.' 

'  Well,  you  may  say  it  of  yourself,  if 
you  choose;  but  he  had  the  head  as 
well  as  the  eyes;  he  had  both  sight  and 
vision.' 

Ashford  looked  first  surprised,  then 
half  vexed.  '  The  same  old  story,  and 
from  you,  too?  That's  what  my  mo- 
ther in  effect  said  to  me  years  ago: 
"  Your  sight  far  exceeds  your  vision, 
Grantham."  And  as  my  talent  crys- 
tallized, and  became  more  and  more 
assured,  with  its  seeing  eye  and  facile 
hand,  she  once  said,  "  You  're  like  the 
Queen,  in  Hamlet,  who  said,  'All  there 
is  I  see.'  But  she  did  n't  see  the  Ghost, 
the  only  thing  just  then  worth  seeing." ' 

Urquhart  wonderingly  regarded  him. 
'That  would  seem  as  if  she  compassed 
you,  rather  than  you  her,'  he  said 
quickly. 

Ashford  looked  frankly  amused.  'Oh, 
my  mother's  not  at  all  complex,  not 
subtle.  There's  nothing  particularly 
to  understand  about  her.  She's  one 


372 


THE  UNPAINTED  PORTRAIT 


of  the  most  natural  women  in  the 
world,  absolutely  and  always  just  her 
cheerful,  kindly  self.  She's  always 
more  or  less  interested  in  some  one,  or 
some  thing;  she's  always  helping  lame 
dogs  over  stiles.'  He  paused,  then 
added,  'And  the  easiest  human  being 
in  the  world  to  live  with;  one  of  the 
least  exacting.  She  likes  punctuality  at 
meals  out  of  consideration  for  the  serv- 
ants, she  says;  but  this  —  other  than 
moral  lapses  —  is  all  I  Ve  ever  known 
—  trouble  her.'  Again  he  paused,  as  if 
reflecting.  'An  ideal  wife,  I  fancy,  —  I 
hardly  remember  my  father, — an  ideal 
mother,  an  ideal  friend;  and  yet  I 
can't  for  the  life  of  me  put  my  finger 
on  those  particulars  that  make  up  her 
unique  sum  of  excellence.  Her  health 
is  perfect,  and  she  is  wonderfully 
young,'  —  a  vision  of  elderly  artificial- 
ity flitted  before  Urquhart's  mind's  eye, 
— 'even  my  wife,  who  is  essentially  un- 
enthusiastic,  adores  I  her.'  —  Urquhart 
had  sometimes  wondered  whether  it 
were  not  significantly  sinister,  Ash- 
ford's  choice  of  the  marvelously  Beau- 
tiful Ordinary  who  was  the  younger 
Mrs.  Ashford.  —  'And  she  has  right 
royally  loved  me,  and  fostered  my  tal- 
ent.' His  rather  flat  voice  softened: 
'Now,  why  can't  I  paint  her  portrait?' 
Urquhart  made  no  answer,  and  pre- 
sently Ashford  continued,  'I've  often 
thought  that  my  mother  must  have 
some  kind  of  fine  wine  in  her  veins, 
some  ichor  of  the  gods,  instead  of  mere 
human  blood,  —  she  so  enjoys  life 
and  living.  She  once  said  that  if  she 
failed  to  give  the  proper  account  of 
herself,  it  would  be  because  she  had 
been  so  interested  in  the  Lord's  handi- 
work, men  and  women,  nature  ani- 
mate and  inanimate,  that  she  had  over- 
looked or  forgotten  her  part.  She  is  the 
life  of  any  and  every  company;  she 
can  make  anything  "go."  Some  one 
once  asked  her,  "What  is  happiness?" 
And  she  answered  solemnly, "  Twenty- 


one  gowns  and  four  proposals  a  year." 
It  was  the  aptest  reply  possible  to 
the  simpleton  who  asked  the  question. 
But  then  she  immediately  added, "  But 
for  most  women,  self-martyrdom  is 
happiness."  ! 

Both  men  laughed. 

'  My  mother,  herself,  has  always  had 
suitors;  and  even  I,  her  son,  naturally 
disinclined  to  a  step-father,  am  per- 
suaded that  they  were  not  actuated  by 
mercenary  motives.  She  is  most  at- 
tractive; I  feel  and  know  it.  There  is 
one  "  steady  company,"  however,'  con- 
tinued Ashford,  smiling,  'who  has  been 
quietly  and  persistently  devoted  to 
her  for  years,  with  what  my  mother 
herself  calls  "the  tepid  devotion  of 
habit."  You  may  have  heard  of  him  in 
a  small  way,  as  he  has  had  a  small  suc- 
cess as  a  very  minor  writer,  —  Horace 
Gray;  a  faded  white  rose  of  a  man,  to 
quote  my  mother  again,  whose  cheer- 
ful patience  in  the  face  of  his  dim 
success  must  appeal  to  her  standing 
generosity.' 

'Humph!  The  quality  of  life  lies  in 
its  adjectives.  How  much  of  a  human 
phonograph  are  you,  Ashford?' 

Ashford  laughed.  'I  leave  you  to 
guess.  Gray  is  a  civil-engineer  by  pro- 
fession and  family  propulsion,  a  writer 
by  inclination;  something  of  a  misfit 
either  way,  I  take  it.' 

'  I  seem  to  recall  the  name  —  in  a 
magazine  occasionally,'  said  Urquhart 
slowly;  'too  good  for  the  average,  not 
good  enough  for  the  best,  —  a  kind  of 
mezzanine  writer.' 

'Maybe  so,'  returned  Ashford  indif- 
ferently; 'at  all  events,  he's  my  mo- 
ther's long-time  devoted.' 

'I  should  love  to  meet  her,  and  I 
wish  she  was  n't  away,'  said  Urquhart 
earnestly. 

'Oh,  she'll  only  be  gone  a  few  days; 
she  went  up  to  Washington  to  see  an 
old  friend.  You  must  stay  till  she  comes 
back,'  said  Ashford  pleasantly. 


THE  UNPAINTED  PORTRAIT 


373 


At  this  moment,  through  one  of  the 
long  French  windows,  stepped  the  old 
colored  butler.  He  held  a  small  tray 
bearing  a  special-delivery  letter. 

'Something  for  you,  Mr.  Grantum,' 
he  said,  in  a  gentle,  interested  voice. 

'Sign  for  me,  please,  Ben;  and,  here, 
give  the  boy  this  dime  to  ride  back 
with.' 

As  Ben  disappeared  through  the 
window  again,  Ashford  exclaimed, 
'  Why,  it 's  from  my  mother ! '  and  hast- 
ily opened  the  letter.  As  his  eyes 
gathered  in  the  words,  he  uttered  a 
smothered  exclamation,  and  half  rose. 
As  he  clutched  the  letter  in  one  hand, 
his  fine,  straight-featured  face  flushed 
deeply,  and  even  in  the  thickened  light 
his  annoyance  was  plain. 

The  situation  was  too  obvious  to  be 
ignored,  and  Urquhart  frankly  said, 
'Can  I  in  any  way  help?' 

Evidently  the  contents  were  so  dis- 
quieting that,  for  the  moment,  Ashford 
could  hardly  speak.  Strong  feeling  is  a 
touchstone,  and  now,  in  the  blank  dis- 
comfiture of  his  expression,  the  wide 
helpless  stare  of  his  annoyed  eyes, 
there  was  a  suggestion  of  inadequacy 
or  of  limitation,  some  sense  of  which 
had  come  to  Urquhart  once  or  twice 
before.  Grantham  steadied  himself, 
however,  and  said  in  a  voice  colorless 
from  the  effort  at  self-control,  'It's 
from  my  mother;  she  has  married 
Gray.' 

Urquhart  could  only  reflect  his 
friend's  surprise,  and  was  rather  at  a 
loss  how  to  show  sympathy. 

'  At  her  age,  —  it 's  worse  than  ab- 
surdity!'  cried  Ashford  almost  passion- 
ately. 'Why  should  a  woman  who  has 
had  emotional  experience  ever  try  to 
repeat  it?  She  has  everything  to 
make  life  desirable  —  why  should  she 
think  of  taking  under  her  wing  this  — 
this- 

He  broke  off,  and  Urquhart  didn't 
know  what  to  say. 


'  It 's  the  sort  of  thing  that  makes 
a  whole  family  ridiculous,'  continued 
Ashford,  in  a  tone  of  intense  feeling. 
'And  people  have  always  spoken  of  my 
mother's  sense  of  humor!'  he  added 
bitterly. 

Urquhart  could  not  help  reflecting 
that  no  one  could  ascribe  much  of  this 
ozone  to  Ashford's  own  mental  atmo- 
sphere. 

'  She  is  full  sixty,'  he  concluded,  with 
a  look  and  manner  of  open  disgust. 

Urquhart  was  silent.  To  attempt 
to  condole  with  a  man  because  of  his 
mother's  second  marriage  at  the  ripe 
age  of  sixty,  was  worse  than  to  proffer 
philosophical  consolation  for  the  tooth- 
ache. The  unexpected,  wholly  incal- 
culable tangents  of  human  nature, 
the  actions  which  make  kindred  blood 
tingle  with  a  sense  of  the  undeserved 
ludicrous,  are  like  the  knight's  move 
at  chess;  nothing  may  interpose.  If 
Ashford  took  it  in  this  way  — 

Ashford  himself  became  aware  of  the 
varying  shades  of  hesitancy  in  Urqu- 
hart's  face. 

'You  may  read  the  note;  it's  very 
characteristic,  and  not  private.'  He 
spoke  abruptly,  almost  harshly,  and 
held  out  the  sheet. 

Urquhart  took  it  almost  reluctant- 
ly, well  knowing  that  nothing  spoils 
friendship  like  too  great,  or  impulsive, 
intimacy. 

DEAREST  GRANTHAM,  —  I  have  just 
married  Horace  Gray.  I  wish  I  could 
soften  the  blow  to  you;  and  it  is  be- 
cause I  knew  it  would  be  a  blow,  that 
I  have  deferred  the  action  till  now. 
But  you  no  longer  in  any  way  need  me; 
your  character  is  formed;  your  art 
perfected;  you  have  reached  the  acme 
of  worldly  success  and  fame;  you  are 
happily  married  to  a  charming  woman 
who  is  devoted  to  you,  and  you  are  a 
father.  Your  life,  rounded,  full,  com- 
plete, as  a  mere  human  life  may  be, 


374 


THE  UNPAINTED  PORTRAIT 


has  swung  out  into  its  own  rightful 
orbit.  Your  art  requires  you  to  live 
chiefly  abroad,  and  you  lovingly  return 
at  times  simply  to  see  me.  I  cannot 
expatriate  myself,  and  I  have  no  art 
to  absorb  me,  no  particularly  strong 
personal  interest  apart  from  your  be- 
loved self.  In  marrying  Mr.  Gray  I  am 
securing  friendship  and  companion- 
ship for  my  old  age,  and  I  like  the 
thought  of  fixing  myself  by  some  de- 
finite responsibility.  I  appreciate  the 
parsimony  of  his  pale  success;  and  he 
understands  the  nature  and  quality 
of  my  so-called  abundance.  In  other 
words,  each  can  reckon  with  the  other's 
boundaries,  which  is  (believe  me)  a  rare 
thing  between  any  two.  And — we  both 
first  love  Life. 

Lastly,  before  coming  here  to  Mar- 
garet Hunsdon's  to  be  married,  Mr. 
Gray  relinquished,  unsolicited,  any 
and  all  claim  upon  my  property;  and 
by  this  ante-nuptial  agreement,  all  will 
come  to  you  as  in  any  case  it  would. 
You  will  think  that  I,  at  my  age,  by 
such  a  step,  must  make  myself  ridic- 
ulous; but  the  world  easily  forgets  be- 
cause it  does  not  understand,  and  this 
will  be  less  than  a  nine  days'  wonder. 
The  thistle  of  ridicule  has  only  to  be 
grasped  like  any  other. 

Your  loving  mother, 
CHARLOTTE  GRANTHAM  GRAY. 

Urquhart  handed  back  the  note 
slowly,  with  a  sigh;  and  the  two  men 
looked  at  each  other  in  distinctly  help- 
less silence. 

Finally  Urquhart  ventured,  'What 
she  says  is  quite  true :  your  life  is  com- 
plete; and  she  has  evidently  enough  in- 
dividuality to  desire  a  life  of  her  own. 
Can  you  really  object?  A  son  is  not 
like  a  daughter.' 

Ashford  stared  gloomily  into  space. 
'I  don't  understand  it  at  her  age,'  he 
said  presently.  'I  see  no  inducement. 
She  and  Gray  would  have  been  friends 


to  the  end,  —  that  should  have  suf- 
ficed. They  used  to  play  together  as 
children;  she  is  three  years  older.  He 
was  a  rather  delicate  boy,  and  she  pro- 
tected him,  I  fancy.  She  is  always 
protecting  some  one  or  some  thing. 
Oh,  no,  I  don't  object,  that  would  be 
extreme  in  its  turn,'  he  continued  bit- 
terly. 'But  it's  the  sort  of  thing  that 
defeats  calculation,  and  holds  for  me 
too  much  of  the  unexpected.  I  don't 
care  for  raw,  elemental  surprises.' 
He  was  falling  back  into  the  mood  of 
chastened  irony  in  which  he  generally 
lived. 

Urquhart  eagerly  regarded  him. 
The  orientation  of  a  soul  to  Life  holds 
all  possibility  of  revelation,  and  Ur- 
quhart could  not  help  being  avid  for 
the  manifestations.  He  was  a  born 
disciple  of  Isis,  and  waited  hungrily  for 
the  glimmerings  from  behind  the  veil, 
gleams  of  beauty  and  of  truth,  or  their 
reverse.  Gathering  himself  together, 
he  said,  'Are  you  one  of  those  who 
think  that  a  second  marriage  carries 
with  it  something  of  slight  to  the  first? ' 

'In  this  day  of  easy  divorce?  How 
unfashionable  you  must  think  me! 
No,  not  when  the  first  was  ended  by 
death  more  than  thirty  years  ago.' 

Urquhart's  face  showed  an  interest 
he  did  not  care  to  put  into  words;  but 
Ashford  partly  divined  the  nature  of 
his  friend's  thoughts. 

'  Here  at  the  South  we  think  so  much 
of  family,  you  know.  My  mother  had 
both  family  and  money,  though  that 
came  from  the  Northern  branch,  a 
great-uncle  who  was  not  a  "Southern 
sympathizer."  She  married  my  father 
(she  told  me  so  herself)  rather  against 
the  wishes  of  her  family.  He  was  a 
nobody  in  particular,  except  a  very 
bright  and  promising  young  lawyer, 
and  she  was  a  girl  of  twenty;  he  died 
within  seven  years  of  their  marriage. 
She  befriended  his  people,  who  were 
socially  obscure,  and  married  off  his 


THE  UNPAINTED  PORTRAIT 


375 


young  sisters  to  advantage;  and  she 
has  always  maintained  cordial  relations 
with  his  entire  connection.  But  then, 
she  has  strong  notions  of  family  duty, 
and  of  the  claims  of  kindred  blood. 
Indeed,  my  mother  maintains  cordial 
relations,  within  reason,  with  every 
one,  for  she  is  a  born  promoter  of  peace, 
—  a  Hague  Conference  in  herself.' 

'Any  significant  action,'  began  Ur- 
quhart slowly,  taking  up  his  cigar 
again,  'throws  a  telling  light  upon  an 
individual's  feeling  and  thought.'  He 
broke  off,  for  his  speech  might  be  too 
close  to  the  wind.  What  he  was  won- 
dering was,  whether  in  that  first  mar- 
riage there  had  been  anything  that 
might  have  made  a  second  seem  com- 
pensatory. 

Ashford  looked  at  him  rather  blank- 
ly. '  Oh,  she  was  devoted  to  my  father, 
by  common  account.  She  herself  has 
never  said  very  much,  but  she  has 
frankly  answered  any  questions  I  've 
seen  fit  to  put.  But  my  mother  is  no 
hero-worshiper;  and  some  of  her  casual 
remarks  are  very  telling.  "  So  long  as 
marriage  is  the  chief  feminine  career,  a 
woman  may  be  pardoned  for  marrying 
a  man  when  to  have  loved  him  would 
be  far  less  easily  excusable."  "It's 
a  long  love  that  knows  no  turning." 
"  Among  the  blessings  of  life  are,  that 
no  man  may  sequester  sea  and  sky, 
and  that  no  woman  may  marry  her 
ideal;  there  always  remain  havens  for 
the  imaginative."  I  don't  know  anyone 
who  so  enjoys  life  as  does  my  mother, 
and  by  "life"  she  means  people,  singly 
or  in  groups;  and  yet  she  has  a  clarity 
of  perception  — 

He  paused. 

' — Which  you  might  think  would 
mar  enjoyment?'  asked  Urquhart 
thoughtfully. 

They  were  silent  for  a  while,  then 
Urquhart  said  lightly,  'I  must  stay, 
and  meet  her,  Ashford;  I  want  to  find 
out  why  you  can't  paint  her  portrait.' 


A  morning  or  two  later,  Urquhart 
had  come  down  early,  and,  thinking 
to  sweeten  and  beguile  time  withal  by 
a  stroll  through  the  rose-garden,  he 
stepped  out  of  one  of  the  dining-room 
windows  on  to  the  portico,  to  be  there 
confronted  by  a  lady. 

'It  must  be  Mr.  Urquhart.  Good 
morning,  and  how  do  you  do?'  she 
said,  smiling,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

'It's  Mrs.  —  Gray.  I  so  wanted  to 
meet  you,  that  I  stayed  on  for  that 
purpose.' 

'  I  'm  very  glad  you  did.  I  hoped  you 
would,'  returned  Ashford's  mother, 
with  a  frankness  and  interest  that 
matched  Urquhart's  own. 

'And  why?1  asked  he,  as  they  un- 
consciously held  hands  a  thought 
longer  than  usual,  and  gazed  earnestly 
at  each  other. 

'  I  wanted  you  to  be  with  him  when 
I  made  my  little  —  venture,  and  I 
hoped  you  would  soften  the  —  the  — 
surprise,'  said  the  lady  gently. 

'He  took  it  very  well,  if  there  was 
really  anything  to  take,  —  after  the 
first  douche,'  said  Urquhart,  smiling. 

Mrs.  Gray  looked  at  him  closely,  and 
both  sighed  and  smiled. 

'The  world  may  be  divided  into  two 
classes,'  she  said,  '  those  who  are  sur- 
prised at  nothing,  and  those  who  are 
surprised  at  everything.  Neither  has 
any  real  power  of  anticipation,  so  they 
are  generally  found  in  conjunction. 
Louise  belongs  to  the  first  class;  Grant- 
ham  to  the  second,  —  so  they  hit  it  off 
admirably  between  them.' 

'I  can't  answer  for  Mrs.  Ashford. 
Ashford  broke  it  to  her  in  private;  but 
your  son  never  flinched  —  after  the 
first.' 

'And  we  must  concede  something 
to  human  nature,'  said  Mrs.  Gray 
lightly.  '  But  I  know  what  Louise  said : 
"  That 's  just  like  your  mother,  Grant- 
ham!  "  As  if  I  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  doing  it  every  day  in  the  year.' 


376 


THE  UNPAINTED  PORTRAIT 


Her  smile  was  subtle  and  reserved, 
but  her  laugh  was  as  frank  and  simple  as 
a  child's;  he  noted  the  difference.  And 
they  now  laughed  together  in  mutual 
comprehension  and  sympathy. 

'I  congratulate  you  with  all  my 
heart,  and  wish  you  all  happiness,'  he 
said  warmly.  *  It's  so  wholesome  and 
rare  to  be  able  to  do  just  what  one 
wishes,  —  the  psychic  moment  ready, 
the  gods  being  propitious,  we  privi- 
leged, and  no  other  human  rights  in- 
vaded or  impaired.'  He  spoke  with  the 
confidence  that  begets  confidence. 

'Thank  you  a  thousand  times;  that 
sounds  as  if  you  understood,'  she  an- 
swered. 

'Is  comprehension  so  rare,  then?' 

'Have  n't  you  found  it  so?' 

They  both  paused,  and  looked  per- 
haps rather  wistfully  at  each  other. 
Urquhart  was  a  big,  red,  hairy  man, 
with  a  woefully  long  upper  lip,  which 
he  veiled  and  softened  by  a  close- 
clipped  moustache.  He  had'small,  finely 
expressive  eyes  with  handsome  lashes, 
his  one  beauty.  His  manner  and  man- 
ners were  simple  and  compact,  and 
quite  devoid  of  ornament;  not  ungrace- 
ful, certainly,  but  suggestive  of  plain, 
family  silver  with  nothing  but  an  ini- 
tial or  clear-cut  crest.  He  was  suf- 
ficiently well  furnished  forth,  but  one 
could  see  that  he  carried  no  more  life- 
baggage  than  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary, and  that  his  power  of  adaptation 
was  quietly  great. 

'Incomprehension  is  the  only  lone- 
liness,' said  Mrs.  Gray  presently,  hark- 
ing back  to  his  last  question. 

'And  you  have  always  been  more  or 
less  alone?'  It  escaped  him  involun- 
tarily, yet  for  the  life  of  him  he  could 
not  help  saying  it;  for  it  was  pouring 
over  him  like  the  delicate  freshness  and 
light  of  early  day,  that  this  woman's 
individuality  exhaled  truth  which,  like 
gravitation,  is  a  basic  law,  and  must 
draw  all  things  unto  itself. 


'  Oh,  no,'  she  said,  indicating  a  chair, 
and  taking  one  beside  it,  'not  in  that 
sense;  for  I  have  always  had  it  in  my 
power  largely  to  fashion  and  to  fill  my 
own  life,  which  is  as  much  a  respons- 
ibility as  a  privilege;  or  perhaps  the 
one  always  implies  the  other.  But  the 
heart  asks  friendship  and  love;  and  the 
first  is  equality,  as  Balzac  says,  and  the 
second  is,  in  one  sense,  comprehension. 
Life  in  itself  is  too  rich  and  deep,  too 
intense  and  varied,  for  any  mere  mor- 
tal to  have  the  shameless  audacity,  the 
blasphemy,  to  ask  more.  Yet  this  is 
not  all.'  She  sighed  and  smiled  again. 
'From  every  height  of  perception  we 
look  out  to  the  heights  beyond,  Life's 
mountains  of  feeling,  thought,  and  en- 
deavor. They  simply  challenge  us  to 
come  on  and  to  dare.  It  is  more  than 
pleasant,  then,  to  meet  those  who  are 
not  only  climbers,  but  who  keep  step 
with  us,  who  also  love  to  see  and  look 
beyond.  I  never  could  understand  why 
Goethe  should  have  said,  "  On  every 
height  there  lies  repose."  For  a  height 
is  simply  a  breathing-place  where  we 
gather  up  ourselves  in  order  to  go  on. 
On  the  very  top  we  sigh  for  the  clouds; 
and  then  —  man  builds  himself  an 
airship,  or,  better  still,  travels  in  the 
moonboat  of  the  imagination/ 

Her  rare  child's  laugh  was  infectious, 
and  Urquhart  chimed  in.  He  listened 
with  a  sense  of  witchery.  She  had  a 
delightful  voice,  as  if  Nature  had  be- 
stowed upon  her  the  hid  treasures  of 
the  winds.  The  whole  gamut  of  feeling 
and  of  thought,  he  felt,  could  be  com- 
passed and  expressed  by  that  voice. 
And  like  Nature  she  had  the  perennial 
charm  of  unconsciousness;  she  spoke  as 
if  thought  and  word  were  inseparable, 
and  as  if  she  might  fling  them  freely 
forth  upon  Life's  waters,  trusting  to 
the  wholesome  ineptitude  of  the  many, 
to  the  rare  comprehension  of  the  few. 
Urquhart  knew  that  he  was  partak- 
ing of  something  finer  than  her  hospi- 


THE  UNPAINTED  PORTRAIT 


377 


tality,  he  was  being  presented  with 
something  of  the  freedom  of  her  mind. 
He  thought  of  the  old  colonial  name  of 
the  grant,  '  My  Lady's  Bower.'  What 
an  incomparable  comrade,  friend, 
lover,  she  would  make!  It  was  all 
there,  all  in  her,  the  very  soul  of  Life's 

joy- 
He  drank  in  her  face  with  an  avidity 
he  had  seldom  felt  when  gazing  upon 
a  younger  one.  The  features  were 
moulded  rather  than  chiseled,  and,  but 
for  the  eyes,  smile,  and  expression, 
would  have  been  somewhat  broad  and 
heavy;  though  the  lines,  now  straight- 
ening with  age,  must  have  been  volup- 
tuously curved  in  youth.  Her  eyes, 
indeterminately  dark,  were  far  apart 
and  rather  narrow,  though  this,  per- 
haps, was  an  effect  of  the  solid,  thick- 
lashed  lids.  The  eyes  themselves  were 
still  and  clear,  with  a  sense  of  light 
within  them  like  a  mountain  pool. 
The  lips  were  full,  strong,  and  flexible, 
and  showed  readily  the  short,  square, 
and  quite  good  teeth.  Her  years  no 
longer  entitled  her  to  a  complexion, 
but  her  skin  was  wholesomely  fine, 
sound  in  grain  and  surface,  with  the 
look  of  one  who  spends  much  time  out 
of  doors.  The  iron-gray  hair  was  worn 
in  an  agreeable  modification  of  the 
present  fashion,  and  was  very  becom- 
ing to  her  face.  And  her  figure  was 
superb;  rather  broad  for  her  height, 
deep-chested,  full-bosomed;  she  was 
elastic  of  step  and  pliant  of  carriage, 
easy,  strong,  steady;  no  wonder  Ash- 
ford  had  spoken  of  her  as  being  'pro- 
foundly young.' 

'There  are  always  coffee  and  a  roll, 
or  cornbread,  for  those  who  rise  early; 
won't  you  have  something?'  she  asked 
incidentally. 

'With  breakfast  at  nine?    Oh,  dear, 

no!'  returned  Urquhart.  'I  won't  spoil 

it.    I  had  rather  stay  here  with  you.' 

'The  boat  got  in  at  seven,  and  I've 

been    looking   over   the   garden    and 


grounds  ever  since  we  came,'  she  said 
simply. 

She  was  well  dressed  in  a  traveling- 
dress  of  bluish  gray,  and  wore  at  her 
throat  an  old-fashioned  brooch  of  gar- 
net, her  one  ornament.  The  more  Ur- 
quhart looked  at  her,  the  more  he  ad- 
mired, the  more  he  felt,  her  harmony. 
It  stole  upon  him  and  subtly  enveloped 
him,  a  tremendously  far-reaching  sense 
of  her  essential  femininity,  not  so  much 
sex,  perhaps,  —  that  was  too  definite 
and  limited,  —  as  something  far  more 
primordial,  possibly  eternal.  She  was 
definitively  woman,  none  more  so,  a 
gentlewoman,  complex,  as  highly  civil- 
ized as  civilization  has  as  yet  gone;  yet 
she  brought  home  to  his  quickened 
and  intensified  consciousness,  as  never 
before,  the  imperishable  elemental  en- 
ergy out  of  which  sex  itself  springs. 
Some  spirit-sense  within  him  awoke 
and  vibrated  with  her  spirit. 

She  seemed  to  him  at  once  eter- 
nally old  and  eternally  young,  and  to 
belong  to  the  back  and  the  beyond 
and  the  base  of  all  things.  She  was  the 
feminine  incarnate,  as  much  woman- 
hood as  woman,  and  still  more  the 
radio-active  feminine  substance  which 
may  underlie  creation.  He  thrilled  at 
the  thought  that  he  was  perceiving, 
through  her,  some  elemental  truth  of 
the  relative  value  of  things;  in  a  dim 
way,  how  man  is  man  and  woman  is 
woman,  —  at  least,  there  was  a  sug- 
gestion for  him  in  the  movement  of 
creation's  shimmering  veil.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  felt  that  he  knew  why  woman  is 
not  creative,  seldom  a  genius,  and  but 
a  small  part  of  the  great  creative  force 
of  the  world.  Yet  she  is  the  essence  of 
which  all  this  is  made,  the  energy  out 
of  which  the  masculine  initiatory  prin- 
ciple springs,  the  matrix  of  art,  as  it 
were,  at  once  substance  and  mould  of 
all  forms  of  energy.  She  bears  out  of 
herself,  she  broods,  she  hovers,  and 
sets  going  the  force  that  does  create. 


378 


THE  UNPAINTED  PORTRAIT 


There  went  through  his  mind  like  a 
blinding  flash  her  definition  (repeated 
parrot-like  by  her  all  so  able  son),  'But 
for  women,  self-martyrdom  is  happi- 
ness.' Had  she  simply  instinctively 
voiced  a  great  law?  No  wonder  Ash- 
ford  could  not  paint  her.  Splendid  as 
his  talent  was,  he  was  only  the  mortal 
son  of  the  immortal  mother.  The  old 
stories  were  subtly  true,  then,  the  old 
legends  embodied  guesses  at  eternal 
verity.  Woman  was  at  once  greater 
and  less,  larger  and  smaller,  more  last- 
ing and  more  ephemeral,  than  man. 
Infrequently  would  she  be  able  to  do 
the  things  that  he  does;  but  he  would 
never  be  able  to  do  anything  at  all 
without  her. 

'You  are  looking  at  me,  Mr.  Ur- 
quhart,  as  if  you  saw —  visions;  what 
is  it?'  she  asked,  smiling. 

*  I  wish  I  had  known  you  always  — 
or  have  I  known  you  always?  I  have 
some  such  feeling,'  blurted  Urquhart; 
then  gathering  himself  up,  he  added, 
*  I  was  trying  to  discover  why  Ashford 
can't  paint  your  picture.' 

'Oh,  he  told  you,  did  he?  Well,  it's 
quite  true;  he  cannot.'  Mrs.  Gray 
laughed. 

'  I  can  catch  glimpses  of  the  sphinx 
which  he  said  he  produced,'  pursued 
Urquhart  earnestly.  'With  the  hair 
gone,  replaced  by  the  sphinx  head- 
dress, it  might  be  possible,  and  would 
certainly  be  interesting.'  He  regarded 
her  ruefully.  'The  value  of  portraiture 
lies  in  expression,  it  is  that  that  indi- 
vidualizes, and  it  is  just  your  expres- 
sion that  would  escape  him.  And  with 
me  it  remains  as  an  impression  only. 
Yes,  the  likeness  escapes;  it's  too 
large,  too  comprehensive,  too  —  every- 
thing. I'm  thankful  to  have  had  the 
glimpse,  the  thought,  of  you;  but  I  can 
very  well  see  why  he  fails.' 

'You  think  he  has  n't — imagination 
enough?'  Her  smile  was  shadowy. 

'Not  that  exactly,'  returned  Urqu- 


hart slowly,  as  if  he  found  it  difficult 
to  formulate  his  thoughts;  'perhaps 
it's  not  intended,  perhaps  it  would 
not  be  possible.  We  men  are  too  de- 
finite, too  positive.  Talent,  genius  even, 
must  have  its  necessary  limitations ;  it 
is  energy  concentrated,  and  its  limita- 
tion is  the  very  condition  of  its  activ- 
ity and  form;  while  you  are  the  large, 
diffused,  life-giving  essence  out  of 
which  the  genius  is  framed.  No,  he'll 
never  paint  you ;  but  that  does  n't 
mean — '  Urquhart  broke  off  with 
something  like  confusion. 

'That  he  does  n't  appreciate  woman- 
hood, or  me,  or  both?'  she  teasingly 
supplemented,  with  the  sweetest,  most 
amused  expression  of  comprehension. 

'He's  a  mere  definite  mortal  son, 
while  you  —  belong  to  Olympus;  he's 
a  part,  while  you  are  all.  That's  the 
reason.' 

Urquhart  exhaled  a  long,  uncon- 
scious breath  as  if  resting  upon  his  own 
explanation. 

At  this  moment  a  small,  slight,  ex- 
quisitely finished  elderly  man  came 
out  on  the  portico,  paused,  looked 
about  him,  and  then  came  toward 
Mrs.  Gray.  His  features  were  almost 
too  delicate,  and  a  casual  observer 
would  have  called  him  more  feminine- 
looking  than  his  wife.  As  Urquhart 
rose,  Mrs.  Gray  presented  the  two  men. 

'I  have  been  venturing  to  offer  my 
congratulations  and  best  wishes,'  said 
Urquhart  warmly. 

'Then  offer  them  to  me,'  said  Hor- 
ace Gray  finely,  'for  Mrs.  Gray  has 
been  princely  to  me  all  her  life.'  There 
was  a  glow  in  his  face  as,  with  a  beauti- 
ful expression,  he  turned  to  his  wife. 
Urquhart's  seeing  eyes  comprehended 
them  both.  'I  was  right  at  first,'  he 
persisted  gently,  smiling  at  Mrs.  Gray, 
'all  tributes  should  be  laid  at  the  feet 
of  the  giver.' 

Just  then  Ashford  appeared.  Evi- 
dently he  and  Gray  had  already  seen 


A  STEP-DAUGHTER  OF  THE  PRAIRIE 


379 


each  other,  and  the  son  greeted  his 
mother  most  affectionately. 

'If  you  had  only  let  us  know,  we 
would  have  had  a  royal  wedding- 
breakfast,'  he  said,  almost  reproach- 
fully. 'And  you've  met  Urquhart, 
too,  and  I  wanted  to  be  in  at  the  first 
impressions.' 

'  Intuitions,  rather  than  impressions,' 
said  Urquhart  soberly.  'I  think  your 
mother  must  have  known  me  always; 
and  for  me,  all  old  faiths  are  made 
clearer  and  more  assured.  She  tremen- 
dously enhances  Life's  value.' 


'But  that's  what  every  one  says,' 
returned  Ashford.  'And  do  you  know 
why  I  can't  paint  her  portrait?'  he 
asked,  with  an  almost  jealous  quick- 
ness (a  touch  Urquhart  liked  in  him), 
looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

'If  I  could  have  lived  always,  I 
might  explain;  but  now  I  shall  never 
have  time,'  said  Urquhart. 

'Well,  then,  let's  go  in  to  breakfast,' 
said  Mrs.  Gray,  smiling,  'especially  as 
I  see  Louise,  beautifully  dressed,  com- 
ing down  early  to  do  me  honor.' 

And  they  went  in. 


A  STEP-DAUGHTER  OF  THE  PRAIRIE 


BY  MARGARET    LYNN 


FAR  away  on  the  almost  bare  line  of 
the  prairie's  horizon,  a  group  of  trees 
used  to  show.  There  was  a  tall  one  and 
a  short  one,  and  then  a  tallish  crooked 
one  and  another  short  one.  To  my 
childish  eyes  they  spelled  1-i-f-e,  as 
plainly  as  any  word  in  my  second  read- 
er was  spelled.  They  were  the  point 
that  most  fascinated  me  as  I  knelt  at 
the  upstairs  window,  with  my  elbows  on 
the  sill  and  my  chin  on  my  folded  arms. 
I  don't  know  when  I  first  noticed  them, 
for  they  had  been  there  always,  so  far  as 
I  could  remember,  a  scanty  little  bit  of 
fringe  on  a  horizon  that  was  generally 
clear  and  bare.  There  were  tips  of  other 
woods,  farther  to  the  south,  woods  that 
were  slightly  known  to  me;  but  that 
group  of  trees  on  the  very  edge  seemed 
to  lie  beyond  the  knowledge  of  any  one. 
Even  on  the  afternoons  when  I  was  al- 
lowed to  go  with  my  father  on  one  of 
his  business  errands,  and  we  drove  and 


drove  and  drove,  we  never  came  in 
sight  of  it.  Yet,  when  I  next  went  up- 
stairs and  looked  from  the  window, 
there  it  stood  against  the  sky. 

I  had  no  sense  of  making  an  alle- 
gory of  it.  At  that  age,  to  the  fairy- 
tale-fed child,  the  line  between  alle- 
gory and  reality  is  scarcely  perceptible 
anyway,  and  at  least  negligible.  The 
word  on  the  horizon  was  quite  a  mat- 
ter of  course  to  me.  An  older  per- 
son, had  it  occurred  to  me  to  men- 
tion the  matter,  would  perhaps  have 
seen  something  significant,  even  worthy 
of  sentimental  remark,  in  the  child's 
spelling  out  the  life  waiting  for  her  on 
her  far  horizon.  But  to  me,  mystery  as 
it  was,  it  was  also  a  matter  of  fact;  there 
it  stood,  and  that  was  all.  Yet  it  was 
also  a  romance,  a  sort  of  unformulated 
promise.  It  was  related  to  the  far  dis- 
tant, to  the  remote  in  time,  to  the 
thing  that  was  some  day  to  be  known. 


380 


A  STEP-DAUGHTER  OF  THE  PRAIRIE 


So  I  rested  my  chin  on  my  little  arms 
and  watched. 

I  suppose  the  fact  that  the  trees  were 
evidently  big  and  old  —  ours  were  still 
young  and  small  —  and  perhaps  a  part 
of  some  woods,  was  their  chief  appeal 
to  me.  For  no  one  can  picture  what  the 
woods  mean  to  the  prairie  child.  They 
are  a  glimpse  of  dream-things,  an  illus- 
tration of  poems  read,  a  mystery  of  un- 
defined possibilities.  To  pass  through 
our  scant  bits  of  woods,  even,  was  an 
excursion  into  a  strange  world.  From 
places  on  the  road  to  town,  we  could 
see  pieces  of  timber.  On  some  blessed 
occasions  when  a  muddy  hollow  was 
impassable  or  when  the  Howell  bridge, 
the  impermanent  structure  of  a  prai- 
rie country,  was  out,  we  went  around 
through  the  Crossley  woods.  That  was 
an  experience!  The  depth  of  greenness 
—  the  prairie  had  nothing  like  it. 

I  think  my  eyes  were  born  tired  of 
the  prairie,  ungrateful  little  soul  that  I 
was.  And  the  summer  shadows  in  the 
woods  were  marvelous.  The  shadow  of 
the  prairie  was  that  of  a  passing  cloud, 
or  the  square  shade  of  some  building, 
deepest  at  noon-day.  But  the  green 
depths  of  the  woods'  shadows,  the 
softly-moving  light  and  shade,  were  a 
wonderful  thing.  To  me  these  trips 
put  all  probability  on  a  new  basis.  Out 
on  the  bare  prairie,  under  the  shining 
sun,  stories  were  stories,  the  dearest  of 
them  inventions.  But  in  these  shady 
depths,  where  my  little  eyes  were  led 
on  from  green  space  through  green 
space  to  a  final  dimness,  anything 
might  be  true.  Fiction  and  tradition 
took  on  a  reality  that  the  glaring  open- 
ness would  not  allow.  Things  that 
were  different  might  happen  in  a  wood. 
I  could  not  help  expecting  a  new  ex- 
perience. But  it  never  came:  we  pass- 
ed out  of  the  timber  to  the  prairie 
again.  But  at  least  expectation '  had 
been  stirred.  The  possibility  that'some- 
thing  might  happen  seemed  nearer. 


For  Romance  was  always  just  around 
the  corner,  or  just  a  little  way  ahead. 
But  out  on  the  prairie  how  could  one 
overtake  it?  Where  could  the  unknown 
lurk  in  that  great  open?  The  woods 
seemed  to  put  me  nearer  to  the  world 
on  whose  borders  I  always  hovered, 
the  world  of  stories  and  poems,  the 
world  of  books  in  general.  The  whole 
business  of  my  life  just  then  was  to  dis- 
cover in  the  world  of  actual  events 
enough  that  was  bookish  to  reconcile 
me  to  being  a  real  child  and  not  one  in 
a  story.  For  the  most  part,  aside  from 
play,  which  was  a  thing  in  itself  and 
had  a  sane  importance  of  its  own,  the 
realities  of  life  were  those  that  had 
their  counterparts  in  books.  Whatever 
I  found  in  books,  especially  in  poetry,  I 
craved  for  my  own  experience.  Only 
my  childish  secretiveness  saved  me 
from  seeming  an  inordinate  little  prig. 
For  there  is  no  bookishness  like  that 
of  a  childish  reader;  and  there  is  no 
romanticism  like  that  of  a  child.  For 
good  or  ill,  I  was  steeped  in  both.  But 
the  two  things,  books  and  the  visible 
world  that  the  sun  shone  in  and  the 
prairie  spread  out  in,  were  far  apart 
and,  according  to  my  lights,  incompat- 
ible. I  always  had  a  suspicion  of  a  dis- 
tinct line  between  literature  and  life,  at 
least  life  as  I  knew  it,  far  out  in  Iowa. 
Who  had  ever  read  of  Iowa  in  a  novel 
or  a  poem?  No  essays  on  Literature 
and  Life  had  then  enlightened  me  as  to 
their  relation;  I  did  n't  know  they  had 
any.  I  wished  that  life  could  be  trans- 
lated into  terms  of  literature,  but  so  far 
as  I  could  see  I  had  to  do  it  myself  if  it 
was  to  be  done. 

One  must  admit  that  it  was  little  less 
than  tragic  to  read  of  things  that  one 
could  not  know,  and  to  live  among 
things  that  had  never  been  thought 
worth  putting  into  a  book.  What  did 
it  avail  to  read  of  forests  and  crags  and 
waterfalls  and  castles  and  blue  seas, 
when  I  could  know  only  barbed-wire 


A  STEP-DAUGHTER  OF  THE  PRAIRIE 


381 


fences  and  frame  buildings  and  prairie- 
grass? 

Of  course  there  were  some  elements 
of  our  living  in  which  I  discovered 
resemblances  to  what  I  found  in  my 
reading,  and  I  was  always  alert  to 
these  things,  however  small.  I  admired 
my  pretty  young-lady  sister,  for  in- 
stance, but  I  admired  her  most  when 
she  put  on  the  garments  of  romance; 
when  she  wore  a  filmy  white  muslin 
with  pale  blue  ribbons,  a  costume 
stamped  with  the  novelist's  approval 
from  the  earliest  tunes;  or  better  still,  a 
velvet  hat  with  a  long  plume  sweeping 
down  over  her  hair.  For  some  reason  I 
cannot  now  explain —  possibly  because  I 
knew  him  better  then  than  I  do  now  — 
I  associated  her  appearance  then  with 
that  of  some  of  Scott's  heroines.  She 
rose  in  my  estimation  —  as  did  any  one 
else  —  whenever  she  managed,  how- 
ever unconsciously,  to  link  herself  with 
romance.  When  I  found  after  a  time, 
as  I  grew  sophisticated,  that  she  was 
capable  of  exciting  those  feelings  in  the 
masculine  breast  that  were  depicted 
with  some  care  in  novels,  especially  in 
those  that  were  forbidden  and  that  I 
was  obliged  to  read  by  snatches  and  in 
inconvenient  places,  I  gave  her  my  un- 
qualified approval  for  all  time. 

As  I  said,  there  is  no  bookishness 
like  that  of  a  small  bookworm.  In  my 
own  little  self  I  did  try  to  make  a  point 
of  contact  between  what  I  read  and 
what  I  saw.  I  wished  I  dared  to  use  the 
language  of  books.  I  did  occasionally 
indulge  in  the  joy  of  borrowing  a  liter- 
ary phrase.  To  the  grown-ups  that 
heard  it,  it  was  doubtless  a  bit  of  pre- 
cocious pedantry  or  an  effort  to  show 
off.  I  sometimes  saw  visitors  smile  at 
one  another,  and  with  sudden  amused 
interest  try  to  draw  me  out;  and  in 
stammering  prosaic  embarrassment  I 
shrank  away,  no  literary  fluency  left. 
In  reality  I  was  not  showing  off.  I 
could  not  resist  the  shy  delicious  pleas- 


ure of  making  my  own  a  phrase  from 
one  of  my  yellow-leaved  books  of 
poetry.  It  linked  reality  with  romance. 
In  some  way  it  seemed  to  make  me 
free  of  the  world  of  folk  in  books,  whose 
company  I  craved.  The  elders  never 
guessed  the  tremor  with  which  I  ven- 
tured on  my  phrase  from  Tennyson  or 
Lowell,  though  I  might  have  been  roll- 
ing it  under  my  tongue  for  half  an  hour. 
But  it  would  not  do,  I  saw,  to  use  the 
sacred  language  lightly,  before  un- 
proved hearers,  so  I  reserved  it  for  my 
little  talkings  to  myself.  I  had  my  lit- 
tle code  of  phrases  for  my  private  pur- 
poses, and  a  list  of  expletives  rich  but 
amazing.  They  were  gleaned  all  the  way 
from  Shakespeare  to  Scott;  recent  writ- 
ers are  pitifully  meagre  in  expletives.  If 
I  did  not  know  their  meaning  I  said 
them  —  silently,  with  no  less  animus. 
Their  effect  was  all  that  could  be  de- 
sired, in  an  expletive  at  any  rate;  using 
the  word  was  more  interesting  than 
being  angry. 

But  that  was  after  all  a  thin  delight. 
And  to  live  in  one  kind  of  country  and 
feed  on  the  literature  of  another  kind 
of  country  is  to  put  one  all  awry.  Why 
was  there  no  literature  of  the  prairie? 
Whatever  there  was  did  not  come  to 
my  hands,  and  I  went  on  trying  to 
translate  the  phenomena  of  the  Mis- 
souri valley  into  terms  of  other-land 
poetry.  But  even  what  things  we  had 
appeared  in  unrecognizable  guise.  We 
had  wild  flowers  in  abundance,  but  un- 
named. And  what  are  botanical  names 
to  a  child  that  wants  to  find  foxglove 
and  heather  and  bluebells  and  Words- 
worth's daffodils  and  Burns's  daisy? 
We  —  I  was  not  alone  in  this  quest  — 
wanted  names  that  might  have  come 
out  of  a  book.  So  we  traced  imagined 
resemblances,  and  with  slight  encour- 
agement from  our  elders  —  they  came 
from  back  East  where  well-established 
flowers  grow  —  named  plants  where 
we  could. 


382 


A  STEP-DAUGHTER  OF  THE  PRAIRIE 


There  was  a  ruffly  yellow  flower  with 
a  vague,  pretty  odor,  that  we  forced 
the  name  primrose  upon.  For  the  prim- 
rose was  yellow,  in  Wordsworth  at 
least,  and  some  agreeable  visitor  said 
this  might  be  a  primrose.  We  invented 
spurious  pseudo-poetic  names,  trying 
to  pretend  they  were  as  good  as  the 
names  we  read.  There  was  a  pink 
flower  of  good  intentions  but  no  faith- 
fulness, which  retired  at  the  approach 
of  the  sun,  and  which  we  christened 
'morning  beauty.'  We  had  other  at- 
tempts at  ready-made  folk-names, 
crude  and  imitative,  but  I  have  forgot- 
ten them.  What  a  pity  the  prairie  did 
not  last  long  enough  to  fix  itself  and  the 
things  that  belonged  to  it  in  a  sort  of 
folk-phrases !  At  least  we  ought  to  have 
had  enough  flower-lore  at  our  command 
to  give  us  the  sweet  real  names  that 
may  have  belonged  to  these  blossoms 
or  their  relatives,  in  other  lands.  When 
we  did  learn  such  a  name  for  some  half- 
despised  flower,  how  the  plant  leaped 
to  honor  and  took  on  a  halo  of  credit! 
Some  elder  occasionally  went  with  us  to 
the  woods,  some  teacher,  perhaps,  hun- 
gry for  her  own  far-away  trees,  and  we 
found  really  we  had  a  genuine  sweet- 
William  and  dog-tooth  violet  and  Jack- 
in-the-pulpit  and  May-apple,  and  even 
a  rare  diffident  yellow  violet.  They 
were  no  more  beautiful  than  our  gay, 
nameless  flowers  of  the  open,  but  they 
grew  in  the  woods  and  they  had  names 
with  an  atmosphere  to  them.  In  our 
eternal  quest  for  names  for  things, 
some  learned  visitor,  for  we  had  many 
a  visitor  of  every  kind,  would  give  us 
crisp  scientific  names,  loaded  with  con- 
sonants. But  how  could  one  love  a 
flower  by  a  botanical  name? 

As  days  went  by,  however,  even  be- 
fore it  was  time  for  me  to  be  taken 
from  the  little  country  school  and  sent 
East  to  learn  other  things,  some  con- 
ditions had  changed.  Chance  seeds  of 
different  flowers  and  grasses  came 


floating  West.  In  a  neighbor's  field 
were  real  daisies  —  we  did  not  know 
then  that  they  were  not  Burns's  — 
brought  in  the  seed  with  which  the  field 
was  sown,  most  unwelcome  to  the 
farmer  but  worshiped  by  us.  Our 
own  groves,  planted  before  we  children 
were  born,  were  growing  up  and  al- 
ready served  for  the  hundred  purposes 
which  children  know  trees  are  good  for. 
But  the  ones  most  generous  in  their 
growth  and  kindest  in  their  service  to  us, 
we  regarded  with  ungrateful  contempt. 
Who  had  ever  heard  of  a  cotton  wood  in 
a  book?  The  box-elder  was  distinctly 
unliterary.  Even  the  maple  was  less 
valuable  when  we  learned  that  it  was 
not  the  sugar-maple,  and  that  no  mat- 
ter how  long  we  waited  we  could  never 
have  a  sugaring-off,  such  as  our  mother 
had  told  us  of.  It  was  sometimes  hard 
not  to  have  a  little  grudge  against  our 
mother;  she  had  had  so  many  more 
advantages  than  we.  The  trees  we  were 
most  eager  for  came  on  slowly.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  oaks  would  never  have 
acorns.  They  did  come  at  last,  and 
we  were  able  to  satisfy  ourselves  that 
they  were  not  edible,  either  green  or 
ripe,  and  to  fit  our  pinky  fingers  into 
the  velvety  little  thimbles  of  them,  the 
softest,  warmest  little  cups  in  the 
world. 

Our  grove  was  an  experimental  one, 
as  a  grove  in  a  new  country  must  be, 
and  held  all  sorts  of  things,  which  we 
made  our  own  one  by  one.  There  were 
slender  white  birches,  to  become  beau- 
tiful trees  in  time,  from  which  we 
stripped  bits  of  young  bark.  It  was 
quite  useless,  of  course,  a  flimsy,  pa- 
pery stuff,  but  we  pretended  to  find  use 
for  it.  There  were  handsome  young 
chestnut  trees,  bravely  trying  to  adapt 
themselves  to  their  land  of  exile.  The 
leaves  were  fine  for  making  dresses  and 
hats,  and  we  spent  long  July  afternoons 
bedizened  like  young  dryads.  There 
were  so  many  things  to  do  and  to  inves- 


A  STEP-DAUGHTER  OF  THE  PRAIRIE 


383 


tigate  in  the  earlier  months,  that  it  was 
midsummer  before  we  reached  this 
amusement.  But  we  watched  year  by 
year  for  the  fruit  of  the  chestnut.  It 
seemed  as  if  we  could  not  stand  it  not 
to  see  a  chestnut  bur.  And  at  last, 
when  the  very  first  ones  came,  we  did 
not  discover  them  until  we  found  them 
among  the  dry  leaves  in  the  autumn, 
empty  and  sodden  and  brown.  No- 
thing could  have  been  more  ironical. 
One  spring  day,  in  the  dimmest  part  of 
the  maple  grove,  we  found  a  tiny  fern 
head,  coming  up  from  a  scanty  bed  of 
moss.  We  watched  it  for  days,  con- 
sulting at  intervals  the  pictures  of 
ferns  in  the  encyclopaedia,  and  at  last, 
when  hope  trembled  on  the  brink  of 
certainty,  we  solemnly  led  our  mother 
out  to  identify  it.  Was  it  really  a  fern, 
or  only  a  weed  that  looked  like  a  fern? 
No  sacred  oak  was  ever  approached 
with  more  careful  reverence.  Our  mo- 
ther, an  exile  from  her  own  forest  coun- 
try, talked  of  bracken  shoulder-high 
and  rich  moss  on  old  gray  stones  or 
broad  tree-stumps.  We  used  to  draw  in 
our  breath  at  the  wanton  riches  of 
fallen  trees  and  stumps.  Big  trees,  to 
cut  down!  But  our  little  frond  was 
something.  It  drew  as  great  ecstasy 
from  our  devoted  little  hearts  as  a 
bracken-covered  hill  has  since  brought 
out.  We  saw  the  bracken  in  epitome, 
and  dreamed  of  conventicles  and  of 
royal  fugitives. 

How  I  hoarded  my  little  borrowings 
from  the  actual  to  enrich  the  ideal!  A 
neighbor  had  a  stake-and-rider  fence. 
No  doubt  he  was  a  poor  footless  sort  of 
farmer  or  he  would  never,  in  that  coun- 
try, have  had  one  —  where  all  good 
farmers  had  barbed-wire,  or  at  best 
rail,  fences.  My  father  had  some  hedges 
and  I  was  proud  of  them.  They  were 
not  hawthorn,  but  one  must  be  thank- 
ful for  what  gifts  fate  brings,  and  I  felt 
some  distinction  in  their  smooth  gen- 
teel lines.  But  that  Virginia  rail-fence, 


—  I  coveted  its  irregular  convolutions 
and  deep  angles,  where  the  plough 
never  went  and  where  almost  anything 
might  grow.  Whether  it  was  an  older  * 
place  than  ours  or  a  worse-cared-for 
one,  I  don't  know.  But  if  the  cause 
were  bad  farming,  it  had  a  reward  out 
of  proportion,  in  my  estimation,  for  the 
deep  fence-corners  held  a  tangle  won- 
derful to  investigate,  of  wild  grape  and 
pokeberry  and  elderberry  and  an  ivy 
whose  leaves  must  be  counted  to  see  if 
it  were  poison.  They  either  should  or 
should  not  be  the  same  as  the  number 
of  my  fingers,  but  I  never  could  remem- 
ber which  it  was  and  had  to  leave  its 
pink  tips  of  tender  new  leaves  un- 
plucked.  There  were  new  little  box- 
elders  and  maples,  where  the  rails  had 
stopped  the  flight  of  the  winged  seeds 
from  the  little  grove  around  the  house. 
There  were  tiny  elms  with  their  ex- 
quisite little  leaves.  No  beauty  of  form 
I  have  ever  found  has  given  me  more 
complete  satisfaction  than  did  the  per- 
fect lines  and  notches  of  those  baby 
leaves.  There  were  other  plants  that  I 
never  learned  to  know.  How  much 
better  it  would  have  been  had  all  fields 
had  a  border  like  this,  ornamental  and 
satisfying,  instead  of  the  baldness  of  a 
wire  fence.  The  possession  of  it  gave 
the  O'Brion  children  an  eminence  that, 
while  I  knew  it  was  factitious,  I  could 
not  help  recognizing. 

On  our  part  we  had  a  stream,  such  as 
it  was.  The  muddy  little  creek  —  we 
called  it  crick  —  was  to  me  a  brook,  se- 
cretly. Poor  little  creek!  It  did  to  wade 
in  and  to  get  hopelessly  muddy  in,  but 
that  was  all.  It  had  no  trout,  no  rip- 
ples over  stones,  no  grassy  banks.  It 
ran  through  a  cornfield,  and  a  bit  of 
scanty  pasture  where  its  banks  were 
trodden  with  the  feet  of  cattle;  and  it 
did  not  babble  as  it  flowed.  Try  as  I 
might,  I  could  not  connect  it  with  Ten- 
nyson or  Jean  Ingelow.  But  I  could  at 
least  call  it  a  brook,  to  myself.  I  had 


384 


A  STEP-DAUGHTER  OF  THE  PRAIRIE 


some  other  names  of  secret  applica- 
tion. In  the  spring  the  dull  little 
stream  used  sometimes  to  overflow  its 
*  banks.  Then  the  word  brought  to  the 
house  by  one  of  the  men  would  be, 
'The  crick 's  out.'  But  to  myself  I  said 
freshet;  and  I  suppose  I  was  the  only 
one  in  the  whole  section  to  use  the  old 
term. 

There  was  an  odd  little  hollow  on  the 
hillside  near  the  brook.  It  was  an  un- 
romantic  spot  enough,  treeless,  distin- 
guished only  by  its  dimple-like  contour. 
But  I  called  it  a  dell,  or  in  intenser  mo- 
ments a  dingle,  or  when  I  was  thinking 
largely,  a  glen,  and  used  to  make  a 
point  to  cross  it.  This  was  partly  be- 
cause sometimes  I  found  bits  of  peb- 
bles in  the  cup  of  the  hollow,  and  any 
stone  indigenous  to  the  country  was  a 
treasure  trove.  I  called  the  little  level 
place  below  the  hollow  a  glade,  and  the 
hillside  a  brae,  and  the  open  hill-top  a 
moor  or  heath.  Had  I  used  the  diction- 
ary more  freely  I  might  have  applied 
more  terms,  but  I  did  not  know  just 
what  a  wold  or  a  tarn  or  a  down  was, 
and,  lazily,  kept  them  in  reserve,  fine 
as  they  sounded.  My  private  vocab- 
ulary, as  can  be  seen,  was  largely  Ten- 
nysonian,  and  I  had  instinctively  his 
own  taste  for  archaic  terms.  For  what- 
ever]excursions  I  made'into  other  poets, 
Tennyson  was,  first  and  last,  my  dear 
delight.  My  feet  were^turned  ever  and 
oft  by  the  guardians  of  my  reading 
to  the  easy  paths  of  American  poetry. 
I  found  due  pleasure  in  them,  but  it 
was  always  tempered  by  a  sort  of  re- 
sentment that,  though  American,  their 
country  was  not  my  country.  For 
New  England  was  farther  away  than 
Old  England;  and  I  always  went  back 
to  Tennyson.  I  used  to  sit  in  the  dingle 
in  bald  sunlight  and  listen  to  such  un- 
pretentious noise  as  the  creek  made, 
and  chant  to  myself,  'How  sweet  it 
were,  hearing  the  downward  stream.' 

The  beauty  of  the  prairie  is  not  of 


the  sort  that  appeals  directly  to  a  child. 
The  bigness  of  it,  for  instance,  I  had 
been  used  to  all  my  life,  and  I  can't  re- 
member that  it  conveyed  any  sense 
of  expansiveness  to  me.  In  our  long 
drives  over  it  —  interminably  long 
they  were! — my  chief  recollection  is  of 
greenness  and  tiredness,  a  long  succes- 
sion of  rolling  hills  and  hollows,  and 
a  little  girl  so  weary  of  sitting  up  on  a 
seat  and  watching  the  horses  go  on 
and  on.  There  was  one  interest  that 
did  help  to  modify  this  ennui,  when  I 
was  very  little.  I  supposed,  not  that 
streams  wore  down  their  beds  by  their 
action,  but  that  the  bed  was  there  first, 
and  that  when  a  nice  long  ditch  was 
worn,  all  ready  for  occupancy,  a  spring 
opened  up  and  produced  a  stream.  So, 
as  we  drove  up  hill  and  down,  I  eyed 
expectantly  the  deeply  cut  wagon- 
tracks  that  marked  the  short  cuts  over 
the  prairies,  and  in  that  loose  soil  were 
worn  down  to  what  I  regarded  as  a 
depth  fit  for  a  beginning  stream.  I 
hoped  some  time  to  catch  one  in  the 
very  act  of  self-creation.  But  I  out- 
grew that  notion,  and  apart  from  such 
incidental  interests  as  these,  the 
prairie  had  little  attraction.  It  was 
just  green  grass  in  summer  and  dry 
grass  in  winter.  Children  are  not  usu- 
ally awake  to  shadings  and  modifica- 
tions of  color.  The  coral-pink  at  the 
roots  of  the  dried  prairie-grass,  the 
opal  tints  of  the  summer  mists  in  the 
early  morning,  I  did  not  discover  until 
I  had  reached  a  more  sophisticated 
stage.  And  the  prairie  was  not  suggest- 
ive to  me  at  this  early  time. 

Looking  back  now,  I  guess  that  it 
was  because  it  did  not  hint  at  the  un- 
known. It  should  have,  of  course,  but 
it  did  not.  It  did  not  carry  me  away 
and  away  to  new  possibilities.  I  knew 
that  beyond  these  grass-covered  hills 
there  lay  others  and  then  others  —  and 
that  is  all  there  was  to  it.  When  I  saw 
it  face  to  face  I  seemed  to  know  it  all, 


THE   PATRICIANS 


385 


—  and  who  wants  to  know  all  about 
anything?  This  was  not  only  because 
I  was  a  book-stuffed  little  prig,  as  I 
suppose  I  was;  I  had  imagination  of  a 
sort,  it  seems  to  me,  now,  as  I  recall  my 
pleasure  in  certain  things:  in  the  dim 
hovering  suggestiveness  of  twilight  and 
the  unanalyzable  reverie  it  put  me 
into;  in  the  half-heard  sounds  of  mid- 
afternoon  in  the  orchard;  in  the  bend 
of  the  young  trees  in  a  storm  at  night, 
when  I  slipped  from  bed  to  watch  them 
in  the  flashes  of  lightning.  There  was  a 
white  pine  near  my  window,  'an  exile 
in  a  stoneless  land,'  that  responded  to 
the  rush  of  this  western  wind  with  a 
beautiful  bend  and  swing.  But  when 
in  the  broad  daylight  I  looked  out  on 


the  green  hills,  I  saw  no  light  and  shade, 
no  changing  colors,  none  of  the  exquis- 
ite variety  of  view  that  may  have  been 
there.  I  saw  only  green  hills. 

But  had  the  prairie  had  a  literature, 
if  I  could  only  have  been  sure  that  it 
was  worthy  to  put  in  a  book!  If  Lowell 
and  Whittier  and  Tennyson  —  most 
of  all  Tennyson  —  had  written  of 
slough-grass  and  ground-squirrels  and 
barbed-wire  fences,  those  despised  ele- 
ments would  have  taken  on  new  as- 
pects. I  was  a  wistful  peri  at  the  gate 
of  a  literary  paradise.  But  the  Word 
on  the  horizon  was  something.  It  was 
far  away,  but  it  was  real.  I  did  not  try 
to  analyze  its  promise,  but  it  was 
there. 


THE  PATRICIANS 


BY  JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


XXVIII 

THREE  days  after  his  first,  and  as  he 
promised  himself,  his  last  society  ball, 
Courtier  received  a  note  from  Mrs. 
Noel,  saying  that  she  had  left  Monk- 
land  for  the  present,  and  come  up  to  a 
little  flat  on  the  riverside  not  far  from 
Westminster. 

When  he  made  his  way  there  that 
same  July  day,  the  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment were  bright  under  a  sun  which 
warmed  all  the  grave  air  emanating 
from  counsels  of  perfection.  Courtier 
passed  them  dubiously.  His  feelings 
in  the  presence  of  those  towers  were 
always  a  little  mixed.  There  was  not 
enough  of  the  poet  in  him  to  cause  him 
to  see  nothing  there  at  all  save  only  a 

VOL.  107 -NO.  3 


becoming  edifice,  but  there  was  enough 
of  the  poet  to  make  him  long  to  kick 
something;  and  in  this  mood  he  wended 
his  way  to  the  riverside. 

Mrs.  Noel  was  not  at  home,  but 
since  the  maid  informed  him  that  she 
would  be  in  directly,  he  sat  down  to 
wait.  Her  flat,  which  was  on  the  first 
floor,  overlooked  the  river,  and  had 
evidently  been  taken  furnished,  for 
there  were  visible  marks  of  a  recent 
struggle  with  that  Edwardian  taste 
which,  flushed  from  triumph  over  Vic- 
torianism,  had  filled  the  rooms  with 
Early  Georgian  remains.  On  the  only 
definite  victory,  a  rose-colored  window- 
seat  of  great  comfort  and  little  age, 
Courtier  sat  down,  and  resigned  him- 
self to  the  doing  of  nothing  with  the 


586 


THE  PATRICIANS 


ease  of  an  old  soldier.  To  the  protect- 
ive feeling  he  had  once  had  for  a  small, 
very  graceful,  dark-haired  child,  he  join- 
ed not  only  the  championing  pity  of  a 
man  of  warm  heart  watching  a  woman 
in  distress,  but  the  impatience  of  one 
who,  though  temperamentally  incap- 
able of  feeling  .oppressed  himself,  re- 
belled at  sight  of  all  forms  of  tyranny 
affecting  others.  And  as  he  coolly  fumed 
on  the  window-seat  of  her  flat,  the  sight 
of  the  gray  towers,  still  just  visible, 
under  which  Milton  and  his  father  sat, 
annoyed  him  deeply;  symbolizing,  to 
him,  Authority  —  foe  to  his  deathless 
mistress,  the  sweet,  invincible,  lost  cause 
of  Liberty. 

But  presently  the  river,  bringing  up 
in  flood  the  unbound  water  that  had 
bathed  every  shore,  touched  all  sands, 
and  seen  the  rising  and  falling  of  each 
mortal  star,  so  soothed  him  with  its 
soundless  hymn  to  Freedom,  that  Au- 
drey Noel,  coming  in  with  her  hands 
full  of  flowers,  found  him  sleeping  firm- 
ly, with  his  mouth  shut. 

Noiselessly  putting  down  the  flowers, 
she  waited  for  his  awakening.  That 
sanguine  visage,  with  its  prominent 
chin,  flaring  moustaches,  and  eye- 
brows raised  rather  V-shaped  above 
his  closed  eyes,  wore  an  expression  of 
cheery  defiance  even  in  sleep;  and  per- 
haps no  face  in  all  London  Was  so  ut- 
terly its  reverse  as  that  of  this  dark, 
soft-haired  woman,  delicate,  passive, 
and  tremulous  with  pleasure  at  sight  of 
the  only  person  in  the  world  from  whom 
she  felt  she  might  learn  of  Milton, 
without  losing  her  self-respect. 

He  woke  at  last,  and  manifesting  no 
discomfiture,  said,  '  It  was  like  you  not 
to  wake  me.' 

They  sat  for  a  long  while  talking,  the 
riverside  traffic  drowsily  accompany- 
ing their  voices,  the  flowers  drowsily 
filling  the  room  with  scent;  and  when 
Courtier  left,  his  heart  was  sore.  She 
had  not  spoken  of  herself  at  all,  but  had 


talked  nearly  all  the  time  of  Barbara, 
praising  her  beauty  and  high  spirit; 
growing  pale  once  or  twice,  and  evi- 
dently drinking  in  with  secret  avidity 
every  allusion  to  Milton.  Clearly,  her 
feelings  had  not  changed,  though  she 
would  not  show  them !  And  his  j^ty  for 
her  became  well-nigh  violent. 

It  was  in  such  a  mood,  mingled  with 
very  different  feelings,  that  he  donned 
evening  clothes  and  set  out  to  attend 
the  last  gathering  of  the  season  at  Val- 
leys House,  a  function  which,  held  so 
late  in  July,  was  perforce  almost  per- 
fectly political. 

Mounting  that  wide  and  shining 
staircase  which  had  so  often  baffled 
the  arithmetic  of  little  Ann,  he  was  re- 
minded of  a  picture  entitled  'The  steps 
to  Heaven,'  in  his  nursery  four-and- 
thirty  years  before.  At  the  top  of  this 
staircase,  and  surrounded  by  acquaint- 
ances, he  came  on  Harbinger,  who 
nodded  curtly.  The  young  man's  hand- 
some face  and  figure  appeared  to  Cour- 
tier's jaundiced  eye  more  obviously 
successful  and  complacent  than  ever; 
and  our  knight-errant  passed  on  sardon- 
ically, mano3uvring  his  way  towards 
Lady  Valleys,  whom  he  could  perceive 
stationed,  like  a  general,  in  a  little 
cleared  space,  where  to  and  fro  flowed 
constant  streams  of  people,  like  the 
rays  of  a  star. 

She  was  looking  her  very  best,  go- 
ing well  with  great  and  highly-polished 
spaces;  and  she  greeted  Courtier  with 
a  special  cordiality  of  tone,  which  had 
in  it,  besides  kindness  towards  one  who 
must  be  feeling  a  strange  bird,  a  certain 
diplomatic  quality,  compounded  of  her 
desires,  as  it  were,  to  'warn  him  off,' 
and  her  fear  of  saying  something  that 
might  irritate  and  nrake  him  more  dan- 
gerous. She  had  heard,  she  said,  that 
he  was  off  to  Persia;  she  hoped  he  was 
not  going  to  try  and  make  things  more 
difficult  out  there;  then  with  the  words, 
'So  good  of  you  to  have  come!'  she 


THE  PATRICIANS 


387 


became  once  more  the  centre  of  her 
battlefield. 

Perceiving  that  he  was  finished  with, 
Courtier  stood  back  against  a  wall  and 
watched.  Thus  isolated,  he  was  like 
a  solitary  cuckoo  contemplating  the 
gyrations  of  a  flock  of  rooks.  Their 
motions  seemed  a  little  meaningless  to 
one  so  far  removed  from  all  the  fetiches 
and  shibboleths  of  Westminster.  He 
heard  them  discussing  Milton's  speech, 
the  real  significance  of  which  appar- 
ently had  only  just  been  grasped.  The 
words  'doctrinaire,'  and  'extremist,' 
came  to  his  ears,  together  with  the  say- 
ing, ' a  new  force.'  People  were  evident- 
ly impressed,  disturbed,  not  pleased  — 
as  at  the  dislocation  of  a  cherished 
illusion. 

Searching  this  crowd  for  Barbara, 
Courtier  had  all  the  time  an  uneasy 
sense  of  shame.  What  business  had  he 
to  come  amongst  these  people,  so 
strange  to  him,  just  for  the  sake  of  see- 
ing her!  What  business  had  he  to  be 
hankering  after  this  girl  at  all,  knowing 
in  his  heart  that  he  could  not  stand  the 
atmosphere  she  lived  in  for  a  week,  arid 
that  she  was  utterly  unsuited  for  any 
atmosphere  that  he  could  give  her;  to 
say  nothing  of  the  unlikelihood  that  he 
could  flutter  the  pulses  of  one  half  his 
age! 

A  voice  behind  him  said, '  Mr.  Cour- 
tier!' 

He  turned,  and  there  was  Barbara. 

'  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Milton, 
please.  Will  you  come  into  the  picture 
gallery?' 

When  at  last  they  were  close  to  a 
family  group  of  Georgian  Caradocs,  and 
could  as  it  were  shut  out  the  throng 
sufficiently  for  private  speech,  she  be- 
gan:— 

'He's  so  awfully  unhappy;  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  for  him.  He 's  making 
himself  ill!' 

And  she  suddenly  looked  up  in  Cour- 
tier's face.  She  seemed  to  him  verv 


young  and  touching  at  that  moment. 
Her  eyes  had  a  gleam  of  faith  in  them, 
like  a  child's  eyes,  as  if  she  relied  on  him 
to  straighten  out  this  tangle,  to  tell  her 
not  only  about  Milton's  trouble,  but 
about  all  life,  its  meaning,  and  the 
secret  of  its  happiness.  And  he  said 
gently,  — 

'What  can  I  do?  The  poor  woman  is 
in  town.  But  that 's  no  good,  unless  — ' 
Not  knowing  how  to  finish  that  sen- 
tence, he  was  silent. 

'I  wish  I  were  Milton,'  she  said. 

At  that  quaint  saying,  Courtier  was 
hard  put  to  it  not  to  take  hold  of  the 
hands  so  close  to  him.  This  flash  of 
rebellion  in  her  had  quickened  all  his 
blood.  But  she  seemed  to  have  seen 
what  had  passed  in  him,  for  her  next 
speech  was  chilly  enough. 

'It's  no  good;  stupid  of  me  to  be 
worrying  you.' 

'It  is  quite  impossible  for  you  to 
worry  me.' 

Her  eyes  lifted  suddenly  again  from 
her  glove,  and  looked  straight  into  his. 

'Are  you  really  going  to  Persia?' 

'Yes.' 

'But  I  don't  want  you  to,  not  yet!' 
And  turning  suddenly,  she  left  him. 

Strangely  disturbed,  Courtier  remain- 
ed motionless,  taking  counsel  of  the 
grave  stare  of  the  group  of  Georgian 
Caradocs. 

A  voice  said,  '  Good  painting,  is  n't 
it?' 

Behind  him  was  Lord  Harbinger. 
And  once  more  the  memory  of  Lady 
Casterley's  words;  the  memory  of  the 
two  figures  with  joined  hands  on  the 
balcony  above  the  election  crowd;  all 
his  latent  jealousy  of  this  handsome 
young  Colossus,  his  animus  against  one 
whom  he  could,  as  it  were,  smell  out  to 
be  always  fighting  on  the  winning  side; 
all  his  consciousness,  too,  of  what  a  lost 
cause  his  own  was,  his  doubt  whether 
he  were  honorable  to  look  on  it  as  a 
cause  at  all,  flared  up  in  Courtier,  and 


388 


THE   PATRICIANS 


his  answer  was  a  stare.  On  Harbinger's 
face,  too,  there  had  come  a  look  as  if  a 
stubborn  violence  were  slowly  working 
its  way  up  to  the  surface. 

'I  said,  "Good,  isn't  it?"  Mr. 
Courtier.' 

'I  heard  you.' 

'And  you  were  pleased  to  answer?' 

'Nothing.' 

'With  the  civility  which  might  be 
expected  of  your  habits.' 

Coldly  disdainful,  Courtier  an- 
swered, 'If  you  want  to  say  that  sort 
of  thing,  please  choose  a  place  where  I 
can  reply  to  you ' ;  and  turned  abruptly 
on  his  heel. 

He  ground  his  teeth  as  he  made  his 
way  out  into  the  street. 

In  Hyde  Park  the  grass  was  parched 
and  dewless  under  a  sky  whose  stars 
were  veiled  by  the  heat  and  dust  haze. 
Never  had  Courtier  so  bitterly  want- 
ed consolation  —  the  blessed  sense  of 
man's  insignificance  in  the  face  of  the 
night's  dark  beauty,  which,  dwarfing 
all  petty  rage  and  hunger,  made  him 
part  of  its  majesty,  exalted  him  to  a 
sense  of  greatness. 

XXIX 

It  was  past  four  o'clock  the  following 
day  when  Barbara  issued  from  Val- 
leys House  on  foot;  clad  in  a  pale  buff 
frock  chosen  for  quietness,  she  attracted 
every  eye.  Very  soon  entering  a  taxi- 
cab,  she  drove  to  the  Temple,  stopped 
at  the  Strand  entrance,  and  walked 
down  the  little  narrow  lane  into  the 
heart  of  the  Law.  Its' votaries  were  hur- 
rying back  from  the  courts,  streaming 
up  from  their  chambers  for  tea,  or  es- 
caping desperately  to  Lord's  or  the 
Park  —  young  votaries,  unbound  as 
yet  by  the  fascination  of  fame  or  fees. 
And  each  one,  as  he  passed,  looked  at 
Barbara,  with  his  fingers  itching  to 
remove  his  hat,  and  a  feeling  that  this 
was  She.  After  a  day  spent  amongst 


precedents  and  practice,  after  six  hours 
at  least  of  trying  to  discover  what 
chance  A  had  of  standing  on  his  rights, 
or  B  had  of  preventing  him,  it  was  dif- 
ficult to  feel  otherwise  about  that  calm 
apparition  —  like  a  slim  golden  tree 
walking. 

One  of  them,  asked  by  her  the  way 
to  Milton's  staircase,  preceded  her  with 
shy  ceremony,  and  when  she  had  van- 
ished up  those  dusty  stairs,  lingered 
on,  hoping  that  she  might  find  her  vis- 
itee  out,  and  be  obliged  to  return  and 
ask  him  the  way  back.  But  she  did 
not  come,  and  he  went  sadly  away,  dis- 
turbed to  the  very  bottom  of  all  that 
he  owned  in  fee  simple. 

In  fact,  no  one  answered  Barbara's 
knock,  and  discovering  that  the  door 
yielded,  she  walked  through  the  lobby 
past  the  clerk's  den,  converted  to  a 
kitchen,  into  the  sitting-room.  It  was 
empty.  She  had  never  been  to  Milton's 
rooms  before,  and  she  stared  about  her 
curiously.  Since  he  did  not  practice, 
much  of  the  usual  barrister's  gear  was 
absent.  The  room  indeed  had  a  worn 
carpet,  a  few  old  chairs,  and  was  lined 
from  floor  to  ceiling  with  books.  But 
the  wall-space  Between  the  windows 
was  occupied  by  an  enormous  map  of 
England,  scored  all  over  with  figures 
and  crosses;  and  before  this  map  stood 
a  revolving  desk,  on  which  were  piles 
of  double  foolscap  covered  with  Mil- 
ton's neat  and  rather  pointed  writing. 
Barbara  examined  them,  puckering  up 
her  forehead;  she  knew  that  he  was 
working  at  a  book  on  the  land  ques- 
tion, but  she  had  never  realized  that 
the  making  of  a  book  required  so  much 
writing.  Papers,  too,  and  Blue  Books 
littered  a  large  bureau  on  which  stood 
bronze  Ipusts  of  JEschylus  and  Dante. 

'What  an  uncomfortable  place!'  she 
thought.  The  room,  indeed,  had  an  at- 
mosphere, a  spirit,  which  depressed  her 
horribly.  Seeing  a  few  flowers  down  in 
the  court  below,  she  had  a  longing  to 


THE   PATRICIANS 


389 


get  out  to  them.  Then  behind  her  she 
heard  the  sound  of  some  one  talking. 
But  there  was  no  one  in  the  room,  and 
the  effect  of  this  disrupted  soliloquy, 
which  came  from  nowhere,  was  so  un- 
canny that  she  retreated  to  the  door. 
The  sound,  as  of  two  spirits  speaking 
in  one  voice,  grew  louder,  and  involun- 
tarily Barbara  glanced  at  the  busts. 
But  they  were  guiltless.  Though  the 
sound  had  been  behind  her  when  she 
was  at  the  window,  it  was  again  behind 
her  now  she  was  at  the  door;  and  she 
suddenly  realized  that  it  issued  from 
a  bookcase  in  the  centre  of  the  wall. 

Barbara  had  her  father's  nerve, 
and,  walking  up  to  the  bookcase,  she 
perceived  that  it  had  been  affixed  to, 
and  covered,  a  door  that  was  not  quite 
closed.  She  pulled  it  towards  her,  and 
passed  through.  Across  the  centre  of 
ah  unkempt  bedroom  Milton  was  strid- 
ing, dressed  only  in  his  shirt  and  trou- 
sers. His  feet  were  bare,  and  the  look 
of  his  thin  dark  face  went  to  Barbara's 
heart,  it  was  so  twisted  and  worn.  She 
ran  forward,  and  took  his  hand.  This 
was  burning  hot,  but  the  sight  of  her 
seemed  to  have  frozen  his  tongue  and 
eyes.  And  the  contrast  of  his  burning 
hand  with  this  frozen  silence,  frighten- 
ed her  horribly.  She  could  think  of  no- 
thing but  to  put  her  other  hand  to  his 
forehead.  That  too  was  burning  hot! 

'What  brought  you  here?'  he  said. 

She  could  only  murmur,  'Oh!  Eusty! 
Are  you  ill?' 

Milton  took  hold  of  her  wrists. 

'It's  all  right,  I 've  been  working  too 
hard;  got  a  touch  of  fever.' 

'So  I  can  feel,'  murmured  Barbara. 
'You  ought  to  be  in  bed.  Come  home 
with  me.' 

Milton  smiled.  'It's  not  a  case  for 
leeches.' 

The  look  of  his  smile,  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  sent  a  shudder  through  her. 

'I'm  not  going  to  leave  you  here 
alone.' 


But  Milton's  grasp  tightened  on  her 
wrists. 

'My  dear  Babs,  you  will  do  what  I 
tell  you.  Go  home,  hold  your  tongue, 
and  leave  me  to  burn  out  in  peace.' 

Barbara  sustained  that  painful  grip 
without  wincing;  she  had  regained  her 
calmness. 

'You  must  come!  You  have  n't  any- 
thing here,  not  even  a  cool  drink.' 

Milton  dropped  her  arms.  'My  God! 
Barley  water!' 

The  scorn  he  put  into  those  two 
words  was  more  withering  than  a  whole 
philippic  against  redemption  by  crea- 
ture comforts.  And  feeling  it  dart  into 
her,  Barbara  closed  her  lips  tight.  He 
had  dropped  her  wrists,  and  again  be- 
gan pacing  up  and  down;  suddenly  he 
stopped. 

'  The  stars,  sun,  moon,  all  shrink  away, 
A  desert  vast,  without  a  bound, 
And  nothing  left  to  eat  or  drink, 
And  a  dark  desert  all  around. 

You  should  read  your  Blake,  Audrey.' 
Barbara  turned  suddenly  and  went 
out,  frightened.  She  passed  through 
the  sitting-room  and  corridor  on  to  the 
staircase.  What  should  she  do?  He 
was  ill, — raving!  The  fever  in  Milton's 
veins  seemed  to  have  stolen  through  the 
clutch  of  his  hands  into  her  own  veins. 
Her  face  was  burning;  she  thought  con- 
fusedly, breathed  unevenly.  She  felt 
sore,  and  at  the  same  time  terribly 
sorry;  and  withal  there  kept  rising  in 
her  gusts  of  the  memory  of  Harbinger's 
kiss. 

She  hurried  down  the  stairs,  turned 
by  instinct  downhill,  and  found  herself 
on  the  Embankment.  And  suddenly, 
with  her  inherent  power  of  swift  deci- 
sion, she  hailed  a  cab,  and  drove  to  the 
nearest  telephone  office. 

XXX 

To  a  woman  like  Audrey  Noel,  born 
to  be  the  counterpart  and  complement 


390 


THE   PATRICIANS 


of  another,  whose  occupations  and  ef- 
fort were  inherently  divorced  from  the 
continuity  of  any  stiff  and  strenuous 
purpose  of  her  own,  the  uprooting  she 
had  voluntarily  undergone  was  a  seri- 
ous matter. 

Bereaved  of  the  faces  of  her  flowers, 
the  friendly  sighing  of  her  lime  tree, 
the  wants  of  her  cottagers;  bereaved 
of  that  busy  motonony  of  little  home 
things  which  is  the  stay  and  solace  of 
lonely  women,  she  was  extraordinarily 
lost.  Even  music  for  review  seemed  to 
have  failed  her.  She  had  never  lived  in 
London,  so  that  she  had  not  the  refuge 
of  old  haunts  and  habits,  but  had  to 
make  her  own  —  and  to  make  habits 
and  haunts  required  a  heart  that  could 
at  least  stretch  out  feelers  and  lay  hold 
of  things,  and  her  heart  was  not  now 
able.  When  she  had  struggled  with 
her  Edwardian  flat,  and  laid  down  her 
simple  routine  of  meals,  she  was  as 
stranded  as  ever  was  convict  let  out  of 
prison.  She  had  not  even  that  great 
support,  the  necessity  of  hiding  her 
feelings  for  fear  of  disturbing  others. 
She  was  planted  there,  with  her  long- 
ing and  remorse,  and  nothing,  nobody, 
to  take  her  out  of  herself.  Having  will- 
fully put  herself  into  this  position,  she 
tried  to  make  the  best  of  it,  feeling  it 
less  intolerable,  at  all  events,  than  stay- 
ing on  at  Monkland,  where  she  had 
made  that  grievous  and  unpardonable 
error  —  falling  in  love. 

This  offense,  on  the  part  of  one 
who  felt  within  herself  a  great  capacity 
to  enjoy  and  to  confer  happiness,  had 
arisen  —  like  the  other  grievous  and 
unpardonable  offense,  her  marriage  — 
from  too  much  disposition  to  yield 
herself  to  the  personality  of  another. 
But  it  was  cold  comfort  to  know  that 
the  desire  to  give  and  to  receive  love 
had  twice  over  left  her  —  a  dead  wo- 
man. Whatever  the  nature  of  those 
immature  sensations  with  which,  as  a 
girl  of  twenty,  she  had  accepted  her 


husband,  in  her  feeling  towards  Milton 
there  was  not  only  abandonment,  but 
the  higher  flame  of  self-renunciation. 
She  wanted  to  do  the  best  for  him,  and 
had  not  even  the  consolation  of  the 
knowledge  that  she  had  sacrificed  her- 
self for  his  advantage.  All  had  been 
taken  out  of  her  hands!  Yet  with  char- 
acteristic fatalism  she  did  not  feel  re- 
bellious. If  it  were  ordained  that  she 
should,  for  fifty,  perhaps  sixty  years, 
.  repent  in  sterility  and  ashes  that  first 
error  of  her  girlhood,  rebellion  was, 
none  the  less,  too  far-fetched.  If  she 
rebelled,  it  would  not  be  in  spirit,  but 
in  action.  General  principles  were  no- 
thing to  her;  she  lost  no  force  brooding 
over  the  justice  or  injustice  of  her  sit- 
uation, but  merely  tried  to  digest  its 
facts. 

The  whole  day  succeeding  Courtier's 
visit  was  spent  by  her  in  the  National 
Gallery,  whose  roof,  alone  of  all  in 
London,  seemed  to  offer  her  protec- 
tion. She  had  found  one  painting,  by 
an  Italian  master,  the  subject  of  which 
reminded  her  of  Milton;  and  before 
this  she  sat  for  a  very  long  time,  at- 
tracting at  last  the  gouty  stare  of  an 
official.  The  still  figure  of  this  lady, 
with  the  oval  face  and  grave  beauty, 
both  piqued  his  curiosity,  and  stimu- 
lated certain  moral  qualms.  She  was 
undoubtedly  waiting  for  her  lover.  No 
woman,  in  his  experience,  had  ever  sat 
so  long  before  a  picture  without  ulte- 
rior motive;  he  kept  his  eyes  well  opened 
to  see  what  this  motive  would  be  like. 
It  gave  him,  therefore,  a  sensation  al- 
most amounting  to  chagrin  when,  com- 
ing round  once  more,  he  found  they  had 
eluded  him  and  gone  off  together  with- 
out coming  under  his  inspection.  Feel- 
ing his  feet  a  good  deal,  for  he  had  been 
on  them  all  day,  he  sat  down  in  the 
hollow  which  she  had  left  behind  her; 
and  against  his  will  found  himself  also 
looking  at  the  picture.  It  was  painted 
in  a  style  he  did  not  care  for;  the  face 


THE   PATRICIANS 


391 


of  the  subject,  too,  gave  him  the  queer 
feeling  that  the  gentleman  was  being 
roasted  inside.  He  had  not  sat  there 
long,  however,  before  he  perceived  the 
lady  standing  by  the  picture,  and  the 
lips  of  the  gentleman  in  the  picture 
moving.  It  seemed  to  him  against 
the  rules  and  he  got  up  at  once,  and 
went  towards  it;  but  as  he  did  so,  he 
found  that  his  eyes  were  shut,  and 
opened  them  hastily.  There  was  no 
one  there. 

From  the  National  Gallery,  Audrey 
had  gone  into  an  A.  B.  C.  for  tea,  and 
then  home.  Before  the  Mansions  was 
a  taxi-cab,  and  the  maid  met  her  with 
the  news  that  'Lady  Caradog'  was  in 
the  sitting-room. 

Barbara  was  indeed  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  with  a  look  on  her 
face  such  as  her  father  wore  sometimes 
on  the  race-course,  in  the  hunting-field, 
or  at  some  Cabinet  Council,  —  a  look 
both  resolute  and  sharp.  She  spoke  at 
once: — 

'  I  got  your  address  from  Mr.  Cour- 
tier. My  brother  is  ill.  I'm  afraid 
it'll  be  brain  fever.  I  think  you  had 
better  go  and  see  him  at  his  rooms 
in  the  Temple;  there's  no  time  to  be 
lost.' 

To  Audrey  everything  in  the  room 
seemed  to  go  round;  yet  all  her  senses 
were  preternaturally  acute,  so  that  she 
could  distinctly  smell  the  mud  of  the 
river  at  low  tide.  She  said  with  a  shud- 
der, 'Oh!  I  will  go;  yes,  I  will  go  at 
once.' 

'  He  is  quite  alone.  He  has  not  asked 
for  you;  but  I  think  your  going  is  the 
only  chance.  I  am  no  good  to  him. 
You  told  me  once  you  were  a  good 
nurse.' 

'Yes.' 

The  room  was  steady  enough  now, 
but  she  had  lost  the  preternatural  acute- 
ness  of  the  senses,  and  felt  confused. 
She  heard  Barbara  say, '  I  can  take  you 
to  the  door  in  my  cab ' ;  and  murmur- 


ing, 'I  will  get  ready,'  went  into  her 
bedroom.  For  a  moment  she  was  so 
utterly  bewildered  that  she  did  •  no- 
thing. Then  every  other  thought  was 
lost  in  a  strange,  soft,  almost  painful 
delight,  as  if  some  new  instinct  were 
being  born  in  her;  and  quickly,  but 
without  confusion  or  hurry,  she  began 
packing.  She  put  into  a  valise  her  own 
toilet  things;  then  flannel,  cotton-wool, 
eau  de  Cologne,  hot-water  bottle,  etna, 
shawl,  everything  that  she  had  which 
could  serve  in  illness.  Changing  to  a 
plain  dress,  she  took  up  the  valise  and 
returned  to  Barbara. 

They  went  out  together  to  the  cab. 
The  moment  it  began  to  bear  her  to 
this  ordeal  at  once  so  longed-for  and 
so  terrible,  fear  came  over  her  again, 
so  that  she  screwed  herself  into  the 
corner,  very  white  and  still.  She  was 
aware  of  Barbara  calling  to  the  driver, 
'Go  by  the  Strand,  and  stop  at  a 
poulterer's  for  ice!'  And,  when  the  bag 
of  ice  had  been  handed  in,  heard  her 
saying,  '  I  will  bring  you  all  you  want 
—  if  he  is  really  going  to  be  ill.' 

Then,  as  the  cab  stopped,  and  the 
open  doorway  of  the  staircase  was  be- 
fore her,  all  her  courage  came  back. 

She  felt  the  girl's  warm  hand  against 
her  own,  and  grasping  her  valise  and 
the  bag  of  ice,  got  out,  and  hurried  up 
the  steps. 

XXXI 

On  leaving  Nettlefold,  Milton  had 
gone  straight  back  to  his  rooms,  and 
begun  at  once  to  work  at  his  book  on 
the  land  question.  He  worked  all 
through  that  night  —  his  third  night 
without  sleep  —  and  all  the  following 
day.  In  the  evening,  feeling  queer  in 
the  head,  he  went  out  and  walked  up 
and  down  the  Embankment.  Then, 
fearing  to  go  to  bed  and  lie  sleepless, 
he  sat  down  in  his  armchair.  Falling 
asleep  there,  he  had  fearful  dreams, 
and  awoke  unrefreshed.  After  his  bath 


THE  PATRICIANS 


he  drank  coffee,  and  again  forced  him- 
self to  work.  By  the  middle  of  the  day 
he  felt  dizzy  and  exhausted,  but  utterly 
disinclined  to  eat.  He  went  out  into 
the  hot  Strand,  bought  himself  a  neces- 
sary book,  and  after  drinking  more  cof- 
fee, came  back,  and  again  began  to 
work.  At  four  o'clock  he  found  that  he 
was  not  taking  in  the  words.  His  head 
was  burning  hot,  and  he  went  into  his 
bedroom  to  bathe  it.  Then  somehow 
he  began  walking  up  and  down,  talk- 
ing to  himself,  as  Barbara  had  found 
him. 

She  had  no  sooner  gone  than  he  felt 
utterly  exhausted.  A  small  crucifix 
hung  over  his  bed,  and  throwing  him- 
self down  before  it,  he  remained  mo- 
tionless with  his  face  buried  in  the 
coverlet,  and  his  arms  stretched  out 
toward  the  wall.  He  did  not  pray,  but 
merely  sought  rest  from  sensation. 
Across  his  half-hypnotized  conscious- 
ness little  threads  of  burning  fancy 
kept  shooting.  Then  he  could  feel  no- 
thing but  utter  physical  sickness,  and 
against  this  his  will  revolted.  He  re- 
solved that  he  would  not  be  ill,  a  ri- 
diculous log  for  women  to  hang  over. 
But  the  moments  of  sickness  grew 
longer  and  more  frequent;  and  to  drive 
them  away  he  rose  from  his  knees,  and 
for  some  time  again  walked  up  and 
down;  then,  seized  with  vertigo,  he  was 
obliged  to  sit  on  the  bed  to  save  him- 
self from  falling.  From  being  burning 
hot  he  had  become  deadly  cold,  glad  to 
cover  himself  with  the  bedclothes.  The 
heat  soon  flamed  up  in  him  again;  but 
with  a  sick  man's  instinct  he  did  not 
throw  off  the  clothes,  and  lay  quite 
still.  The  room  seemed  to  have  turned 
to  a  thick  white  substance  like  a  cloud, 
in  which  he  lay  enwrapped,  unable  to 
move  hand  or  foot.  His  sense  of  smell 
and  hearing,  however,  remained,  and 
were  even  unnaturally  acute;  he 
smelled  flowers,  dust,  and  the  leather 
of  his  books,  even  the  scent  left  by 


Barbara's  clothes,  and  a  curious  odor 
of  river-mud. 

A  clock  struck  six,  he  counted  each 
stroke;  and  instantly  the  whole  world 
seemed  full  of  striking  clocks,  the 
sound  of  horses'  hoofs,  bicycle  bells, 
peoples'  footfalls.  His  sense  of  vision, 
on  the  contrary,  was  absorbed  in 
consciousness  of  this  white  blanket  of 
cloud  wherein  he  was  lifted  above  the 
earth,  in  the  midst  of  a  dull,  incess- 
ant hammering.  On  the  surface  of  the 
cloud  there  seemed  to  be  forming  a 
number  of  little  golden  spots;  these 
spots  were  moving,  and  he  saw  that 
they  were  toads.  Then,  beyond  them, 
he  saw  a  huge  face  shape  itself,  very 
dark,  as  if  of  bronze,  with  eyes  burning 
into  his  brain.  The  more  he  struggled 
to  get  away  from  these  eyes,  the  more 
they  bored  and  burned  into  him.  His 
voice  was  gone,  so  that  he  was  unable  to 
cry  out,  and  suddenly  the  face  marched 
over  him. 

When  he  recovered  consciousness 
his  head  was  damp  with  mpisture 
trickling  from  something  held  to  his 
forehead  by  a  figure  leaning  over  him. 
Lifting  his  hand,  he  touched  a  cheek; 
and  hearing  a  sob  instantly  suppressed, 
he  sighed.  His  hand  was  gently  taken; 
he  felt  kisses  on  it. 

The  room  was  so  dark  that  he  could 
scarcely  see  her  face;  his  sight  too  was 
dim;  but  he  could  hear  her  breathing, 
and  the  least  sound  of  her  dress  and 
movements  —  the  scent  too  of  her 
hands  and  hair  seemed  to  envelop  him, 
and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  acute  dis- 
comfort of  his  fever,  he  felt  the  band 
round  his  brain  relax.  He  did  not  ask 
how  long  she  had  been  there,  but  lay 
quite  still,  trying  to  keep  his  eyes  on 
her,  for  fear  of  that  face,  which  seemed 
lurking  behind  the  air,  ready  to  march 
on  him  again.  Then  feeling  suddenly 
that  he  could  not  hold  it  back,  he  beck- 
oned, and  clutched  at  her,  trying  to 
cover  himself  with  the  protection  of 


THE   PATRICIANS 


393 


her  breast.  This  time  his  swoon  was 
not  so  deep;  it  gave  way  to  delirium, 
with  intervals  when  he  knew  that  she 
was  there,  and  by  the  shaded  candle- 
light could  see  her  in  a  white  gar- 
ment, floating  close  to  him,  or  sitting 
still  with  her  hand  on  his;  he  could 
even  feel  the  faint  comfort  of  the  ice- 
cap, and  of  the  scent  of  eau  de  Co- 
logne. Then  he  would  lose  all  con- 
sciousness of  her  presence,  and  pass 
through  into  the  incoherent  world, 
where  the  crucifix  above  his  bed  seem- 
ed to  bulge  and  hang  out,  as  if  it  must 
fall  on  him.  He  conceived  a  violent 
longing  to  tear  it  down,  which  grew 
till  he  had  struggled  up  in  bed  and 
wrenched  it  from  off  the  wall.  Yet  a 
mysterious  consciousness  of  her  pre- 
sence permeated  even  his  darkest  jour- 
neys into  the  strange  land;  and  once 
she  seemed  to  be  with  him,  where  a 
strange  light  showed  them  fields  and 
trees,  a  dark  line  of  moor,  and  a  bright 
sea,  all  whitened,  and  flashing  with 
sweet  violence. 

Soon  after  dawn  he  had  a  long  inter- 
val of  consciousness,  and  took  in  with  a 
sort  of  wonder  her  presence  in  the  low 
chair  by  his  bed.  So  still  she  sat  in  a 
white  loose  gown,  pale  with  watching, 
her  eyes  immovably  fixed  on  him,  her 
lips  pressed  together,  and  quivering  at 
his  faintest  motion.  He  drank  in  de- 
sperately the  sweetness  of  her  face, 
which  had  so  lost  remembrance  of  self. 

XXXII 

Barbara  gave  the  news  of  her  bro- 
ther's illness  to  no  one  else,  common 
sense  telling  her  to  run  no  risk  of  dis- 
turbance. Of  her  own  initiative,  she 
brought  a  doctor,  and  went  down  twice 
a  day  to  hear  reports  of  Milton's  pro- 
gress. 

As  a  fact,  her  father  and  mother  had 
gone  down  to  Lord  Dennis,  for  Good- 
wood, and  the  chief  difficulty  had  been 


to  excuse  her  own  neglect  of  that  fav- 
orite meeting.  She  had  fallen  back 
on  the  half-truth  that  Eustace  wanted 
her  in  town;  and,  since  Lord  and  Lady 
Valleys  had  neither  of  them  shaken  off 
a  certain  uneasiness  about  their  son, 
the  pretext  sufficed. 

It  was  not  until  the  sixth  day,  when 
the  crisis  was  well  past  and  Milton 
quite  free  from  fever,  that  she  again 
went  down  to  Nettlefold. 

On  arriving  she  at  once  sought  out 
her  mother,  whom  she  found  in  her 
bedroom,  resting.  It  had  been  very  hot 
at  Goodwood. 

Barbara  was  not  afraid  of  her  —  she 
was  not,  indeed,  afraid  of  any  one,  ex- 
cept Milton,  and  in  some  strange  way  a 
little,  perhaps,  of  Courtier;  yet,  when 
the  maid  had  gone,  she  did  not  at  once 
begin  her  tale.  Lady  Valleys  too  was 
busy  at  heart  with  matters  other  than 
those  which  occupied  her  tongue.  She 
had  just  heard  details  of  a  society  scan- 
dal, and,  while  she  spoke  of  Goodwood, 
was  preparing  an  account  of  it  suitable 
to  her  daughter's  ears  —  for  some  ac- 
count she  felt  she  must  give  to  some- 
body. 

*  Mother,'  said  Barbara  suddenly, 
*  Eustace  has  been  ill.  He 's  out  of  dan- 
ger now,  and  going  on  all  right.'  Then, 
looking  hard  at  the  bewildered  lady, 
she  added,  'Mrs.  Noel  is  nursing  him.' 

The  past  tense  in  which  illness  had 
been  mentioned,  checking  at  the  first 
moment  any  rush  of  panic  in  Lady  Val- 
leys, left  her  most  confused  by  the  situ- 
ation conjured  up  by  Barbara's  last 
words.  Instead  of  feeding  that  part  of 
man  which  loves  a  scandal,  she  had 
been  fed,  always  an  unenviable  sensa- 
tion. A  woman  did  not  nurse  a  man  un- 
der such  circumstances  without  being 
everything  to  him,  in  the  world's  eyes. 

'I  took  her  to  him.  It  seemed  the 
only  thing  to  do  —  considering  it 's  all 
fretting  for  her,'  went  on  Barbara. 
'  Nobody  knows,  of  course,  except  the 


394 


THE   PATRICIANS 


doctor,  and' —  she  added  slowly  — 
'Stacey.' 

'Heavens!'  muttered  Lady  Valleys. 

'It  has  saved  him,'  said  Barbara. 

The  mother-instinct  in  Lady  Valleys 
took  sudden  fright.  'Are  you  telling 
me  the  truth,  Babs?  Is  he  really  out  of 
danger?  How  wrong  of  you  not  to  let 
me  know  before!' 

But  Barbara  did  not  flinch;  and  her 
mother  relapsed  into  rumination. 

'Stacey  is  a  cat!'  she  said  suddenly. 
The  details  of  that  society  scandal  had 
included  the  usual  maid.  She  could 
not  find  it  in  her  to  enjoy  the  irony  of 
this  coincidence.  Then,  seeing  Barbara 
smile,  she  said  tartly,  '  I  fail  to  see  the 
joke.' 

'Only  that  I  could  n't  help  throwing 
Stacey  in,  dear.' 

'What!  You  mean  she  doesn't 
know?' 

'Not  a  word.' 

Lady  Valleys  smiled. 

'  What  a  little  wretch  you  are,  Babs! ' 
And  maliciously  she  added, '  Claud  and 
his  mother  are  coming  over  from 
Whitewater,  with  Bertie  and  Lily  Mal- 
vezin;  you'd  better  go  and  dress.' 

Her  eyes  searched  her  daughter's  so 
shrewdly  that  a  flush  rose  to  the  girl's 
cheeks. 

When  she  had  gone,  Lady  Valleys 
rang  for  her  maid  again,  and  relapsed 
into  meditation.  Her  first  thought  was 
to  consult  her  husband;  her  second 
that  secrecy  was  strength.  Since  no  one 
knew  but  Barbara,  no  one  had  better 
know. 

Her  astuteness  and  experience  com- 
prehended the  far-reaching  probabil- 
ities of  this  affair.  It  would  not  do  to 
take  a  single  false  step.  If  she  had  no 
one's  action  to  control  but  her  own  and 
Barbara's,  so  much  the  less  chance  of  a 
slip.  Her  mind  was  a  strange  medley 
of  thoughts  and  feelings,  almost  comic, 
well-nigh  tragic;  of  worldly  prudence 
and  motherly  instinct;  of  warm-blood- 


ed sympathy  with  all  love-affairs,  and 
cool-blooded  concern  for  her  son's  ca- 
reer. It  was  not  yet  too  late  perhaps  to 
prevent  real  mischief;  especially  since 
it  was  agreed  by  every  one  that  the 
woman  was  no  adventuress.  Whatever 
was  done,  they  must  not  forget  that 
she  had  nursed  him  —  saved  him,  Bar- 
bara had  said!  She  must  be  treated 
with  all  kindness  and  consideration. 

Hastening  her  toilet,  she  in  turn 
went  to  her  daughter's  room. 

She  found  her  already  dressed,  lean- 
ing out  of  her  window  towards  the  sea. 

She  began  almost  timidly: '  My  dear, 
is  Eustace  out  of  bed  yet? ' 

'He  was  to  get  up  to-day  for  an  hour 
or  two.' 

'I  see.  Now,  would  there  be  any 
danger  if  you  and  I  went  up  and  took 
charge  over  from  Mrs.  Noel?' 

'PoorEusty!' 

'Yes,  yes.  But  exercise  your  judg- 
ment. Do  you  think  it  would  harm 
him?' 

Barbara  was  silent.  '  No,'  she  said  at 
last,  'I  don't  suppose  it  would.' 

Lady  Valleys  exhibited  a  manifest 
relief. 

'  Very  well,  then,  we  '11  do  it  —  see- 
ing the  doctor  first,  of  course.  He  will 
have  to  have  an  ordinary  nurse,  I  sup- 
pose, for  a  bit.'  Looking  stealthily  at 
Barbara,  she  added,  'I  mean  to  be 
very  nice  to  her;  but  one  must  n't  be 
romantic,  you  know,  Babs.' 

From  the  little  smile  on  Barbara's 
lips  she  derived  no  sense  of  certainty; 
indeed  she  was  visited  by  all  her  late 
disquietude  about  her  young  daughter, 
by  all  the  feeling  that  she,  as  well  as 
Milton,  was  hovering  on  the  verge  of 
some  folly. 

'Well,  my  dear,'  she  said,  'I  am  go- 
ing down.' 

But  Barbara  lingered  a  little  longer 
in  that  bedroom  where  ten  nights  ago 
she  had  lain  tossing,  till  in  despair  she 
went  and  cooled  herself  in  the  dark  sea. 


THE  PATRICIANS 


395 


Her  last  little  interview  with  Courtier 
stood  between  her  and  a  fresh  meeting 
with  Harbinger,  whom  at  Valleys 
House  she  had  not  suffered  to  be  alone 
with  her.  She  came  down  late. 

That  same  evening,  out  on  the  beach 
road,  under  a  sky  swarming  with  stars, 
the  people  were  strolling  —  folk  from 
the  towns,  down  for  their  fortnight's 
holiday.  In  twos  and  threes,  in  parties 
of  six  or  eight,  they  passed  the  wall  at 
the  end  of  Lord  Dennis's  little  domain; 
and  the  sound  of  their  sparse  talk  and 
laughter,  together  with  the  sighing  of 
the  young  waves,  was  blown  over  the 
wall  to  the  ears  of  Harbinger,  Bertie, 
Barbara,  and  Lily  Malvezin,  when  they 
strolled  out  after  dinner  to  sniff  the 
sea.  The  holiday-makers  stared  dully 
at  the  four  figures  in  evening  dress 
looking  out  above  their  heads.  They 
had  other  things  than  these  to  think  of, 
becoming  more  and  more  silent  as  the 
night  grew  dark.  The  four  young  peo- 
ple too  were  rather  silent.  There  was 
something  in  this  warm  night,  with  its 
sighing,  and  its  darkness,  and  its  stars, 
that  was  not  favorable  to  talk,  so 
that  presently  they  split  into  couples, 
drifting  a  little  apart. 

Standing  there,  gripping  the  wall,  it 
seemed  to  Harbinger  that  there  were 
no  words  left  in  the  world.  Not  even 
his  worst  enemy  could  have  called  this 
young  man  romantic;  yet  that  figure 
beside  him,  the  gleam  of  her  neck  and 
her  pale  cheek  in  the  dark,  gave  him 
perhaps  the  most  poignant  glimpse  of 
mystery  that  he  had  ever  had.  His 
mind,  essentially  that  of  a  man  of  af- 
fairs, by  nature  and  by  habit  at  home 
amongst  the  material  aspects  of  things, 
was  but  gropingly  conscious  that  here, 
in  this  dark  night,  and  the  dark  sea, 
and  the  pale  figure  of  this  girl  whose 
heart  was  dark  to  him  and  secret,  there 
was  perhaps  something  —  yes,  some- 
thing —  which  surpassed  the  confines 
of  his  philosophy,  something  beckoning 


him  on  out  of  his  snug  compound  into 
the  desert  of  divinity.  If  so,  it  was 
soon  gone  in  the  aching  of  his  senses  at 
the  scent  of  her  hair,  and  the  longing  to 
escape  from  this  weird  silence. 

'Babs,'  he  said,  'have  you  forgiven 
me?' 

Her  answer  came,  without  turn  of 
head,  natural,  indifferent :  '  Yes  —  I 
told  you  so.' 

'Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  a  fel- 
low?' 

'  What  shall  we  talk  about  —  the 
running  of  Casetta?' 

Deep  down  within  him  Harbinger 
uttered  a  noiseless  oath.  There  was 
something  that  was  making  her  behave 
like  this  to  him!  It  was  that  fellow  — 
that  fellow!  And  suddenly  he  said,  — 
'Tell  me  something — '  Then  speech 
seemed  to  stick  in  his  throat.  No!  If 
there  were  anything  in  that,  he  pre- 
ferred not  to  hear  it.  There  was  a 
limit! 

Down  below,  a  pair  of  lovers  passed, 
very  silent,  their  arms  round  each 
other's  waists. 

Barbara  turned  and  walked  away 
towards  the  house. 

XXXIII 

The  days  when  Milton  was  first  al- 
lowed out  of  bed  were  a  time  of  min- 
gled joy  and  sorrow  to  her  who  had 
nursed  him.  To  see  him  sitting  up, 
amazed  at  his  own  weakness,  was 
happiness;  but  to  think  that  he  would 
be  no  more  wholly  dependent,  no  more 
that  sacred  thing,  a  helpless  creature, 
brought  her  the  sadness  of  a  mother 
whose  child  no  longer  needs  her.  With 
every  hour  he  would  now  get  further 
from  her,  back  into  the  fastnesses  of 
his  own  spirit.  With  every  hour  she 
would  be  less  his  nurse  and  comforter, 
and  more  the  woman  he  loved.  And 
though  that  thought  shone  out  in  the 
obscure  future  like  a  glamourous  flow- 


396 


THE   PATRICIANS 


er,  it  brought  too  much  wistful  uncer- 
tainty to  the  present.  She  was  very 
tired,  too,  now  that  all  excitement  was 
over  —  so  tired  that  she  hardly  knew 
what  she  did  or  where  moved.  But  a 
smile  had  become  so  faithful  to  her  eyes 
that  it  clung  there  above  the  shadows 
of  fatigue,  and  kept  taking  her  lips 
prisoner. 

Between  the  two  bronze  busts  she 
had  placed  a  bowl  of  lilies  of  the  valley; 
and  every  free  niche  in  that  room  of 
books  had  a  little  vase  of  roses  to  wel- 
come Milton's  return. 

He  was  lying  back  in  his  big  leather 
chair,  wrapped  in  a  Turkish  gown  of 
Lord  Valleys's  —  on  which  Barbara 
had  laid  hands,  having  failed  to  find 
anything  resembling  a  dressing-gown 
amongst  her  brother's  austere  cloth- 
ing. The  perfume  of  lilies  had  over- 
come the  scent  of  books,  and  a  bee, 
dusky  adventurer,  filled  the  room  with 
his  pleasant  humming. 

They  did  not  speak,  but  smiled 
faintly,  looking  at  one  another.  In  this 
still  moment,  before  passion  had  re- 
turned to  claim  its  own,  their  spirits 
passed  through  the  sleepy  air,  and  be- 
came entwined,  so  that  neither  could 
withdraw  that  soft,  slow,  encountering 
glance.  In  mutual  contentment,  each 
to  each,  close  as  music  to  the  strings  of 
a  violin,  their  spirits  clung  —  so  lost, 
the  one  in  the  other,  that  neither  for 
that  brief  time  seemed  to  know  which 
was  self. 

In  fulfillment  of  her  resolution  Lady 
Valleys,  who  had  returned  to  town  by 
a  morning  train,  started  with  Barbara 
for  the  Temple  about  three  in  the  after- 
noon, and  stopped  at  the  doctor's  on 
the  way.  The  whole  thing  would  be 
much  simpler  if  Eustace  were  in  fit  con- 
dition to  be  moved  at  once  to  Valleys 
House;  and  with  much  relief  she  found 
that  the  doctor  saw  no  danger  in  this 
course. 


The  recovery  had  been  remarkable — 
touch-and-go  for  bad  brain  fever — just 
avoided.  Lord  Milton's  constitution 
was  extremely  sound.  Yes,  he  would 
certainly  favor  a  removal.  His  rooms 
were  too  confined  in  this  weather. 
Well  nursed — decidedly!  Oh,  yes!  and 
as  he  spoke,  the  doctor's  eyes  became 
perhaps  a  trifle  more  intense.  Not  a 
professional,  he  understood.  It  might 
be  as  well  to  have  another  nurse,  if 
they  were  making  the  change.  They 
would  have  this  one  knocking  up. 
Quite  so!  Yes,  he  would  see  to  that. 
An  ambulance  carriage  he  thought 
advisable.  That  could  all  be  arranged 
for  this  afternoon  —  at  once  —  he  him- 
self would  look  to  it.  They  might 
take  Lord  Milton  off  just  as  he  was; 
the  men  would  know  what  to  do.  And 
when  they  had  him  at  Valleys  House, 
the  moment  he  showed  interest  in  his 
food,  down  to  the  sea  —  down  to  the 
sea!  At  this  time  of  year  nothing 
like  it!  Then  with  regard  to  nourish- 
ment, he  would  be  inclined  already  to 
shove  in  a  leetle  stimulant,  a  thimble- 
full  perhaps  four  times  a  day  with  food, 

—  not  without,  —  mixed  with  an  egg, 
with  arrowroot,  with  custard.  A  week 
would  see  him  on  his  legs,  a  fortnight 
at  the  sea  make  him  as  good  a  man  as 
ever.  Overwork  —  burning  the  candle 

—  a  leetle  more  would  have  seen  a  very 
different  state  of  things!    Quite  so, 
quite  so!   Would  come  round  himself 
before  dinner,  and  make  sure.     His 
patient  might  feel  it  just  at  first!    He 
bowed  Lady  Valleys  out;  and  when  she 
had  gone,  sat  down  at  his  telephone 
with  a  smile  flickering  on  his  clean-cut 
lips. 

Greatly  fortified  by  this  interview, 
Lady  Valleys  rejoined  her  daughter  in 
the  car;  but  while  it  slid  on  amongst 
the  multitudinous  traffic,  signs  of  un- 
wonted nervousness  began  to  overlay 
the  placidity  of  her  face. 

'I  wish,  my  dear,'  she  said  sudden- 


397 


ly, '  that  some  one  else  had  to  do  this. 
Suppose  Eustace  refuses!' 

'He  won't,'  Barbara  answered;  'she 
looks  so  tired,  poor  dear.  Besides  — ' 

Lady  Valleys  gazed  with  curiosity 
at  that  young  face,  which  had  flushed 
pink.  Yes,  this  daughter  of  hers  was 
a  woman  already,  with  all  a  woman's 
intuitions. 

She  said  gravely,  'It  was  a  rash 
stroke  of  yours,  Babs;  let's  hope  it 
won't  lead  to  disaster.' 

Barbara  bit  her  lips. 

'If  you'd  seen  him  as  I  saw  him! 
And,  what  disaster?  May  n't  they  love 
each  other,  if  they  want?' 

Lady  Valleys  swallowed  a  grimace. 
It  was  so  exactly  her  own  point  of 
view.  And  yet  — ! 

'That's  only  the  beginning,'  she 
said;  'you  forget  the  sort  of  boy  Eus- 
tace is.' 

'  Why  can't  the  poor  thing  be  let  out 
of  her  cage?'  cried  Barbara.  'What 
good  does  it  do  to  any  one?  Mother,  if 
ever,  when  I  am  married,  I  want  to 
get  free,  I  will!' 

The  tone  of  her  voice  was  so  quiv- 
ering, and  unlike  the  happy  voice 
of  Barbara,  that  Lady  Valleys  invol- 
untarily caught  hold  of  her  hand  and 
squeezed  it  hard. 

'My  dear  sweet,'  she  said,  'don't 
let's  talk  of  such  gloomy  things.' 

'Yes,  but  I  mean  it.  Nothing  shall 
stop  me.' 

But  Lady  Valleys's  face  had  sudden- 
ly become  rather  grim. 

'So  we  think,  child;  it's  not  so 
simple.' 

'It  can't  be  worse,  anyway,'  mut- 
tered Barbara, '  than  being  buried  alive 
as  that  wretched  woman  is.' 

For  answer  Lady  Valleys  only  mur- 
mured, 'The  doctor  promised  that 
ambulance  carriage  at  four  o'clock. 
What  am  I  going  to  say?' 

'She'll  understand  when  you  look  at 
her.  She's  that  sort.' 


The  door  was  opened  to  them  by 
Mrs.  Noel  herself. 

It  was  the  first  time  Lady  Valleys 
had  seen  her  in  a  house,  and  there  was 
real  curiosity  mixed  with  the  assurance 
which  masked  her  nervousness.  A 
pretty  creature,  even  lovely!  But  the 
quite  genuine  sympathy  in  her  words, 
'I  am  truly  grateful.  You  must  be 
quite  worn-out,'  did  not  prevent  her 
adding  hastily,  'The  doctor  says  he 
must  be  got  home  out  of  these  hot 
rooms.  We'll  wait  here  while  you  tell 
him.' 

And  then  she  saw  that  it  was  true: 
this  woman  was  the  sort  who  under- 
stood! 

Left  in  the  dark  passage,  she  peered 
round  at  Barbara. 

The  girl  was  standing  against  the 
wall  with  her  head  thrown  back.  Lady 
Valleys  could  not  see  her  face;  but  she 
felt  all  of  a  sudden  exceedingly  uncom- 
fortable, and  whispered,  'Two  murders 
and  a  theft,  Babs;  wasn't  it  "Our 
Mutual  Friend"?' 

'Mother!' 

'What?' 

'Her  face!  When  you're  going  to 
throw  away  a  flower,  it  looks  at  you ! ' 

'My  dear!'  murmured  Lady  Valleys, 
thoroughly  distressed,  •  'what  things 
you're  saying  to-day!' 

This  lurking  in  a  dark  passage,  this 
whispering  girl  —  it  was  all  queer,  un- 
like an  experience  in  proper  life. 

And  then  through  the  reopened  door 
she  saw  Milton,  stretched  out  in  a 
chair,  very  pale,  but  still  with  that 
look  about  his  eyes  and  lips  which,  of 
all  things  in  the  world,  had  a  chastening 
effect  on  Lady  Valleys,  making  her  feel 
somehow  incurably  mundane. 

She  said  rather  timidly, '  I  'm  so  glad 
you  're  better,  dear.  What  a  time  you 
must  have  had!  They  never  told  me 
anything  till  yesterday.' 

But  Milton's  answer  was,  as  usual, 
thoroughly  disconcerting. 


398 


THE   PATRICIANS 


'Thanks,  yes!  I  have  had  a  perfect 
time  —  and  have  now  to  pay  for  it,  I 
suppose.' 

Held  back  by  his  smile  from  bending 
to  kiss  him,  poor  Lady  Valleys  fidget- 
ed from  head  to  foot.  A  sudden  im- 
pulse of  sheer  womanliness  caused  a 
tear  to  fall  on  his  hand. 

When  Milton  perceived  that  moist- 
ure, he  said,  'It's  all  right,  mother. 
I'm  quite  willing  to  come.' 

Wounded  by  his  voice,  Lady  Valleys 
recovered  instantly.  And  while  pre- 
paring for  departure  she  watched  them 
furtively. 

They  hardly  looked  at  each  other, 
and  when  they  did,  their  eyes  baffled 
her.  The  expression  was  outside  her 
experience,  belonging,  as  it  were,  to  a 
different  world,  with  its  faintly  smiling, 
almost  shining  gravity. 

Vastly  relieved  when  Milton,  cov- 
ered with  a  fur,  had  been  taken  down 
to  the  carriage,  she  lingered  to  speak  to 
Mrs.  Noel. 

'We  owe  you  a  great  debt.  It  might 
have  been  so  much  worse.  You  must 
n't  be  disconsolate.  Go  to  bed  and 
have  a  good  long  rest.'  And  from  the 
door,  she  murmured  again,  'Now  do 
take  a  real  rest.' 

Descending  the  stone  stairs,  she 
thought:  '  "  Anonyma,"  —  yes,  it  was 
quite  the  name  for  her.'  And  suddenly 
she  saw  Barbara  come  running  up 
again. 

'What  is  it,  Babs?' 

Barbara  answered,  'Eustace  would 
like  some  of  those  lilies.'  And,  passing 
Lady  Valleys,  she  went  on  up  to  Mil- 
ton's chambers. 

Mrs.  Noel  was  not  in  the  sitting- 
room,  and  going  to  the  bedroom  door, 
the  girl  looked  in. 

She  was  standing  by  the  bed,  draw- 
ing her  hand  over  and  over  the  white 
surface  of  the  pillow.  Stealing  noise- 
lessly back*  Barbara  caught  up  the 
bunch  of  lilies,  and  fled. 


XXXIV 

Milton,  whose  constitution  had  the 
steel-like  quality  of  Lady  Casterley's, 
had  a  very  rapid  convalescence.  And, 
having  begun  to  take  an  interest  in  his 
food,  he  was  allowed  to  travel  on  the 
seventh  day  to  Sea  House  in  charge  of 
Barbara. 

The  two  spent  their  time  in  a  little 
summer-house  close  to  the  sea,  lying 
out  on  the  beach  under  the  groynes, 
and,  as  Milton  grew  stronger,  motor- 
ing and  walking  on  the  Downs. 

To  Barbara,  keeping  a  close  watch, 
he  seemed  tranquilly  enough  drinking 
in  from  Nature  what  was  necessary  to 
restore  balance  after  the  struggle  and 
breakdown  of  the  past  weeks.  Yet  she 
could  never  get  rid  of  a  queer  feeling 
that  he  was  not  really  there  at  all;  to 
look  at  him  was  like  watching  an  un- 
inhabited house  that  was  waiting  for 
some  one  to  enter. 

During  a  whole  fortnight  he  did  not 
make  a  single  allusion  to  Mrs.  Noel, 
till,  on  the  very  last  morning,  as  they 
were  watching  the  waves,  he  said  with 
his  queer  smile, — 

'It  almost  makes  one  believe  her  the- 
ory, that  Pan  is  not  dead.  Do  you  ever 
see  the  great  god,  Babs?  or  are  you, 
like  me,  obtuse?' 

Certainly  about  those  lithe  inva- 
sions of  the  sea-nymph  waves,  with 
ashy,  streaming  hair,  flinging  them- 
selves into  the  arms  of  the  land,  there 
was  the  old  pagan  rapture,  an  inex- 
haustible delight,  a  passionate,  soft 
acceptance  of  eternal  fate,  a  wonderful 
acquiescence  in  the  untiring  mystery 
of  life. 

But  Barbara,  ever  disconcerted  by 
that  tone  in  his  voice,  and  by  this 
quick  dive  into  the  waters  of  unac- 
customed thought,  failed  to  find  an 
answer. 

Milton  went  on:  'She  says,  too,  we 
can  hear  Apollo  singing.  Shall  we  try  ? ' 


THE  PATRICIANS 


399 


But  all  that  came  was  the  sigh  of  the 
sea,  and  the  wind  in  the  tamarisk. 

'No,'  muttered  Milton  at  last,  'she 
alone  can  hear  it.' 

And  Barbara  saw  once  more  on  his 
face  that  look,  neither  sad  nor  impa- 
tient, but  as  of  one  uninhabited  and 
waiting. 

She  left  Sea  House  next  day  to  re- 
join her  mother,  who,  having  been  to 
Cowes,  and  to  the  Duchess  of  Glouces- 
ter's, was  back  in  town  waiting  for 
Parliament  to  rise,  before  going  off  to 
Scotland.  And  that  same  afternoon  the 
girl  made  her  way  to  Mrs.  Noel's  flat. 
In  paying  this  visit  she  was  moved  not 
so  much  by  compassion,  as  by  uneasi- 
ness, and  a  strange  curiosity.  Now 
that  Milton  was  well  again,  she  was 
seriously  disturbed  in  mind.  Had  she 
made  an  error  in  summoning  Mrs.  Noel 
to  nurse  him? 

When  she  went  into  the  little  draw- 
ing-room that  lady  was  sitting  in  the 
deep-cushioned  window-seat,  with  a 
book  on  her  knee;  and  by  the  fact  that 
it  was  open  at  the  index,  Barbara 
judged  that  she  had  not  been  reading 
too  attentively.  She  showed  no  signs 
of  agitation  at  the  sight  of  her  visitor, 
nor  any  eagerness  to  hear  news  of  Mil- 
ton. But  the  girl  had  not  been  five 
minutes  in  the  room  before  the  thought 
came  to  her,  'Why!  she  has  the  same 
look  as  Eustace!'  She,  too,  was  like  an 
empty  tenement:  without  impatience, 
discontent,  or  grief — waiting!  Bar- 
bara had  scarcely  realized  this  with  a 
curious  sense  of  discomposure,  when 
Courtier  was  announced.  Whether 
there  was  in  this  an  absolute  coincid- 
ence, or  just  that  amount  of  calcula- 
tion which  might  follow  on  his  part 
from  receipt  of  a  note  written  from  Sea 
House,  —  saying  that  Milton  was  well 
again,  that  she  was  coming  up  and 
meant  to  go  and  thank  Mrs.  Noel,  — 
was  not  clear,  nor  were  her  own  sensa- 
tions; and  she  drew  over  her  face  that 


armored  look  which  she  perhaps  knew 
Courtier  could  not  bear  to  see. 

His  face  was  very  red  when  he  shook 
hands.  He  had  come,  he  told  Mrs.  Noel, 
to  say  good-bye.  He  was  definitely  off 
next  week.  Fighting  had  broken  out; 
the  revolutionaries  were  greatly  out- 
numbered. Indeed,  he  ought  to  have 
been  there  long  ago! 

Barbara  had  gone  over  to  the  win- 
dow; she  turned  suddenly,  and  said, 
—  'You  were  preaching  peace  two 
months  ago!' 

Courtier  bowed. 

'  We  are  not  all  perfectly  consistent, 
Lady  Barbara.  These  poor  devils  have 
a  holy  cause.' 

Barbara  held  out  her  hand  to  Mrs. 
Noel. 

'  You  only  think  their  cause  holy  be- 
cause they  happen  to  be  weak.  Good- 
bye, Mrs.  Noel;  the  world  is  meant  for 
the  strong,  is  n't  it?' 

She  meant  that  to  hurt  him;  and 
from  the  tone  of  his  voice,  she  knew  it 
had. 

'Don't,  Lady  Barbara;  from  your 
mother,  yes;  not  from  you!' 

'It's  what  I  believe.   Good-bye!' 

And  she  went  out. 

She  had  told  him  that  she  did  not 
want  him  to  go  —  not  yet;  and  he  was 
going! 

But  no  sooner  had  she  got  outside, 
after  that  strange  outburst,  than  she  bit 
her  lips  to  keep  back  an  angry,  miser- 
able feeling.  He  had  been  rude  to  her, 
she  had  been  rude  to  him;  that  was  the 
way  they  had  said  good-bye!  Then, 
as  she  emerged  into  the  sunlight,  she 
thought,  'Oh,  well;  he  doesn't  care, 
and  I'm  sure  I  don't!' 

Then  she  heard  a  voice  behind  her, 
'May  I  get  you  a  cab?'  and  at  once 
the  sore  feeling  began  to  die  away;  but 
she  did  not  look  round,  only  smiled, 
and  shook  her  head,  and  made  a  little 
room  for  him  on  the  pavement. 

But  though  they  walked,  they  did 


400 


THE   PATRICIANS 


not  at  first  talk.  There  was  rising 
within  Barbara  a  tantalizing  devil  of 
desire  to  know  the  feelings  that  really 
lay  behind  that  deferential  gravity,  to 
make  him  show  her  how  much  he  real- 
ly cared.  She  kept  her  eyes  demurely 
lowered,  but  she  let  the  glimmer  of  a 
smile  flicker  about  her  lips;  she  knew 
too  that  her  cheeks  were  glowing,  and 
for  that  she  was  not  sorry.  Was  she 
not  to  have  any  —  any  —  was  he 
calmly  to  go  away  —  without  —  And 
she  thought,  He  shall  say  something! 
He  shall  show  me,  without  that  hor- 
rible irony  of  his! 

She  said  suddenly,  'Those  two  are 
just  waiting  —  something  will  happen ! ' 

'It  is  probable,'  was  his  perfectly 
grave  answer. 

She  looked  at  him,  then  —  it  pleased 
her  to  see  him  quiver  as  if  that  glance 
had  gone  right  into  him;  and  she  said 
softly,  'And  I  think  they  will  be  quite 
right.' 

She  knew  she  had  spoken  recklessly, 
not  knowing  whether  she  meant  what 
she  said,  but  because  she  thought  the 
words  would  move  him  somehow.  And 
she  saw  from  his  face  that  they  had. 
Then,  after  a  little  pause,  she  said, 
'Happiness  is  the  great  thing';  and 
with  soft,  wicked  slowness,  '  Is  n't  it, 
Mr.  Courtier?' 

All  the  cheeriness  had  gone  out  of 
his  face;  it  had  grown  almost  pale.  He 
lifted  his  hand,  and  let  it  drop.  Then 
she  felt  sorry.  It  was  just  as  if  he  had 
asked  her  to  spare  him. 

'As  to  that,'  he  said,  '"two  things 
stand  like  stone" — and  the  rest  of  that 
little  rhyme.  Life's  frightfully  jolly 
sometimes.' 

'As  now?' 

He  looked  at  her  with  firm  gravity, 
and  answered,  'As  now.' 

A  sense  of  utter  mortification  seized 
on  Barbara.  He  was  too  strong  for  her 
—  he  was  quixotic  —  he  was  hateful! 
And  determined  not  to  show  a  sign,  to 


be  at  least  as  strong  as  he,  she  said 
calmly,  '  Now  I  think  I  '11  have  that 
cab!' 

And  when  she  was  in  the  cab,  and  he 
was  standing  with  his  hat  lifted,  she 
only  looked  at  him  in  the  way  that  wo- 
men can,  so  that  he  did  not  know  that 
she  had  looked. 

XXXV 

When  Milton  came  to  thank  her, 
Audrey  Noel  was  waiting  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  dressed  in  white,  her  lips 
smiling,  her  dark  eyes  smiling,  still  as 
a  flower  on  a  windless  day. 

In  that  first  look  passing  between 
them,  they  forgot  everything  but  hap- 
piness. Swallows,  on  the  first  day  of 
summer,  in  their  discovery  of  the  bland 
air,  can  neither  remember  that  cold 
winds  blow,  nor  imagine  the  death  of 
sunlight  on  their  feathers,  and,  flitting 
hour  after  hour  over  the  golden  fields, 
seem  no  longer  birds,  but  just  the 
breathing  of  a  new  season.  Swallows 
are  no  more  forgetful  of  misfortune  than 
were  those  two.  His  contemplation 
of|  her  was  as  still  as  she  herself;  her 
look  at  him  had  in  it  the  quietude  of 
all  emotion,  fused  and  clear  as  in  a 
crucible. 

When  they  sat  down  to  talk  it  was  as 
if  they  had  gone  back  to  those  days  at 
Monkland,  when  he  had  come  to  her  so 
often  to  discuss  everything  in  heaven 
and  earth.  And  yet,  over  that  tranquil, 
eager  drinking-in  of  each  other's  pre- 
sence, hovered  a  sort  of  awe.  It  was  the 
mood  of  morning  before  the  sun  had 
soared.  Cobwebs  enwrapped  the  flow- 
ers of  their  hearts  —  a  smother  of  gray, 
but  so  fine  that  every  flower  could  be 
seen,  as  yet  a  prisoner  in  the  net  of  the 
cool  morning. 

Each  seemed  looking  through  that 
web  at  the  color  and  the  deep-down 
forms  there  enshrouded  so  jealously; 
each  feared  deliciously  to  unveil  the 


THE  PATRICIANS 


401 


other's  heart.  And  they  were  like  lov- 
ers who,  rambling  in  a  shy  wood,  never 
dare  stay  their  babbling  talk  of  the 
trees  and  birds  and  lost  blue  flowers, 
lest  in  the  deep  waters  of  a  kiss  their 
star  of  all  that  is  to  come  should  fall 
and  be  drowned.  To  each  hour  its  fa- 
miliar spirit!  The  spirit  of  that  hour 
was  the  spirit  of  white  flowers  in  a  bowl 
on  the  window-sill  above  her  head. 

They  spoke  of  Monkland,  and  Mil- 
ton's illness;  of  his  first  speech,  his 
impressions  of  the  House  of  Commons; 
of  music,  Barbara,  Courtier,  the  river. 
He  told  her  of  his  health,  and  described 
his  days  down  by  the  sea.  She,  as  ever, 
spoke  little  of  herself,  persuaded  that  it 
could  not  interest  even  him;  but  she 
described  a  visit  to  the  opera;  and  how 
she  had  found  a  picture  in  the  National 
Gallery  which  reminded  her  of  him. 
To  all  these  trivial  things  and  count- 
less others,  the  tone  of  their  voices  — 
soft,  almost  murmuring,  with  a  sort  of 
delighted  gentleness  —  gave  a  high, 
sweet  importance,  a  halo  that  neither 
for  the  world  would  have  dislodged 
from  where  it  hovered. 

It  was  past  six  when  he  got  up  to  go, 
and  there  had  not  been  a  moment  to 
break  the  calm  of  that  sacred  feeling 
in  both  their  hearts.  They  parted  with 
another  tranquil  look,  which  seemed  to 
say,  '  It  is  well  with  us  —  we  have 
drunk  of  happiness.' 

And  in  this  same  amazing  calm  Mil- 
ton remained  after  he  had  gone  away, 
till,  about  half-past  nine  in  the  evening, 
he  started  forth,  to  walk  down  to  the 
House.  It  was  now  that  sort  of  warm, 
clear  night,  which  in  the  country  has 
firefly  magic,  and  even  over  the  town 
spreads  a  dark  glamour.  And  for 
Milton,  in  the  delight  of  his  new  health 
and  well-being,  with  every  sense  alive 
and  clean,  to  walk  through  the  warmth 
and  beauty  of  this  night  was  sheer 
pleasure.  He  passed  by  way  of  St. 
James's  Park,  treading  down  the  pur- 

VOL.  107 -NO.  3 


pie  shadows  of  plane-tree  leaves  into 
the  pools  of  lamplight,  almost  with  re- 
morse, so  beautiful,  and  as  if  alive, 
were  they.  There  were  moths  out, 
and  gnats,  born  on  the  water,  and  a 
scent  of  new-mown  grass  drifted  up 
from  the  lawns.  His  heart  felt  light  as 
a  swallow  he  had  seen  that  morning, 
swooping  at  a  gray  feather,  carrying  it 
along,  letting  it  flutter  away,  then  div- 
ing to  seize  it  again;  so  elated  was  he 
by  the  beauty  of  the  night.  And  as 
he  neared  the  House  of  Commons,  he 
thought  he  would  walk  a  little  longer, 
and  turned  westward  to  the  river. 

On  that  warm  night  the  water,  with- 
out movement  at  turn  of  tide,  was  like 
the  black,  snake-smooth  hair  of  Nature 
streaming  out  on  her  couch  of  Earth, 
waiting  for  the  caress  of  a  divine  hand. 
Far  away  on  the  farther  bank  throbbed 
some  huge  machine,  not  stilled  by 
night.  A  few  stars  were  out  in  the  dark 
sky,  but  no  moon  to  invest  with  pallor 
the  gleam  of  the  lamps.  Scarcely  any 
one  passed.  Milton  strolled  along  the 
river  wall,  then  crossed,  and  came  back 
in  front  of  the  Mansions  where  she 
lived.  By  the  railing  he  stood  still.  In 
the  sitting-room  of  her  little  flat  there 
was  no  light,  but  the  casement  win- 
dow was  wide  open,  and  the  crown  of 
white  flowers  in  the  bowl  on  the  win- 
dow-sill still  gleamed  out  in  the  dark- 
ness like  a  crescent  moon  lying  on  its 
face.  Suddenly,  he  saw  two  pale  hands 
rise  one  on  either  side  of  that  bowl,  lift 
it,  and  draw  it  in.  And  he  quivered  as 
though  they  had  touched  him.  Again 
those  two  hands  came  floating  up;  they 
were  parted  now  by  darkness;  the 
moon  of  flowers  had  gone,  in  its  place 
had  been  set  handfuls  of  purple  or 
crimson  blossoms.  And  a  puff  of  warm 
air  rising  quickly  out  of  the  night 
drifted  their  scent  of  cloves  into  his 
face,  so  that  he  held  his  breath  for  fear 
of  calling  out  her  name. 

Again  the  hands  had   vanished  — 


402 


THE  PATRICIANS 


through  the  open  window  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  but  darkness;  and 
such  a  rush  of  longing  seized  on  Milton 
as  stole  from  him  all  power  of  move- 
ment. He  could  hear  her  playing.  The 
tune  was  the  barcarolle  from  'The 
Tales  of  Hoffmann ' ;  and  the  murmur- 
ous current  of  its  melody  was  like  the 
night  itself,  sighing,  throbbing,  languor- 
ously soft.  It  seemed  that  in  this  mu- 
sic she  was  calling  him,  telling  him 
that  she,  too,  was  longing;  her  heart, 
too,  empty.  It  died  away;  and  at  the 
window  her  white  figure  appeared. 
From  that  vision  he  could  not,  nor  did 
he  try  to,  shrink,  but  moved  out  into 
the  lamplight.  And  he  saw  her  sudden- 
ly stretch  out  her  hands  to  him,  and 
withdraw  them  to  her  breast.  Then  all 
save  the  madness  of  his  longing  desert- 
ed Milton.  He  ran  down  the  little  gar- 
den, across  the  hall,  up  the  stairs. 

The  door  was  open.  He  passed 
through.  There,  in  the  sitting-room, 
where  the  red  flowers  in  the  window 
scented  all  the  air,  it  was  so  dark  that 
he  could  not  see  her,  till  against  the 
piano  he  caught  the  glimmer  of  her 
white  dress.  She  was  sitting  with  hands 
resting  on  the  pale  notes.  And  falling 
on  his  knees,  he  buried  his  face  against 
her.  Then  without  looking  up,  he 
raised  his  hands.  Her  tears  fell  on 
them,  covering  her  heart,  that  throbbed 
as  if  the  passionate  night  itself  were 
breathing  in  there,  and  all  but  the  night 
and  her  love  had  stolen  forth. 

XXXVI 

On  a  spur  of  the  Sussex  Downs,  in- 
land from  Nettlefold,  there  stands  a 
beech-grove.  The  traveler  who  enters 
it  out  of  the  heat  and  brightness  takes 
off  the  shoes  of  his  spirit  before  its 
sanctity;  and,  reaching  the  centre, 
across  the  clean  beech-mat,  he  sits  re- 
freshing his  brow  with  air,  and  silence. 
For  the  flowers  of  sunlight  on  the 


ground  under  those  branches  are  pale 
and  rare,  no  insects  hum,  the  birds  are 
almost  mute.  And  close  to  the  border 
trees  are  the  quiet,  milk-white  sheep, 
in  congregation,  escaping  from  noon 
heat.  Here,  above  fields  and  dwellings, 
above  the  ceaseless  network  of  men's 
doings,  and  the  vapor  of  their  talk,  the 
traveler  feels  solemnity.  All  seems 
conveying  divinity  —  the  great  white 
clouds  moving  their  wings  above  him, 
the  faint  longing  murmur  of  the  boughs, 
and,  in  far  distance,  the  sea.  And  for  a 
space  his  restlessness  and  fear  know  the 
peace  of  God. 

So  it  was  with  Milton  when  he 
reached  this  temple,  three  days  after 
that  passionate  night,  having  walked 
for  hours,  alone  and  full  of  conflict. 
During  those  three  days  he  had  been 
borne  forward  on  the  flood  tide;  and 
now,  tearing  himself  out  of  London, 
where  to  think  was  impossible,  he  had 
come  to  the  solitude  of  the  Downs  to 
walk,  and  face  his  new  position. 

For  that  position  he  saw  to  be  very 
serious.  In  the  flush  of  full  realization, 
there  was  for  him  no  question  of  renun- 
ciation. She  was  his,  he  hers;  that  was 
determined.  But  what,  then,  was  he 
to  do?  There  was  no  chance  of  her 
getting  free.  In  her  husband's  view, 
it  seemed,  under  no  circumstances  was 
marriage  dissoluble.  Nor,  indeed,  to 
Milton  would  divorce  have  made 
things  easier,  believing  as  he  did  that 
he  and  she  were  guilty,  and  that  for 
the  guilty  there  could  be  no  marriage. 
She,  it  was  true,  asked  nothing  of  him, 
but  just  to  be  his  in  secret;  and  that 
was  the  course  he  knew  most  men 
would  take,  without  further  thought. 
There  was  no  material  reason  in  the 
world  why  he  should  not  so  act,  and 
maintain  unchanged  every  other  cur- 
rent of  his  life.  It  would  be  simple, 
easy.  And,  with  her  faculty  for  self- 
effacement,  he  knew  she  would  not  be 
unhappy.  But  conscience,  in  Milton, 


THE   PATRICIANS 


403 


was  a  terrible  and  fierce  thing.  In  the 
delirium  of  his  illness  it  had  become 
that  Great  Face  which  had  marched 
over  him.  And  though,  during  the 
weeks  of  his  recuperation,  struggle  of 
all  kind  had  ceased,  now  that  he  had 
yielded  to  his  passion,  conscience,  in  a 
new  and  dismal  shape,  had  crept  up 
again  to  sit  above  his  heart.  He  must 
and  would  let  this  man,  her  husband, 
know;  but  even  if  this  caused  no  scan- 
dal, could  he  go  on  deceiving  those 
who,  if  they  had  knowledge  of  an  illicit 
love,  would  no  longer  allow  him  to  re- 
present them  in  Parliament?  If  it  were 
known  that  she  was  his  mistress,  he 
could  no  longer  continue  in  public  life; 
was  he  not  therefore  bound  in  honor  of 
his  own  accord  to  resign  it?  Night  and 
day  he  was  haunted, by  the  thought: 
How  can  I,  living  in  defiance  of  author- 
ity, pretend  to  authority  over  my  fel- 
lows? How  can  I  remain  in  public  life? 
But  if  he  did  not  remain  in  public  life, 
what  was  he  to  do?  That  way  of  life 
was  in  his  blood;  he  had  been  bred  and 
born  into  it;  had  thought  of  nothing 
else  since  he  was  a  boy.  There  was  no 
other  occupation  or  interest  that  could 
hold  him  for  a  moment  —  he  saw  very 
plainly  that  he  would  be  cast  away  on 
the  waters  of  existence. 

So  the  battle  raged  in  his  proud  and 
twisted  spirit,  which  took  everything 
so  hard  —  his  nature  imperatively 
commanding  him  to  keep  his  work  and 
his  power  for  usefulness;  his  conscience 
telling  him  as  urgently  that  if  he  sought 
to  wield  authority,  he  must  obey  it. 

He  entered  the  beech  grove  at  the 
height  of  this  misery,  flaming  with  re- 
bellion against  the  dilemma  which 
Fate  had  placed  before  him ;  visited  by 
gusts  of  resentment  against  this  pas- 
sion, which  forced  him  to  pay  the  price, 
either  of  his  career,  or  of  his  self-re- 
spect; gusts,  followed  by  remorse  that 
he  could  so  for  one  moment  regret  his 
love  for  that  tender  creature.  The  face 


of  Lucifer  was  not  more  dark,  more 
tortured,  than  Milton's  face  in  the  twi- 
light of  the  grove,  above  the  kingdoms 
of  the  world,  for  which  his  ambition 
and  his  conscience  fought. 

He  threw  himself  down  among  the 
trees;  and  stretching  out  his  arms,  by 
chance  touched  a  beetle  trying  to  crawl 
over  the  grassless  soil.  Some  bird  had 
maimed  it.  He  took  the'little  creature 
up.  The  beetle,  it  was  true,  could  no 
longer  work,  but  Fate  had  spared  it 
that  which  lay  before  himself.  For 
Fate,  which  was  waiting  to  destroy  his 
power  of  movement,  would  leave  him 
conscious  of  wasted  life.  The  world 
would  not  roll  away  down  there.  He 
would  still  see  himself  cumbering  the 
ground,  when  his  powers  were  taken 
from  him.  This  thought  was  torture. 
Why  had  he  been  suffered  to  meet  her, 
to  love  her,  and  to  be  loved  by  her? 
What  had  made  him  so  certain  from 
the  first  moment,  if  she  were  not  meant 
for  him?  If  he  lived  to  be  a  hundred,  he 
would  never  meet  another.  Why,  be- 
cause of  his  love,  must  he  bury  the  will 
and  force  of  a  man?  If  there  were  no 
more  coherence  in  God's  scheme  than 
this,  let  him  too  be  incoherent!  Let 
him  hold  authority,  and  live  outside 
authority!  Why  stifle  his  powers  for 
the  sake  of  a  coherence  which  did  not 
exist?  That  would  indeed  be  madness 
greater  than  that  of  a  mad  world! 

There  was  no  answer  to  his  thoughts 
in  the  stillness  of  the  grove,  unless  it 
were  the  cooing  of  a  dove,  or  the  faint 
thudding  of  the  sheep  issuing  again 
into  sunlight.  But  slowly  that  stillness 
stole  into  Milton's  spirit.  'Is  it  like 
this  in  the  grave?'  he  thought.  'Are 
the  boughs  of  those  trees  the  dark 
earth  over  me?  And  the  sound  in  them 
the  sound  the  dead  hear  when  flowers 
are  growing,  and  the  wind  passing 
through  them?  and  is  the  feel  of  this 
earth  how  it  feels  to  lie  looking  up  for- 
ever at  nothing?  Is  life  anything  but  a 


404 


THE   PATRICIANS 


nightmare,  a  dream  ?  and  is  not  this  the 
reality?  And  why  my  fury,  my  insigni- 
ficant flame,  blowing  here  and  there, 
when  there  is  really  no  wind,  only  a 
shroud  of  still  air,  and  these  flowers  of 
sunlight  that  have  been  dropped  on 
me!  Why  not  let  my  spirit  sleep,  in- 
stead of  eating  itself  away  with  rage; 
why  not  resign  myself  at  once  to  wait 
for  the  substahce,  of  which  this  is  but 
the  shadow!' 

And  he  lay  scarcely  breathing,  look- 
ing up  at  the  unmoving  branches  set- 
ting with  their  darkness  the  pearls  of 
the  sky. 

'Is  not  peace  enough?'  he  thought. 
'Is  not  love  enough?  Can  I  not  be  re- 
conciled, like  a  woman?  Is  not  that 
salvation,  and  happiness?  What  is  all 
the  rest,  "  but  sound  and  fury,  signify- 
ing nothing  "  ? ' 

And  as  though  afraid  to  lose  his  hold 
of  that  thought,  he  got  up  and  hurried 
from  the  grove. 

The  whole  wide  landscape  of  field 
and  wood,  cut  by  the  pale  roads,  was 
glimmering  under  the  afternoon  sun. 
Here  was  no  wild,  wind-swept  land, 
gleaming  red  and  purple,  and  guarded 
by  the  gray  rocks ;  no  home  of  the  winds, 
and  the  wild  gods.  It  was  all  serene 
and  silver-golden.  In  place  of  the  shrill 
wailing  pipe  of  the  hunting  buzzard- 
hawks  half-lost  up  in  the  wind,  in- 
visible larks  were  letting  fall  hymns 
to  tranquillity;  and  even  the  sea  —  no 
adventuring  spirit  sweeping  the  shore 
with  its  wing  —  seemed  to  lie  resting 
by  the  side  of  land. 

XXXVII 

When  on  the  afternoon  of  that  same 
day  Milton  did  not  come,  all  the  chilly 
doubts  which  his  presence  alone  kept 
away  crowded  thick  and  fast  into  the 
mind  of  one  only  too  prone  to  distrust 
her  own  happiness.  It  could  not  last  — 
how  could  it! 


His  nature  and  her  own  were  so  far 
apart!  Even  in  that  giving  of  herself 
which  had  been  such  happiness,  she  had 
yet  doubted.  There  was  so  much  in  him 
that  was  to  her  mysterious.  All  that 
he  loved  in  music  and  nature,  had  in 
it  something  craggy  and  culminating, 
something  with  a  menace  which  over- 
topped the  spirit.  The  soft  and  fiery, 
the  subtle  and  harmonious,  seemed  to 
leave  him  cold.  He  had  no  particular 
love  for  all  those  simple  natural  things, 
birds,  bees,  animals,  trees,  and  flowers, 
that  seemed  to  her  precious  and  di- 
vine. 

Though  it  was  not  yet  four  o'clock 
she  was  already  beginning  to  droop  like 
a  flower  that  wants  water.  But  she 
sat  down  to  her  piano,  resolutely,  till 
tea  came;  playing  on  and  on  with  a 
spirit  only  half  present,  the  other  half 
of  her  wandering  in  the  town,  seeking 
for  Milton.  After  tea  she  tried  first  to 
read,  then  to  sew,  and  once  more  came 
back  to  her  piano.  The  clock  struck 
six;  and  as  if  its  last  stroke  had  broken 
the  armor  of  her  mind,  she  felt  sudden- 
ly sick  with  anxiety.  Why  was  he  so 
long?  But  she  kept  on  playing,  turning 
the  pages  without  taking  in  the  notes, 
haunted  by  the  idea  that  he  might 
again  have  fallen  ill.  Should  she  tele- 
graph? What  good,  when  she  could  not 
tell  in  the  least  where  he  might  be? 
And  all  the  unreasoning  terror  of  not 
knowing  where  the  loved  one  is,  beset 
her  so  that  her  hands,  in  sheer  numb- 
ness, dropped  from  the  keys. 

Unable  to  keep  still,  now,  she  wan- 
dered from  window  to  door,  out  into 
the  little  hall,  and  back  hastily  to  the 
window.  Over  her  anxiety  brooded  a 
darkness,  compounded  of  vague  grow- 
ing fears.  What  if  it  were  the  end? 
What  if  he  had  chosen  this  as  the  most 
merciful  way  of  leaving  her?  But  sure- 
ly he  would  never  be  so  cruel! 

Close  on  the  heels  of  this  too  painful 
thought  came  reaction;  and  she  told 


THE  PATRICIANS 


405 


herself  that  she  was  a  fool.  He  was  at 
the  House;  something  quite  ordinary 
was  keeping  him.  It  was  absurd  to  be 
anxious!  She  would  have  to  get  used 
to  this  now.  To  be  a  drag  on  him 
would  be  dreadful.  Sooner  than  that 
she  would  rather  —  yes  —  rather  he 
never  came  back!  And  she  took  up  a 
book,  determined  to  read  quietly  till  he 
came.  But  the  moment  that  she  sat 
down  her  fears  returned  with  redoub- 
led force — the  cold,  sickly,  horrible 
feeling  of  uncertainty,  of  the  know- 
ledge that  she  could  do  nothing  but 
wait  until  she  was  relieved  by  some- 
thing over  which  she  had  no  control. 
And  in  the  superstition  that  to  stay 
there  in  the  window  where  she  could 
see  him  come,  was  keeping  him  from 
her,  she  went  into  her  bedroom.  From 
there  she  could  watch  the  sunset  clouds 
wine-dark  over  the  river.  A  little  talk- 
ing wind  shivered  along  the  houses; 
the  dusk  began  creeping  in.  She  would 
not  turn  on  the  light,  being  unwilling 
to  admit  that  it  was  really  getting  late, 
but  began  to  change  her  dress,  lin- 
gering desperately  over  every  little 
detail  of  her  toilet,  deriving  therefrom 
a  faint,  mysterious  comfort,  trying 
to  make  herself  feel  beautiful.  From 
sheer  dread  of  going  back  before  he 
came,  she  let  her  hair  fall,  though  it 
was  quite  smooth  and  tidy,  and  began 
brushing  it. 

Suddenly  she  thought  with  horror 
of  her  efforts  at  adornment  —  by  spe- 
cially preparing  for  him,  she  must  seem 
presumptuous  to  Fate.  At  any  little 
sound  she  stopped  and  stood  listening; 
save  for  her  hair  and  eyes,  as  white 
from  head  to  foot  as  a  double  narcissus 
flower  in  the  dusk,  bending  towards 
some  faint  tune  played  to  it  somewhere 
out  in  the  fields.  But  all  those  little 
sounds  ceased,  one  after  another  — 
they  had  meant  nothing;  and  each 
time,  her  spirit,  returning  within  the 
pale  walls  of  the  room,  began  once  more 


to  inhabit  her  lingering  fingers.  During 
that  hour  in  her  bedroom  she  lived 
through  years.  It  was  dark  when  she 
left  it. 

XXXVIII 

When  Milton  came  it  was  past  nine 
o'clock. 

Silent,  but  quivering  all  over,  she 
clung  to  him  in  the  hall;  and  this  pas- 
sion of  emotion,  without  sound  to  give 
it  substance,  affected  him  profoundly. 
How  terribly  sensitive  and  tender  she 
was!  She  seemed  to  have  no  armor. 
But  though  stirred  by  her  emotion,  he 
was  none  the  less  exasperated.  She 
incarnated  at  that  moment  the  life  to 
which  he  must  now  resign  himself  —  a 
life  of  unending  tenderness,  considera- 
tion, and  passivity. 

For  a  long  time  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  speak  of  his  decision.  Every 
look  of  her  eyes,  every  movement  of 
her  body,  seemed  pleading  with  him 
not  to  tell  her.  But  in  Milton's  charac- 
ter there  was  an  element  of  rigidity 
which  never  suffered  him  to  diverge 
from  an  objective  once  determined. 

When  he  had  finished  telling  her,  she 
only  said,  'Why  can't  we  go  on  in 
secret?' 

And  he  felt  with  a  sort  of  horror  that 
he  must  begin  his  struggle  over  again. 
He  got  up,  and  threw  open  the  win- 
dow. The  wind  had  risen;  the  sky  was 
dark  above  the  river.  That  restless 
murmuration,  and  the  width  of  the 
night  with  its  scattered  stars,  seemed 
to  come  rushing  at  his  face.  He  with- 
drew from  it;  and  leaning  on  the  sill 
looked  down  at  her.  What  flower-like 
delicacy  she  had!  And  there  flashed 
across  him  the  memory  of  a  drooping 
blossom,  which,  in  the  spring,  he  had 
seen  her  throw  into  the  flames,  with  the 
words,  'I  can't  bear  flowers  to  fade,  I 
always  want  to  burn  them.'  He  could 
see  again  those  waxen  petals  yield  to 
the  fierce  clutch  of  the  little  red  creep- 


406 


THE  PATRICIANS 


ing  sparks,  and  the  slender  stalk  quiv- 
ering, and  glowing,  and  writhing  to 
blackness  like  a  live  thing.  And,  torn 
in  two,  he  began,  — 

'  I  can't  live  a  lie.  What  right  have  I 
to  lead,  if  I  can't  follow?  I'm  not  like 
our  friend  Courtier  who  believes  in  lib- 
erty. I  never  have,  I  never  shall.  Lib- 
erty? What  is  liberty?  Only  those  who 
conform  to  authority  have  the  right  to 
wield  it.  Only  a  churl  enforces  laws 
when  he  himself  has  not  the  strength 
to  observe  them.  I  will  not  be  one  of 
whom  it  can  be  said,  "He  can  rule 
others,  himself  —  " ! ' 

'No  one  will  know.' 

Milton  turned  away. 

'I  shall  know,'  he  said;  but  he  saw 
clearly  that  she  did  not  understand 
him.  Her  face  had  a  strange,  brooding, 
shut-away  look,  as  though  he  had  fright- 
ened her.  And  the  thought  that  she 
could  not  understand  angered  him. 

He  said  stubbornly,  'No,  I  can't 
remain  in  public  life.' 

'But  what  has  it  to  do  with  politics? 
It's  such  a  little  thing.' 

'If  it  had  been  a  little  thing  to  me, 
should  I  have  left  you  at  Monkland, 
and  spent  those  five  weeks  in  purga- 
tory before  my  illness?  A  little  thing!' 

She  exclaimed  with  sudden  fire, '  Cir- 
cumstances are  the  little  thing;  it's 
love  that's  the  great  thing.' 

Milton  stared  at  her,  for  the  first 
time  understanding  that  she  had  a 
philosophy  as  deep  and  stubborn  as  his 
own.  But  he  answered  cruelly,  'Well! 
the  great  thing  has  conquered  me!' 

And  then  he  saw  her  looking  at  him, 
as  if,  seeing  into  the  recesses  of  his  soul, 
she  had  made  some  ghastly  discovery. 
The  look  was  so  mournful,  so  uncan- 
nily intent,  that  he  turned  away  from 
it. 

'Perhaps  it  is  a  little  thing,'  he  mut- 
tered; 'I  don't  know.  I  can't  see  my 
way.  I've  lost  my  bearings;  I  must  find 
them  again  before  I  can  do  anything.' 


But  as  if  she  had  not  heard,  or  not 
taken  in  the  sense  of  his  words,  she 
said  again,  '  Oh,  don't  let  us  alter  any- 
thing; I  won't  ever  want  what  you  can't 
give.' 

And  this  stubbornness,  when  he  was 
doing  the  very  thing  that  would  give 
him  to  her  utterly,  seemed  to  him  un- 
reasonable. 

'I've  had  it  out  with  myself,'  he 
said.  'Don't  let's  talk  about  it  any 
more.' 

But  again,  with  a  sort  of  dry  anguish, 
she  murmured,  'No,  no!  Let  us  go  on 
as  we  are!' 

Feeling  that  he  had  borne  all  he 
could,  Milton  put  his  hands  on  her 
shoulders,  and  said,  'That's  enough!' 

Then,  in  sudden  remorse,  he  lifted 
her,  and  clasped  her  to  him. 

But  she  stood  inert  in  his  arms,  her 
eyes  closed,  not  returning  his  kisses. 

XXXIX 

On  the  next  day,  before  Parliament 
rose,  Lord  Valleys,  with  a  light  heart, 
mounted  his  horse  for  a  gallop  in  the 
Row.  He  was  riding  a  blood  mare  with 
a  plain  snaffle,  and  the  seat  of  one  who 
had  hunted  from  the  age  of  seven,  and 
been  for  twenty  years  a  colonel  of  yeo- 
manry. Greeting  affably  every  one  he 
knew,  he  maintained  a  frank  demeanor 
on  all  subjects,  especially  of  govern- 
ment policy,  secretly  enjoying  the  sur- 
mises and  prognostications,  and  the 
way  questions  and  hints  perished  be- 
fore his  sphinx-like  candor.  He  spoke 
cheerily  too  of  Milton,  who  was  'all 
right  again,'  and  'burning  for  the  fray' 
when  the  House  met  again  in  the  au- 
tumn. And  he  chaffed  Lord  Malvezin 
about  his  wife.  If  anything  —  he  said 
—  could  make  Bertie  take  an  interest 
in  politics,  it  would  be  she.  He  had 
two  capital  gallops,  being  well  known 
to  the  police.  The  day  was  bright,  and 
he  was  sorry  to  turn  home.  Falling  in 


THE  PATRICIANS 


407 


with  Harbinger,  he  asked  him  to  come 
back  to  lunch.  It  had  struck  him  that 
there  had  been  something  different 
lately,  an  almost  morose  look,  about 
young  Harbinger;  and  his  wife's  dis- 
quieting words  about  Barbara  came 
back  to  him  with  a  shock.  He  had  seen 
little  of  the  child  lately,  and  in  the  gen- 
eral clearing  up  of  this  time  of  year  had 
forgotten  all  about  them. 

Agatha  was  still  staying  at  Valleys 
House  with  little  Ann,  waiting  to  travel 
up  to  Scotland  with  her  mother,  and 
join  Sir  William  at  his  shooting,  Gar- 
viemoore;  but  she  was  out,  and  there 
was  no  one  at  lunch  but  Lady  Valleys 
and  Barbara  herself,  so  that  conversa- 
tion flagged,  for  the  young  couple  were 
extremely  silent,  Lady  Valleys,  who  had 
to  preside  at  a  meeting  that  evening, 
was  considering  what  to  say,  and  Lord 
Valleys  rather  carefully  watching  his 
daughter.  The  message  that  Lord  Mil- 
ton was  in  his  lordship's  study  came  as 
a  surprise,  and  somewhat  of  a  relief  to 
all.  To  an  exhortation  to  bring  him 
in  to  lunch,  the  servant  replied  that 
Lord  Milton  had  lunched,  and  would 
wait. 

'Does  he  know  there's  no  one  here?' 

'Yes,  my  lady.' 

Lady  Valleys  pushed  back  her  plate, 
and  rose. 

'Oh,  well!'  she  said,  'I've  finished.' 

Lord  Valleys  also  got  up,  and  they 
went  out  together,  leaving  Barbara, 
who  had  risen,  looking  uneasily  at  the 
door. 

Lord  Valleys  had  recently  been  told 
of  the  nursing  episode,  and  had  re- 
ceived the  news  with  the  dubious  air  of 
one  hearing  something  about  an  eccen- 
tric person  which,  heard  about  any  one 
else,  could  have  but  one  significance. 
If  Eustace  had  been  a  normal  young 
man  his  father  would  have  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  thought,  'Oh,  well! 
There  it  is!'  As  it  was,  he  had  liter- 
ally not  known  what  to  think.  And 


now,  crossing  the  salon  which  inter- 
vened between  the  dining-room  and 
the  study,  he  said  to  his  wife  uneasily, 
'  Is  it  this  woman  again,  Gertrude  — 
or  what?' 

Lady  Valleys  answered  with  a  shrug, 
'Goodness  knows,  my  dear.' 

Milton  was  standing  in  the  embras- 
ure of  a  window  above  the  terrace.  He 
looked  well,  and  his  greeting  was  the 
same  as  usual. 

'Well,  my  dear  fellow,'  said  Lord 
Valleys,  'you're  all  right  again  evid- 
ently —  What's  the  news?' 

'  Only  that  I ' ve  decided  to  resign  my 
seat.' 

Lord  Valleys  stared. 

'What  on  earth  for?'  he  said. 

But  Lady  Valleys,  with  the  greater 
quickness  of  women,  divining  already 
something  of  the  reason,  flushed  a  deep 
pink. 

*  Nonsense,  my  dear,'  she  said;  'it 
can't  possibly  be  necessary,  even  if — ' 
Recovering  herself,  she  added  dryly: 
'Give  us  some  reason.' 

'The  reason  is  simply  that  I've 
joined  my  life  to  Mrs.  Noel's.  I  can't 
go  on  as  I  am,  living  a  lie.  If  it  were 
known  I  should  obviously  have  to  re- 
sign at  once.' 

'Good  God!'  exclaimed  Lord  Val- 
leys. 

Lady  Valleys  made  a  rapid  move- 
ment. In  the  face  of  what  she  felt  to  be 
a  really  serious  crisis  between  these 
two  utterly  different  creatures  of  the 
other  sex,  her  husbana  and  her  son,  the 
great  lady  in  her  became  merged  at 
once  in  the  essential  woman.  Uncon- 
sciously both  men  felt  this  change,  and 
in  speaking,  turned  towards  her. 

'I  can't  argue  it,'  said  Milton;  'I 
consider  myself  bound  in  honor.' 

'And  then?'  she  asked. 

Lord  Valleys,  with  a  note  of  real 
feeling,  interjected,  'By  Heaven!  I  did 
think  you  put  your  country  above  your 
private  affairs.' 


408 


THE   PATRICIANS 


'Geoff!'  said  Lady  Valleys. 

But  Lord  Valleys  went  on:  'No, 
Eustace,  I'm  out  of  touch  with  your 
view  of  things  altogether.  I  don't  even 
begin  to  understand  it.' 

'That  is  true,'  said  Milton. 

'Listen  to  me,  both  of  you! 'said 
Lady  Valleys.  'You  two  are  altogether 
different;  and  you  must  not  quarrel.  I 
won't  have  that.  Now  Eustace,  you 
are  our  son,  and  you  have  got  to  be 
kind  and  considerate.  Sit  down,  and 
let's  talk  it  over.' 

And  motioning  her  husband  to  a 
chair,  she  sat  down  in  the  embrasure  of 
a  window.  Milton  remained  standing. 
Visited  by  a  sudden  dread,  Lady  Val- 
leys said,  'Is  it  —  you ' ve  not  —  there 
is  n't  going  to  be  a  scandal?' 

Milton  smiled  grimly. 

'  I  shall  tell  this  man,  of  course,  but 
you  may  make  your  minds  easy,  I  im- 
agine; I  understand  that  his  view  of 
marriage  does  not  permit  of  divorce  in 
any  case  whatever.' 

Lady  Valleys  sighed  with  an  utter 
and  undisguised  relief. 

'Well,  then,  my  dear  boy,'  she  be- 
gan, '  even  if  you  do  feel  you  must  tell 
him,  there  is  surely  no  reason  why  it 
should  not  otherwise  be  kept  secret.' 

Lord  Valleys  interrupted  her.  'I 
should  be  glad  if  you  would  point  out 
the  connection  between  your  honor 
and  the  resignation  of  your  seat,'  he 
said  stiffly. 

Milton  shook  his  head. 

'  If  you  don't  see  already,  it  would  be 
useless.' 

'  I  do  not  see.  The  whole  matter  is 
—  is  unfortunate,  but  to  give  up  your 
work,  so  long  as  there  is  no  absolute 
necessity,  seems  to  me  far-fetched  and 
absurd.  How  many  men  are  there  into 
whose  lives  there  has  not  entered  some 
such  relation  at  one  time  or  another? 
The  idea  would  disqualify  half  the  na- 
tion.' 

His  eyes  seemed  in  this  crisis  both 


to  consult  and  to  avoid  his  wife's,  as 
though  he  were  at  once  asking  her  in- 
dorsement of  his  point  of  view,  and 
observing  the  proprieties.  And  for  a 
moment  in  the  midst  of  her  anxiety, 
her  sense  of  humor  got  the  better  of 
Lady  Valleys.  It  was  so  funny  that 
Geoff  should  have  to  give  himself 
away;  she  could  not  for  the  life  of  her 
help  fixing  him  with  her  eyes. 

'My  dear,'  she  murmured,  'you  un- 
derestimate —  three  quarters,  at  the 
very  least!' 

But  Lord  Valleys,  confronted  with 
danger,  was  growing  steadier. 

'It  passes  my  comprehension,'  he 
said,  'why  you  should  want  to  mix  up 
sex  and  politics  at  all.' 

Milton's  answer  came  very  slowly, 
as  if  the  confession  were  hurting  his 
lips. 

'There  is  —  forgive  me  for  using  the 
word  —  such  a  thing  as  one's  religion. 
I  don't  happen  to  regard  life  as  divided 
into  public  and  private  departments. 
My  vision  of  things  is  gone  —  broken 
—  I  can  see  no  object  before  me  now 
in  public  life  —  no  goal  —  and  no  cer- 
tainty.' 

Lady  Valleys  caught  his  hand:  'Oh! 
my  dear,'  she  said,  'that's  too  dread- 
fully puritanical!'  But  at  Milton's 
queer  smile,  she  added  hastily,  'Log- 
ical —  I  meant.' 

'Consult  your  common  sense,  Eus- 
tace, for  goodness'  sake,'  broke  in  Lord 
Valleys;  'is  n't  it  your  simple  duty  to 
put  your  scruples  in  your  pocket,  and  do 
the  best  you  can  for  your  country  with 
the  powers  that  have  been  given  you  ? ' 

'I  have  no  common  sense.' 

'In  that  case,  of  course,  it  may  be 
just  as  well  that  you  should  leave  pub- 
lic life.' 

Milton  bowed. 

'Nonsense!'  cried  Lady  Valleys. 
'You  don't  understand,  Geoffrey;  I  ask 
you  again,  Eustace,  what  will  you  do 
afterwards?' 


THE  PATRICIANS 


409 


'I  don't  know.' 

'You  will  eat  your  heart  out/ 

'Quite  possibly.' 

'If  you  can't  come  to  a  reasonable 
arrangement  with  your  conscience,' 
again  broke  in  Lord  Valleys,  '  for  Hea- 
ven's sake  give  her  up,  like  a  man,  and 
cut  all  these  knots.' 

'I  beg  your  pardon,  sir!'  said  Milton 
icily. 

Lady  Valleys  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  'You  must  allow  us  a  little  logic 
too.  You  don't  imagine  that  she  would 
wish  you  to  throw  away  your  life  for 
her?  I  'm  not  such  a  bad  judge  of  char- 
acter as  that.' 

She  stopped  before  the  expression 
on  Milton's  face. 

'You  go  too  fast,'  he  said; ' I  may  be- 
come a  free  spirit  yet.' 

To  this  saying,  which  seemed  to  her 
cryptic  and  sinister,  Lady  Valleys  did 
not  know  what  to  answer. 

'If  you  feel,  as  you  say,'  Lord  Val- 
leys began  once  more, '  that  the  bottom 
has  been  knocked  out  of  things  for  you 
by  this  —  this  affair,  don't,  for  good- 
ness' sake,  do  anything  in  a  hurry. 
Wait!  Go  abroad!  Get  your  balance 
back!  You'll  find  the  thing  settle  it- 
self in  a  few  months.  Don't  precipi- 


tate matters;  you  can  make  your 
health  an  excuse  to  miss  the  autumn 
session.' 

Lady  Valleys  chimed  in  eagerly: 
'You  really  are  seeing  the  thing  out 
of  all  proportion.  What  is  a  love-af- 
fair? My  dear  boy,  do  you  suppose  for 
a  moment  any  one  would  think  the 
worse  of  you,  even  if  they  knew?  and 
really  not  a  soul  need  know.' 

'It  has  not  occurred  to  me  to  con- 
sider what  they  would  think.' 

'Then,'  cried  Lady  Valleys,  nettled, 
'it's  simply  your  own  pride.' 

'You  have  said.' 

Lord  Valleys,  who  had  turned  away, 
spoke  in  an  almost  tragic  voice :  — 

'I  did  not  think  that  on  a  point  of 
honor  I  should  differ  from  my  son.' 

Catching  at  the  word  honor,  Lady 
Valleys  cried  suddenly,  'Eustace,  pro- 
mise me,  before  you  do  anything,  to 
consult  your  Uncle  Dennis.' 

Milton  smiled.  '  This  becomes  comic,' 
he  said. 

At  that  word,  which  indeed  seemed 
to  them  quite  wanton,  Lord  and  Lady 
Valleys  turned  on  their  son,  and  the 
three  stood  staring,  perfectly  silent. 
A  little  noise  from  the  doorway  inter- 
rupted them.  Barbara  stood  there. 


(To  be  continued.'} 


TO  A  CHRISTIAN  POET 


BY   LEE   WILSON   DODD 


I  HAVE  been  as  one  dead. 

I  have  forgotten  how  the  sun-rays  dart; 

I  have  ignored  the  glamour  of  the  stars; 

Cold,  cold  has  been  my  heart. 

Have  I  not  often  in  derision  said, 

'Life  is  a  little  thing  of  little  worth'  — 

The  while  beneath  my  feet  a  burgeoning  earth 

Healed  with  young  herbage  all  her  ancient  scars? 

Yea,  I  have  sung  this  thing  and  deemed  it  true, 

That  life  is  a  brief  cruelty  and  death 

An  endless  respite. 

You 
Have  sung  of  Nazareth. 

You  have  sung  sweetly  of  the  Light,  the  mild 

Insistent  Light  that  penetrates  the  dust, 

And  says  unto  the  soul  of  man,  '  My  child, 

Renew  your  child-like  trust.' 

And  from  your  eyes  have  I  not  felt  a  Light, 

A  Light  of  mild,  insistent  power, 

Defeat  with  gentleness  my  scornful  vision? 

Have  I  not  learned  the  darkness  of  derision, 

And  from  the  calm  grace  of  your  spirit's  might 

Drawn  strength  and  healing  in  my  bitterest  hour? 

Your  miracles,  your  ritual,  your  laws 

Are  to  my  unfaith  as  a  dream-like  play: 

But  radiant  from  your  heart  is  that  which  draws 

My  spirit  out  of  shadow  to  the  day; 

Draws  with  the  silent  tension  of  star  on  star 

Till  I  am  forced  above 

This  wreck  of  system-faiths  and  borne  afar 

By  flawless  wafture  of  the  wings  of  Love, 


RECREATION  THROUGH  THE   SENSES 


411 


Most  true  that  you  have  won  me  to  rely 
On  the  foreshadowing  soul  and  to  despise 
All  acrid  cynic-thoughts  —  made  hideous  by 
The  grandeur  of  your  deep  rewarding  eyes. 

Ah,  friend,  your  eyes  have  won  me  in  despite 
Of  narrowing  creed  or  doctrine's  secular  breath; 
Your  eyes  have  won  me  with  unwavering  Light 
To  sing  the  death  of  Death! 


RECREATION  THROUGH  THE  SENSES 


BY   PAUL   W.    GOLDSBURY 


THE  tale  of  Bruce  and  the  spider  has 
lost  through  repetition  the  force  of  its 
moral  appeal;  but  it  may  still  serve  as 
the  text  of  a  physiological  discourse. 
The  physiologist  may  well  say  that 
the  spider's  affairs  diverted  the  hero's 
attention  from  his  own  misfortunes, 
supplemented  the  physical  rest  in  the 
little  hut  by  checking  the  surge  of  his 
thoughts,  and  brought  recreation  by 
the  exercise  of  a  new  corner  of  his 
mind.  It  was  as  if  the  wind  had 
shifted. 

We  all  know  what  recreation  and 
play  mean  in  general.  It  is  familiar  to 
all  of  us  that  we  recreate  body  and 
mind  by  athletic  amusements,  changes 
of  reading,  travel,  the  theatre,  and  by 
a  hundred  other  means.  But  it  is  very 
important  that  we  should  understand 
the  wide  range  of  the  uses  and  func- 
tions of  our  separate  senses  which  will 
enable  us  to  influence  the  very  source 
of  our  conscious  life  and  activities. 
To  understand  these  senses  aright  is 
to  learn  to  develop,  use,  and  direct  the 


movements  and  activities  of  our  whole 
bodies. 

We  all  know  that  we  are  influenced 
by  our  surroundings,  but  the  manner 
in  which  they  react  on  our  minds  and 
bodies,  through  the  medium  of  our 
sense-organs,  is  not  generally  under- 
stood; the  varying  offices  of  the  purely 
sense-organs  —  sight,  hearing,  touch, 
and  the  rest  —  are  to  a  considerable 
degree  ignored.  Just  as  physical  train- 
ing ministers  to  many  specific  bodily 
ailments,  so  sense-education  may  con- 
tribute in  a  variety  of  ways,  not  only 
towards  the  maintenance  of  general 
health,  but  even  to  the  relief  of  par- 
ticular affections;  and  takes  its  place 
with  massage,  drugs,  and  electricity 
as  an  ally  in  the  art  of  healing.  We 
may  go  further,  and  say  that  if  we 
will  but  yield  to  the  little  impulses  of 
diversion  which  come  to  us  through 
the  avenues  of  the  special  senses,  we 
may  lessen  or  avert  fatigue  more  ef- 
fectually than  through  the  medium  of 
electricity  or  drugs 


412 


RECREATION   THROUGH  THE   SENSES 


Fatigue,  following  long-continued 
exercise,  is  really  a  mild  form  of  illness, 
which  arises  from  over-exerting  some 
one  part  of  the  body.  Every  strain, 
mental  or  physical,  requires  a  certain 
amount  of  time  for  recovery;  and  if  a 
sufficient  period  is  not  allowed  between 
repeated  efforts,  there  results  a  certain 
clogging  or  congestion  of  the  tissues 
about  the  points  of  tension.  In  writ- 
ing, for  instance,  the  fingers  move  up 
and  down  hardly  more  than  a  quarter 
of  an  inch  as  they  travel  across  the 
page.  Yet  this  is  hard  work  for  their 
little  muscles,  and  burns  up  tissue  in 
the  fingers  very  fast.  If  rest-intervals 
are  too  short  and  infrequent,  there  is 
not  time  for  the  removal  of  the  waste 
products  of  this  destruction  through 
the  normal  channels  of  the  body,  and 
congestion  results.  This  waste  material 
is  in  effect  somewhat  poisonous,  as  it 
tends  to  decompose,  that  is,  break  up 
into  several  simple  chemical  elements 
and  gases.  The  feeling  of  fatigue  or 
pain  that  follows  long-continued  use 
of  any  of  the  muscles  is  due  to  the 
influence  of  such  poisonous  material,  as 
well  as  to  the  stretching  of  the  tissues 
caused  by  the  pressure  of  the  blood 
which  settles  there. 

It  is  said  that  for  horses  the  hardest 
road  out  of  London  is  the  most  level 
one.  There  are  no  hills  to  climb  and 
descend,  and  the  tired  horse  has  no 
chance  to  rest  one  set  of  muscles  while 
another  works.  Monotony  produces 
fatigue;  and  because  this  particular 
road  is  'one  dead,  monotonous  level, 
more  horses  die  on  it  than  on  any  other 
leading  out  of  London. 

The  healthy  child  instinctively  an- 
ticipates fatigue.  He  avoids  tiring 
himself  by  taking  a  new  tack;  that  is, 
by  turning  from  one  play  to  another. 
Watch  a  baby  open  his  eyes  when  he 
hears  a  strange  sound;  or  observe  him 


when  he  notices  a  new  toy.  As  soon  as 
he  sees  it  he  reaches  out  for  it.  If  he 
gets  it  he  pats  it,  shakes  it,  listens  glee- 
fully if  it  makes  a  noise,  possibly 
smells  it,  and  inevitably  ends  by  try- 
ing to  get  it  into  his  mouth.  Then  he 
throws  it  away  and  reaches  out  for 
something  new.  He  has  exercised  all 
his  senses,  one  after  another;  and 
through  this  rotative  process  of  sense- 
play  and  training  his  healthy  normal 
development  goes  forward.  A  larger 
child  follows  much  the  same  plan  in 
his  play,  modifying  it  by  what  he  has 
gained  through  experience. 

The  adult  is  not  so  wise  as  the  child. 
Sooner  or  later  he  is  trained  to  disre- 
gard fatigue,  and  to  keep  at  one  task 
long  after  it  begins  to  tire  him.  Take 
the  stenographer  who  sits  for  hours 
at  her  machine.  Her  arms,  shoulders, 
back,  and  head  are  kept  in  the  same 
position,  accommodated  to  the  re- 
stricted field  of  her  work.  Her  fingers 
are  raised  just  so  far,  and  strike  just 
so  hard.  The  interruptions  in  the  use 
of  her  machine  are  mechanical.  If  a 
child  of  seven  were  confined  to  such  a 
task  it  would  not  be  long  before  every 
muscle  in  his  little  body  would  begin  to 
clamor  for  exercise  and  change,  and 
he  would  twist  and  turn  in  every  direc- 
tion. Unless  we  had  given  the  matter 
special  study  we  might  call  him  rest- 
less; but  the  better  we  understood  the 
various  demands  of  his  body,  the  more 
we  should  know  of  the  kind  of  move- 
ments best  designed  to  develop  his 
muscles  by  diverting  the  circulation 
here  and  there  over  his  entire  body. 
Every  part  of  him  is  clamoring  for  its 
natural  development  by  exercise,  just 
as  at  feeding-time  every  chicken  in  a 
flock  joins  in  the  cry  for  food.  Every 
chick  needs  food;  every  muscle  needs 
exercise. 

The  trouble  with  older  people  is 
that  their  muscles  are  over-disciplined. 
Nowadays  every  man  is  supposed  to 


RECREATION  THROUGH  THE  SENSES 


413 


have  his  own  task,  and  the  notion  is 
too  prevalent  that  it  does  him  no  harm 
to  keep  at  it  mechanically  for  a  long 
time.  We  may  take  exception  to  the 
belief  that  hard  work  hurts  nobody. 
Education  has  trained  the  brain  to 
prod  the  muscles  to  work  so  continu- 
ously that  the  muscles  become  stale. 
Just  as  in  a  musical  composition  there 
are  all  sorts  of  intervals  and  rests,  and 
little  variations  and  excursions  from 
the  main  theme,  so  in  every  man's 
work  there  should  be  a  complementary 
amount  of  diversion  to  keep  him  in 
balance  and  tone. 

It  is  not  our  muscles  only,  but  our 
senses  as  well  that  are  trained  to  over- 
endurance.  The  characteristic  quality 
of  a  muscle  is  its  power  to  put  forth 
definite  action;  of  a  nerve,  the  capac- 
ity to  receive  and  convey  more  or  less 
intangible  impressions.  The  move- 
ments of  a  muscle  are  visible,  and  can 
be  easily  demonstrated,  while  those  of 
nerves  or  nerve-organs  are  not  so 
apparent.  The  senses  are  specialized 
nerves,  which,  in  the  slow  process  of 
evolution,  have  been  set  aside  to  inter- 
pret the  outside  world  to  us.  They  are, 
in  fact,  our  receiving  apparatus,  which 
admit  stimulus  under  the  five  general 
heads  of  sight,  hearing,  smell,  touch, 
taste.  Each  sense  is  adapted  to  register 
impressions  varying  in  quality  and  in- 
tensity. Whether  we  are  conscious  of  it 
or  not,  they  are  always  at  work;  and 
the  whole  body  often  suffers  from  the 
over-strain  which  we  carelessly  allow 
our  surroundings  to  impose  upon  these 
special  organs.  The  decorator  and  the 
architect  appreciate  this  fact,  and  by 
relieving  sharp  contrasts  and  promot- 
ing beautiful  effects  in  color  and  de- 
sign, avoid  tiring  the  eye.  Note,  for 
example,  the  relief  that  pervades  the 
entire  body  when,  after  resting  on  the 
dingy  colors  and  ugly  outlines  of  an 
ordinary  city  street,  the  eye  is  met  by 
some  bit  of  beautiful  architecture. 


After  a  day  in  the  city,  where  all 
sorts  of  crude  and  contrasting  colors 
have  been  forced  upon  the  eye,  ex- 
haustion may  seem  general;  but  im- 
mediate relief  is  experienced  in  getting 
aboard  a  boat  and  letting  the  eye  rest 
upon  the  soothing  blue-green  of  the 
ocean,  which,  by  counteracting  the 
over-stimulation  caused  by  a  medley 
of  glaring  lights  and  colors,  rests  the 
eye,  and  thereby  relieves  the  entire 
body. 

ii 

In  all  these  ways  we  suffer  most, 
perhaps,  through  the  abuse  of  the 
sense  of  sight.  Touch,  taste,  smell,  and 
hearing  have  narrower  physical  limit- 
ations; but  the  sweep  of  vision  is  wide, 
and  necessarily  includes  a  great  vari- 
ety of  objects,  both  helpful  and  harm- 
ful. The  eye  is  constituted  to  play  over 
a  wide  range,  and  needs  the  exercise 
of  gazing  on  distant  and  varied  ob- 
jects. Restricted  to  the  limited  focus 
of  small  rooms  and  narrow  streets,  it 
soon  tires,  just  as  the  fingers  tire  from 
the  short  movements  of  the  hand  in 
writing,  if  not  interrupted  by  larger 
swings  and  different  plays.  It  is  easy 
to  imagine  why  the  clerk  who  sleeps  in 
a  hall  bedroom  at  night,  and  is  penned 
in  a  small  office  during  the  day,  finds 
refreshment  in  spending  his  evenings  in 
spacious  club-rooms,  or  at  the  theatre, 
with  all  its  diverting  lights  and  colors. 

All  print  fatigues  the  eye  after 
a  short  time,  though  this  may  not  be 
consciously  felt,  because  the  eye  is  so 
accustomed  to  it;  and  though  a  head- 
ache may  follow  excessive  reading,  the 
reader  may  be  quite  unconscious  of  the 
cause.  People  often  suffer  fatigue  from 
such  over-application,  while  not  aware 
of  its  source.  The  eye  is  tired  by  being 
restricted  to  black  and  white,  and  needs 
the  stimulus  afforded  by  a  variety  of 
colors.  Harmony  of  color,  design,  and 
form,  ministers  to  health. 


414 


RECREATION  THROUGH  THE  SENSES 


Long-suffering  as  the  eye  is,  it  has 
a  means  of  defense  which  the  ear  lacks; 
for  while  the  eye  can  protect  itself  by 
dropping  a  quick  curtain,  the  ear  can 
place  no  effective  barrier  except  dis- 
tance between  itself  and  its  enemies. 
The  ear  of  the  city-dweller  is  subject 
to  constant  attacks  from  all  sides;  it  is 
in  a  state  of  siege.  The  noise  of  the 
trolley-car  may  become  a  form  of  tor- 
ture to  a  sensitive  ear.  The  clatter  of 
hoofs  and  wheels  on  the  hard  pave-  ' 
ments  tires  it  quickly  by  its  sharp  in- 
sistence; and  the  high-pitched  screech 
and  hiss  of  the  locomotive  letting  off 
steam  strain  it.  The  lower-pitched 
rumble  of  steam  and  elevated  trains 
wearies  it  more  slowly,*  but  just  as 
surely.  Every  one  recalls  the  clatter 
of  the  early  milk-wagons  and  the  rat- 
tling through  the  alley  of  the  two- 
wheeled  ash-cart  which  seems  to  take 
special  delight  in  naming  every  cobble 
of  the  pavement.  The  whir  of  machin- 
ery, the  chug  of  the  automobile,  the 
monotonous  click-clack  of  the  type- 
writer, all  produce  a  form  of  fatigue, 
even  when  custom  has  rendered  the 
hearer  practically  deaf  to  their  noises. 

We  are  all  familiar  with  the  fatigue 
caused  by  listening  to  a  scientific  talk, 
sermon,  or  lecture  given  in  a  mono- 
tonous, high-pitched  voice.  The  ear  is 
wearied  by  the  lack  of  modulation, 
and  by  the  struggle  to  catch  and  in- 
terpret unfamiliar  words  and  phrases. 
Listen,  however,  to  a  speaker  who 
modulates  his  voice  according  to  har- 
monic gradations;  who  lets  it  range 
over  the  third,  the  fifth,  and  even  the 
octave.  Let  him  further  relieve  the  ear 
by  the  choice  of  familiar  words,  homely 
allusions,  and  phrases  full  of  happy 
meaning.  His  listeners  will  feel  less 
drowsy. 

People  rarely  note  the  harmonic  in- 
tervals of  a  good  speaking  voice.  If  the 
same  note  of  a  piano  were  struck  fifty 
or  a  hundred  times  at  regular  inter- 


vals, if  even  the  same  melodious  phrase 
were  repeated  incessantly,  the  effect  on 
a  sensitive  ear  would  be  almost  mad- 
dening. The  organ  of  hearing,  like  the 
other  sense-organs,  naturally  craves 
variety.  It  is  a  necessity  to  mental  and 
physical  well-being.  Just  as  constant 
dropping  will  wear  away  a  stone,  so 
constant  repetition  of  even  a  pleasant 
impression  wears  away  the  vitality  of 
the  strongest.  Breathing-spells  are  a 
necessity. 

This  brings  us  to  the  consideration 
of  that  organ  which  has  so  much  to  do 
with  breathing  —  the  organ  of  smell. 
The  nose  is  fatigued  by  breathing  a 
dusty  atmosphere,  as  the  particles  of 
dust  not  only  irritate  its  linings  near 
the  nerves  of  smell,  and  thus  interfere 
with  their  work  and  function,  but  may 
also  contain  a  medley  of  odors.  Mere 
absence  of  dust,  however,  does  not 
always  mean  relief.  We  have  banished 
it  from  our  boulevards  by  the  use  of 
oil;  but  we  have  substituted  a  tiresome 
odor.  A  park  policeman  noticed  after 
its  introduction  that  the  visits  of  cer- 
tain tubercular  sufferers  became  less 
frequent.  He  questioned  one  of  them, 
and  learned  that  the  disagreeable  smell 
of  the  oil  had  driven  them  away.  They 
had  found  that,  even  with  the  dust,  the 
stimulating  fragrance  of  trees  and 
growing  things  was  more  invigorating 
to  them  than  the  dustless  air,  impreg- 
nated with  oil.  Suggestion,  too,  may 
have  had  something  to  do  with  the 
benefit  they  received.  The  pleasure  that 
we  get  from  the  odor  of  new-mown  hay 
is  multiplied  by  the  hundred  happy 
associations  that  it  may  call  up.  Where 
are  the  happy  memories  that  are.waked 
by  an  oil-can? 

All  dominating  odors,  such  as  those 
from  burning  rubber,  or  from  heavily 
scented  flowers,  are  fatiguing  to  the 
nose.  Even  in  the  best  ventilated 
rooms  the  walls  become  the  host  of  a 
varied  assortment  of  odors,  and  the 


415 


sense  of  weariness  in  general  is  some- 
times due  to  the  fatigue  of  the  organ 
of  smell  from  being  held  to  one  partic- 
ular odor,  or  to  a  medley  of  unpleasant 
odors.  This  may  be  relieved  by  going 
from  such  an  environment  to  air  that 
is  saturated  with  fresh  perfumes,  such 
as  those  of  growing  plants.  It  is  thus  in 
part  that  we  may  account  for  the  im- 
provement of  tuberculosis  patients  who 
go  from  life  in  a  close  room  to  life  out  of 
doors,  where  the  air  is  filled  with  odors 
from  the  woods  and  fields.  Think  of  a 
department  store  on  a  rainy  day,  with 
its  mingled  smells  of  different  fabrics, 
dye-stuffs,  and  damp  garments  of  shop- 
pers; and  then  recall  the  fragrance  of 
pine  woods  under  a  June  sun. 

The  sense  of  taste  is  passed  by  quite 
as  often  as  its  fellows.  It  is  often 
fatigued  by  unrelished  food.  Many 
people  feel  compelled  to  adhere  to  some 
article  that  is  said  to  be  good  for 
them,  whether  they  like  it  or  not. 
The  trouble  with  many  of  the  manu- 
factured foods,  and  those  kept  in  cold 
storage,  is  that  the  original  flavors  are 
blunted.  The  present-day  markets  af- 
ford a  great  variety  of  staple  foods,  and 
the  sense  of  taste  will  be  less  fatigued 
if  it  looks  out  for  variety. 

Finally,  there  is  that  hard-worked 
sense-organ,  the  skin.  Sight,  smell,  and 
hearing  are  all  sometimes  in  abey- 
ance. There  is  no  holiday  for  the  sense 
of  touch.  Atmospheric  conditions  may 
change,  but  we  cannot  get  away  from 
them  in  some  form.  An  even  climate 
always  becomes  depressing.  Continu- 
ous heat  or  cold,  continued  damp  or 
dry  weather,  are  all  fatiguing  to  the 
skin.  So  is  the  weight  of  heavy  cloth- 
ing or  the  long-continued  wearing  of  the 
same  garment.  Those  Italian  children 
whose  mother  refused  to  bathe  them 
because  she  had  just  got  them  sewed 
into  their  winter  underwear,  must  have 
been  pretty  tired  before  spring. 

Feeling  of  any  one  thing  for  a  long 


time  fatigues  the  skin  of  the  hand. 
Suppose  one  sorts  a  quantity  of  papers 
and  letters.  They  are  dry,  thin,  and 
hard,  and  may  contain  certain  dyes 
and  other  ingredients,  unknown  except 
to  experts,  which  are  in  effect  irritat- 
ing to  the  tips  of  the  fingers.  After 
handling  them  for  some  time,  stop  and 
pick  up  an  orange,  and  you  will  ex- 
perience a  soothing  sensation,  due  to 
the  fact  that  the  soft  moist  skin  and 
rounded  shape  of  the  orange  offer  a 
contrast  to  the  dry,  flat  surface  and 
sharp  edges  of  the  paper.  The  average 
person  could  handle  a  hundred  oranges 
with  less  fatigue  than  a  hundred  sheets 
of  paper. 

No  one  who  studies  the  congested 
portions  of  a  large  city,  and  notes 
what  the  human  organism  has  to  fight 
against,  can  be  surprised  at  the  mor- 
tality in  those  districts.  The  individual 
house-space  is  so  limited  that  fresh  and 
fragrant  air  is  denied.  Beauty  of  light 
and  color  is  too  expensive.  Foul  odors 
greet  the  nostrils;  harsh  cries  and 
quarreling  voices  strike  the  ear;  too 
often  the  roar  and  rumble  of  elevated 
trains  add  to  the  din.  Food  is  stale 
and  unpalatable;  the  body  touches 
hard  surfaces  and  coarse  fabrics,  and 
the  eye  sees  dull,  grimy  colors,  straight 
lines,  and  sharp  angles.  It  is  easy  to  un- 
derstand the  popularity  of  the  hurdy- 
gurdy  and  the  moving-picture  show, 
and  the  relief  sought  in  the  saloon. 

The  high  percentage  of  disease  in  a 
city  slum  cannot,  of  course,  be  laid  en- 
tirely to  adverse  sensory  conditions; 
but  the  nervous  system  does  suffer  from 
these  conditions,  and  the  body's  power 
of  resistance  is  consequently  lessened. 


in 

It  is  my  purpose  in  this  paper  to 
indicate  some  of  the  ways  in  which 
stimulation  from  the  outside  world 
may  be  utilized  for  mental  and  phys- 


416 


RECREATION   THROUGH  THE   SENSES 


ical  refreshment  and  recreation.  For 
any  effective  treatment,  we  must  ana- 
lyze our  surroundings,  and  see  how 
sensory  relief  may  be  affected  by  the 
use  and  variation  of  stimulus;  just  as 
the  business  man  must  know  what 
his  real  stock-in-trade  is,  what  assets 
he  has,  and  how  to  turn  them  to  ac- 
count at  the  right  time.  In  fact,  the 
personal  equation  must  be  solved;  for 
people  vary  in  their  individual  re- 
sponse to  a  given  stimulus  as  widely 
as  the  different  keys  of  a  piano  vary 
to  the  same  touch  of  the  finger;  and 
the  response  of  any  one  person  to  a 
given  stimulus  also  varies  from  day  to 
day.  Just  as  a  violin  is  affected  by 
moisture,  or  by  long-continued  press- 
ure on  its  strings,  so  the  human  organ- 
ism is  affected  by  external  conditions, 
such  as  intense  heat,  glaring  lights,  or 
the  noises  of  the  street. 

It  has  already  been  shown  that  over- 
stimulation  of  any  part  generates 
fatigue-poisons.  Lack  of  exercise  also 
produces  these  poisons  just  as  effect- 
ually as  over-work;  and  the  excessive 
stimulation  of  some  organs,  together 
with  the  disuse  of  others  will  cause 
fatigue,  with  all  its  attendant  bad 
results.  By  stimulating  the  unused 
parts  we  may  relieve  those  that  are 
fatigued,  and  so  promote  the  health 
and  comfort  of  the  whole  body.  Indeed 
the  body  may  wisely  be  taken  as  a 
family  of  many  members,  who  share 
the  responsibility  of  its  maintenance. 
The  vigor  and  activity  of  each  is*  a 
matter  of  concern  to  all  the  others. 
If  one  breaks  down  or  fails  to  perform 
its  duties,  added  work  and  responsi- 
bility are  thrown  upon  the  others; 
whereas,  if  all  the  members  work  in 
harmony,  keeping  at  the  maximum  of 
their  powers  by  a  right  adjustment  of 
rest  and  exercise,  and  relieving  each 
other  when  necessary,  the  family  will 
be  an  efficient  and  prosperous  one. 

The  senses  are  important  members 


of  our  corporal  family,  and  much  of 
its  comfort  is  dependent  on  the  care- 
ful adjustment  of  their  use.  Like  the 
muscles,  they  must  have  a  certain 
amount  of  exercise  or  stimulation  to 
keep  them  in  good  working  order. "  On 
the  other  hand,  if  any  sense  is  over- 
stimulated  it  suffers  from  fatigue,  and 
must  be  relieved  by  a  change  in  the 
kind  of  stimulation,  or  by  the  exercise 
of  other  senses.  It  is  here  that  the 
intelligent  cooperation  of  the  individ- 
ual comes  in.  The  physician  may 
direct  and  suggest,  but  the  patient 
must  learn  for  himself  to  see  and  use 
the  many  opportunities  for  sensory 
diversion  which  are  within  his  reach. 
Each  muscle  has  particular  tasks,  and 
is  healthier  with  a  certain  amount  of 
activity  than  without.  This  activity 
is  dependent  on  the  stimulus  which 
comes  through  the  nerves,  and  thus 
the  tone  of  the  muscle  is  dependent  on 
the  quality  of  that  stimulus.  Now, 
since  nerves,  sense-organs,  and  brain 
must  have  stimulation  to  keep  them  in 
order,  we  must  study  all  kinds  of  stim- 
ulus, within  and  without  the  body,  in 
order  to  see  how  they  affect  these 
delicate  instruments  which  control  its 
muscles. 

To  get  the  greatest  benefit  from 
any  form  of  stimulus,  the  senses  must 
be  trained  to  keenness.  They  can  all 
attain  a  high  state  of  development. 
The  artist  rejoices  in  beauties  of  form 
and  color  to  which  the  stock-broker 
may  be  blind.  The  ear  of  the  musician 
detects  harmonies  unheard  by  the 
blacksmith,  and  the  epicure  gets  a 
finer  pleasure  from  his  dinner  than  the 
hod-carrier.  To  be  sure,  while  the 
highly-developed  sense  responds  more 
fully  to  pleasant  impressions,  it  also 
suffers  more  from  disagreeable  ones. 
But  that  is  just  where  the  will  and  in- 
telligence of  the  individual  must  come 
forward  to  select  from  his  surround- 
ings the  forms  of  stimulus  which  will 


RECREATION  THROUGH  THE  SENSES 


417 


produce  a  helpful  reaction,  and  avoid 
or  eliminate  the  harmful  so  far  as  is 
practicable. 

IV 

As  the  efficiency  of  the  muscles  can 
be  increased  by  well-directed  and  sys- 
tematic exercises,  so  the  efficiency  of 
the  senses  can  be  increased  by  care- 
ful training  and  attention.  Humboldt, 
while  exploring  in  South  America, 
found  that  his  native  Indian  guide 
could  discern  the  movements  of  a  man 
on  a  mountain  twenty  miles  distant, 
which  he  himself  made  out  with  dif- 
ficulty, even  with  the  aid  of  a  glass. 

Many  examples  will  occur  to  the 
reader,  of  the  capacity  of  the  ear  to 
detect  very  slight  differences  in  voices 
and  sounds.  Any  one  can  appreciate  its 
sensitiveness  who  has  noted  the  power 
of  a  voice  that  has  not  been  heard  for 
years.  The  eye  cannot  recognize  a  per- 
son as  readily  by  a  study  of  features 
as  does  the  ear  by  the  sound  of  the 
voice. 

'The  wind  blowing  through  the 
leaves  sounds  like  fall,'  said  a  friend  to 
me  one  morning  early  in  September. 
When  I  asked  her  to  give  a  reason  she 
said,  'Why,  they  sound  brittle,  as 
though  they  were  about  ready  to  drop 
off.'  There  was  a  distinct  difference 
to  her  sensitive  ear  between  the  soft, 
low  sound  of  leaves  in  the  breezes  of 
June,  when  they  are  fresh  and  full  of 
sap,  and  their  crisp  rustle  when  they 
are  dead  and  drying.  The  sound  of 
whistles,  or  the  creak  of  wheels  and 
runners  on  the  snow  on  a  cold  winter 
morning,  form  an  accurate  index  to 
the  temperature  of  the  outside  air. 

In  smell  discriminations  the  coun- 
tryman, whose  sense  is  continually 
exercised  by  the  innumerable  perfumes 
of  plant  life,  which  vary  from  day  to 
day  as  flowers  and  fruits  grow  to 
maturity,  has  a  great  advantage  over 
the  city  dweller,  whose  nose  is  con- 
VOL.  107  -  NO.  3 


stantly  subjected  to  a  few  monotonous 
and  disagreeable  odors.  Sundry  old 
salts  along  the  coast  will  sniff  the  air 
as  they  go  out  of  a  morning,  and  tell 
you  the  exact  quarter  from  which  the 
wind  comes,  without  taking  the  trouble 
to  look  at  the  weather-vane;  and  the 
nose  of  the  accomplished  chef  tells  him 
whether  or  not  his  roast  is  done  to  the 
right  turn. 

An  ambassador  to  Russia,  formerly 
a  leather  merchant  in  this  country, 
discovered  certain  secret  processes 
regarding  a  special  kind  of  leather 
manufactured  there.  He  would  have 
been  looked  on  with  suspicion  had  it 
been  suspected  that  he  could  learn 
anything  of  these  methods.  But  dur- 
ing his  sojourn  he  got  near  enough  to 
certain  factories  to  register,  through 
his  sense  of  smell,  some  impressions 
with  which  he  was  able  to  work  out 
the  formulas  when  he  returned  home. 

The  sense  of  taste  has  also  possibili- 
ties for  higher  development.  The  habit 
of  eating  only  to  satisfy  hunger  may 
be  too  common,  and  the  emphasis  put 
upon  the  healthful  or  strengthening 
qualities  of  various  foods  leads  us  to 
overlook  the  fact  that  the  sense  of 
taste  should  be  the  true  index  to  the 
kind  of  food  that  is  really  needed. 
The  short  periods  of  time  ordinarily 
allowed  for  meals  may  interfere  with 
the  reasonable  exercise  of  this  sense, 
the  cultivation  of  which  would  add 
greatly  to  the  benefit  and  enjoyment 
to  be  derived  from  any  diet. 

Every  housewife  knows  that  foods 
kept  too  close  together  in  small  refrig- 
erators, pantries,  or  cold  storage 
places,  neutralize  each  other  to  some 
extent.  Their  flavors  get  mixed.  Peo- 
ple in  the  country  seldom  complain  as 
city  people  do  that  things  all  taste 
alike,  for  country  cellars  and  store- 
rooms are  large,  and  permit  a  whole- 
some and  natural  method  of  ventila- 
tion. The  best  of  our  city  hotels  try 


418 


RECREATION   THROUGH   THE  SENSES 


to  attain  a  like  excellence  by  a  careful 
separation  of  foods  during  all  stages 
of  preparation  for  the  table.  Broiling, 
baking,  and  frying  are  done  by  differ- 
ent cooks,  each  with  his  special  oven 
and  utensils,  and  each  becomes  an 
expert  in  his  own  line. 

Finally,  of  supreme  importance  is 
the  sense  of  touch,  from  which  all  the 
other  senses  have  been  evolved.  The 
nerves  of  touch  cover  the  entire  sur- 
face of  the  body.  They  take  the  place 
of  eyes  to  the  blind.  The  expert  shop- 
per develops  an  amazing  keenness  of 
their  sense  at  the  ends  of  the  fingers. 
In  paper  mills  ordinary  workmen  get 
such  training  by  feeling  the  paper  as  it 
goes  over  the  rollers  that  they  are 
able  to  detect  a  variation  of  one  ten- 
thousandth  of  an  inch  in  its  thickness. 
It  is  claimed  that  by  constant  train- 
ing a  difference  of  a  forty-thousandth 
of  an  inch  can  be  noted. 

These  illustrations  are  meant  to  call 
attention  to  the  capacity  of  each  sense 
for  higher  development.  Perhaps  their 
citation  will  awaken  a  keener  interest 
in  what  our  senses  may  teach  us. 


When  a  tired  clerk  or  business  man 
hears  a  sudden  alarm  of  fire,  all  his 
faculties  are  at  once  aroused.  His  eyes 
have  been  wearied  by  monotonous 
desk-work,  and  the  clang-clang  of  the 
gongs,  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  the 
shrill  whistle  of  the  engines  all  strike 
the  ear,  and  through  its  activity  pro- 
mote a  counter-stimulation  which  less- 
ens the  fatigue  of  the  eye.  All  this  is 
a  welcome  diversion,  and  he  goes  back 
to  his  work  rested  and  refreshed.  His 
blood  has  been  drawn  from  accustomed 
ruts  into  new  channels. 

At  an  afternoon  tea  a  person  of  deli- 
cate organization  may  begin  to  tire 
after  half  an  hour  or  so.  The  insistent 
tones  of  some  of  the  guests,  the  high- 


pitched  voices  of  others,  and  the  con- 
tinual medley  of  sounds  have  proved 
trying  to  the  nerve  of  hearing.  The 
confusing  designs  and  colors  of  the 
ladies'  gowns  and  ornaments  have  been 
forced  upon  the  eye,  and  this  also  pro- 
tests against  its  hard  usage.  In  fact, 
a  rapid  and  bewildering  succession  of 
light  blows  have  been  rained  upon  the 
eye  and  ear  from  all  directions;  and 
when  refreshments  are  served  we  per- 
ceive that  their  name  is  truly  chosen. 
The  food  produces  a  counter-stimu- 
lation by  exciting  the  sense  of  taste, 
and  through  this  the  digestive  organs; 
and  the  exercise  of  these  helps  to  re- 
store a  normal  balance. 

The  novelties  of  a  circus  parade 
excite  and  fatigue  the  eye;  but  the 
music  of  the  bands,  breaking  in  at 
frequent  intervals,  relieve  it  by  stimu- 
lating the  ear.  Musical  comedy  of  the 
present  day  offers  an  excellent  example 
of  the  manner  in  which  the  tax  im- 
posed on  the  eye  by  lights  and  cos- 
tumes is  relieved  by  the  interpolation 
of  music  and  songs.  Opera  is,  in  fact, 
a  complex  harmony  of  song  and  color 
so  adjusted  as  to  balance  admirably 
the  strain  of  stimulation  on  the  senses 
of  sight  and  hearing. 

This  idea  of  counter-stimulation  may 
serve  to  explain  some  of  the  benefits 
of  the  smelling-bottle,  and  the  great 
variety  of  baths  —  salt,  mineral,  oxy- 
gen, Turkish,  etc.  —  which  are  wisely 
used  as  subsidiary  agencies  of  skin 
stimulation.  The  use  of  the  bottle  of 
aromatic  salts  brings  into  action  the 
nerves  connected  with  the  sense  of 
smell,  thereby  drawing  the  blood  away 
from  regions  where  there  have  been 
congestion  and  strain.  The  baths  draw 
the  blood  to  the  skin,  stimulating  its 
activity,  and  relieving  congested  parts 
of  the  body.  An  interesting  experiment 
illustrating  this  idea  is  to  rub  the  face 
lightly  about  the  nose,  and  then  note 
the  increased  activity  of  the  sense  of 


RECREATION  THROUGH  THE   SENSES 


419 


smell.  The  excitation  of  the  skin  there 
helps  to  promote  the  circulation,  just 
as  a  bath  creates  a  general  feeling  of 
refreshment  and  capacity  for  work. 

The  soothing  effect  of  tobacco  on 
the  nerves,  of  which  we  constantly  hear 
smokers  speak,  is  largely  due  to  the 
stimulation  of  the  nose  by  the  odor  of 
the  cigar  or  pipe.  The  nerves,  here 
and  there  throughout  the  body,  may 
be  somewhat  congested  from  over- 
work or  other  causes;  and  the  excita- 
tion of  the  nerves  of  smell,  which  are 
but  little  used,  gives  them  a  form  of 
exercise  which  counteracts  fatigue  in 
some  other  parts  of  the  body.  The 
man  whose  digestive  apparatus  has 
been  taxed  by  a  hearty  meal  welcomes 
the  diversion  furnished  by  smoking  an 
after-dinner  cigar. 


VI 

It  is  not  always  necessary,  however, 
to  set  other  senses  to  work  to  relieve 
the  fatigue  of  one.  Each  sense  has  such 
a  wide  range  of  utility  that  counter- 
adjustments  are  possible  within  its 
own  province.  The  tired  eye  may  be 
refreshed  by  a  simple  variation  of 
lights  and  colors,  or  a  change  of  focus. 
A  person  who  has  been  a  proof-reader 
for  twenty  years  believes  his  good  eye- 
sight to  be  due  to  the  fact  that  he 
early  formed  the  habit  of  looking  up 
from  his  work  every  two  or  three  min- 
utes to  gaze  at  some  distant  object. 

The  eye  is  affected  differently  by 
different  colors  owing  to  the  varying 
quality  of  light-vibration.  Under  or- 
dinary conditions,  yellow  can  be  seen 
farther  than  other  colors,  and  red  tires 
the  eye  sooner  than  green  or  brown. 
In  the  summer,  the  change  from  the 
glare  of  the  city,  and  red  brick  walls, 
to  the  green  of  the  country,  or  the 
greenish  blue  of  the  ocean,  is  most 
welcome.  In  the  same  way,  the  first 
snow  of  winter  is  pleasant  and  invig- 


orating after  the  brownness  of  the 
fall.  Children  are  particularly  respons- 
ive to  the  change,  and  shout  with 
glee  to  see  the  ground  covered  with 
snow  when  they  get  up  in  the  morn- 
ing. A  new  world  has  been  opened  up 
to  them. 

Too  few  of  us  realize  the  pleasure  to 
be  gained  from  the  varying  beauty  of 
color  in  an  early  spring  landscape.  Its 
soft  browns  and  grays  are  soothing 
and  beautiful;  but  how  rarely  we  ob- 
serve the  misty  flush  of  violet  or  crim- 
son over  distant  woods,  where  the  sap 
is  flowing  to  the  tips  of  the  branches, 
the  golden  green  of  young  willows  by 
the  roadside,  or  the  sun-flecked  brook 
that  ripples  over  a  sandy  bottom. 
These  things  all  give  rest  and  exercise 
to  the  tired  eye  and  mind,  if  the  eye 
is  only  encouraged  to  see  them.  A 
muddy  New  England  road  is  not  con- 
sidered a  source  of  joy;  yet  I  have 
heard  a  New  Jersey  girl,  used  to  the 
red  clay  of  her  home  town,  exclaim 
with  delight  at  the  rich,  deep  brown  of 
New  Hampshire  mud. 

From  much  the  same  reason,  the 
entire  prohibition  of  conversation  dur- 
ing working-hours  in  some  factories  is 
unreasonable  and  foolish.  If  the  priv- 
ilege is  not  abused,  a  little  talk  will  not 
decrease  the  output  of  work.  Such  re- 
strictions probably  work  real  harm  to 
the  majority  of  operatives;  thereby 
lessening  their  value  to  their  employers. 

A  college  student,  who  heard  only 
men's  voices  in  the  dormitory,  at  ta- 
ble, and  in  the  class-room,  used  to  find 
it  a  positive  luxury  to  visit  a  class- 
mate who  lived  in  a  private  house, 
where  his  ear  was  refreshed  and  stimu- 
lated by  listening  to  the  higher  voices 
of  women.  On  the  other  hand,  the  girl 
whose  ear  has  been  subjected  to  the 
high-pitched  conversation  of  women 
will  find  the  lower  tones  of  men  sooth- 
ing. Doubtless  this  forms  part  of  the 
basis  of  sex-attraction. 


420 


RECREATION  THROUGH  THE  SENSES 


VII 

Even  dressing  for  dinner  has  its 
physiological  basis.  A  change  of  cov- 
ering means  a  change  of  stimulation. 
The  clothes  worn  through  working- 
hours  have  wearied  the  nerves  of  the 
skin.  What  is  worn  nearest  the  body 
absorbs  its  poisonous  waste  products 
and  secretions.  When  the  garments 
are  removed,  a  free  movement  of  air 
is  afforded  to  the  surface  of  the  body, 
and  the  clothes  which  replace  them 
stimulate  the  skin  in  a  different  way, 
and  so  relieve  it.  Varying  dyes  and  tex- 
tures produce  corresponding  changes 
of  feeling.  Let  any  one  who  doubts  this 
change  his  usual  cotton  night-apparel 
for  flannel.  His  irritation  after  this  ex- 
periment will  lead  him  to  discard  the 
flannel  with  the  alacrity  of  the  boy  who, 
for  much  the  same  reason,  hustles  out 
of  his  clothes  at  the  swimming-pool 
in  summer.  Frequently  in  mental  de- 
rangement there  is  such  a  desire  of 
freeing  the  skin  that  it  is  almost  im- 
possible to  keep  clothing  upon  a 
patient.  Nature  is  stronger  than  con- 
vention in  such  cases. 

The  lawyer  who  handles  dry  books 
all  day  long  at  his  desk  experiences  a 
sense  of  actual  relief  when  he  strokes 
the  soft,  moist  hair  of  his  dog  at  night, 
although  the  action  is  prompted  by 
his  affection  for  the  animal.  We  can 
even  take  a  charitable  view  of  the 
time  taken  daily  by  the  typewriter-girl 
for  the  arrangement  of  her  hair.  Her 
fingers  are  congested  by  the  work  of 
writing,  and  tired  by  contact  with  the 
hard  keys  of  her  machine;  and  the 
different  feeling  of  her  hair,  and  the 
little  plays  and  movements  of  her 
fingers  in  adjusting  it,  are  a  distinct 
stimulation  and  relief.  Indeed,  does 
not  this  explain  the  craving  of  many 
desk-workers  to  do  a  little  gardening, 
and  get  their  hands  into  contact  with 
the  damp,  cool  soil? 


It  may  be  difficult  to  see  how  the 
sense  of  smell  gives  benefit  through 
the  mere  change  of  stimulus;  but  take 
the  case  of  the  man  who  goes  South  for 
a  part  of  the  winter.  The  feeling  of 
relaxation  which  he  experiences  when 
he  gets  into  the  region  of  the  palm  and 
orange  groves  is  largely  due  to  the 
strong  permeating  fragrance  exuded 
by  the  luxurious  vegetation.  The  soft, 
moist  air  of  these  low  latitudes,  laden 
with  pungent  odors  which  almost 
swamp  the  sense  of  smell,  furnishes  a 
strong  counter-stimulant  to  the  foul 
and  poisonous  atmosphere  of  congested 
cities,  by  which  this  organ  has  been  so 
long  abused. 

VIII 

Most  of  our  minor  physical  disor- 
ders arise  from  over-use  or  stimula- 
tion of  some  tissue,  organ,  or  muscle. 
When  over-stimulation  and  under- 
exercise  are  combined,  as  when  a  man 
underworks  his  muscles  and  over- 
works his  brains,  such  complications 
as  insomnia  or  dyspepsia  are  sure  to 
result.  The  method  of  relief  consists 
in  a  judicious  adjustment  of  rest  on 
the  one  hand,  and  exercise  on  the 
other.  Rest  of  the  over-stimulated 
part  is  of  course  necessary  in  its  place, 
but  restoration  may  be  hastened  by 
particular  lines  of  counter-stimulation, 
or  by  the  exercise  of  different  groups 
of  muscles  and  nerves.  A  man  who  has 
been  at  a  desk  all  day  finds  the  swing- 
ing of  a  golf  club  refreshing  to  the 
muscles  of  the  arm,  which  have  been 
fatigued  so  long  by  restricted  move- 
ments. We  little  realize,  though,  how 
many  persons  reach  such  a  state  of  fa- 
tigue that  they  are  unequal  to  amusing 
themselves  by  such  recreative  sports. 
They  need  to  resort  to  the  theatre  or 
ball-game,  to  be  played  upon  through 
the  eye  and  ear. 

The  following  cases  may  serve  to 
show  to  some  degree  the  effectiveness 


RECREATION  THROUGH  THE  SENSES 


421 


of  hygiene  of  the  senses  in  the  preven- 
tion and  cure  of  disorders. 

A  woman  who  was  suffering  from  a 
complication  of  physical  ailments  had 
been  advised  by  some  physicians  to 
undergo  an  operation.  Others  had 
counseled  her  against  it,  and  she  was 
upset  by  conflicting  advice.  Her  hus- 
band had  become  blind,  and  she  and 
her  children  were  reduced  to  depend- 
ence. Strained  relations  with  her  fam- 
ily added  to  her  worries,  and  her  im- 
mediate surroundings  so  aggravated 
her  mental  depression  that  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  determine  the  exact  connection 
between  her  physical  condition  and  her 
nervous  state.  She  lived  in  a  dark 
tenement,  and  the  noise  of  passing 
trains  and  the  foul  odors  from  the 
street  brought  on  hysterical  spasms. 
It  was  evident  that  change  of  environ- 
ment was  necessary  to  improvement, 
and  arrangements  were  made  to  move 
the  family  into  the  country.  The  es- 
cape from  drab  walls  and  smoky  sur- 
roundings to  wide  prospects  and  green 
foliage;  from  the  rattle  of  teams  and 
clatter  of  shrieking  trains  to  the  peace 
of  the  country;  from  heavy  disagree- 
able odors  to  the  fragrance  of  the  woods 
and  fields,  brought  about,  by  means  of 
the  change  in  sensory  stimulation,  im- 
mediate relief  from  pain.  The '  pressure 
around  the  heart,'  of  which  she  had 
complained  on  rising,  due  probably  to 
the  dread  of  the  daily  round  of  irrita- 
tion, soon  entirely  disappeared. 

A  floor-walker,  who  had  been  in  the 
employ  of  a  large  department  store 
for  more  than  twenty  years,  had  be- 
come thin  and  generally  run  down  in 
health.  His  skin  had  become  so  sensi- 
tive that  he  could  not  even  go  out  to 
cross  the  street  on  a  cold  day  without 
throwing  on  an  overcoat.  His  physi- 
cian advised  him  to  find  an  occupa- 
tion that  would  not  keep  him  indoors 
so  constantly,  and  he  undertook  the 
management  of  a  restaurant,  which 


necessitated  his  going  outdoors  for 
provisions  many  times  a  day.  In  five 
months  he  had  gained  twenty  pounds, 
and  grown  hardened  to  all  ordinary 
changes  of  temperature.  What  was  de- 
pressing to  him  affects  to  some  degree 
every  one  who  has  to  live  indoors.  The 
skin  is  kept  constantly  relaxed  by  the 
high,  even  temperature,  and  the  humid- 
ity of  the  air  is  relatively  much  lower 
than  that  outside.  Spending  much  time 
in  the  open,  where  there  are  daily  and 
hourly  variations,  and  where  the  air  is 
relatively  softer  on  account  of  the  high- 
er average  of  moisture,  tones  up  the 
skin  and  promotes  general  well-being. 

A  woman  who  suffered  from  neu- 
ralgia was  directed,  in  addition  to  the 
regular  treatment  advised,  to  take 
daily  walks  during  the  spring  days, 
and  not  only  to  look  for  fresh  colors, 
but  to  take  advantage  of  different 
odors.  She  passed  buildings  in  process 
of  construction,  and  noted  the  varying 
scents  of  the  lumber  used,  and  the 
differing  fragrances  of  the  buds  and 
blossoms  in  the  fields.  This  stimula- 
tion of  the  nerves  of  sight  and  smell 
relieved  the  congestion  of  other  nerves, 
gave  her  pleasant  things  to  think  of, 
and,  with  other  general  hygienic  meas- 
ures, contributed  to  a  marked  general 
and  local  improvement. 

A  young  man  who  was  troubled  with 
catarrh,  and  waked  every  morning  with 
a  headache  and  a  dryness  in  the  throat, 
was  advised  to  try  sleeping  out  of 
doors.  Two  weeks  later  he  reported 
that  the  headaches  had  entirely  dis- 
appeared, and  that  the  catarrh  and 
dryness  of  the  throat  were  practically 
cured.  The  fragrance  of  the  outdoor 
air  had  helped  him  by  stimulating  the 
sense  of  smell,  and  its  moisture  had 
acted  favorably  upon  the  skin,  and  the 
delicate  lining  of  the  nose  and  throat. 

Another  instance  I  may  give  is  that 
of  a  teacher  who,  after  a  hard  year 
in  a  city  kindergarten,  found  herself 


422 


RECREATION  THROUGH  THE  SENSES 


so  tired  that  she  feared  she  could  not 
rest,  even  in  the  quiet  country  village 
where  she  usually  spent  her  vacations. 
Acting  upon  medical  advice,  she  went 
to  the  country  for  a  week;  then  spent 
ten  days  in  New  York,  and  after  that 
returned  to  the  country  for  the  remain- 
der of  the  vacation.  At  the  end  of  the 
summer  her  face  gave  the  best  evi- 
dence of  the  benefit  of  this  plan.  In 
this  case  the  patient  was  too  exhausted 
to  respond  immediately  to  counter- 
stimulation,  and  a  period  of  absolute 
inaction  was  necessary  to  prepare  her 
for  the  strenuous  experience  of  sight- 
seeing, which,  by  contrast  and  variety, 
smoothed  out  the  mental  ruts  which 
had  been  worn  by  the  monotonous 
work  of  the  year,  and  brought  her 
nerves  into  a  condition  where  rest  was 
possible.  Museums  and  art  galleries 
effaced  the  impressions  left  by  the 
narrow  walls  of  her  school-room;  the 
many  facial  types  of  the  great  city 
printed  new  photographs  on  her  brain; 
and  the  repetition  of  the  high-pitched 
voices  of  women  and  children  which 
she  had  endured  day  after  day  was 
pleasantly  counteracted  by  the  endless 
variety  of  tones  heard  on  the  street,  in 
cars,  cafes,  and  all  public  places. 

It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  exam- 
ples. A  hundred  times  a  day  we  smo- 
ther our  impulses  because  we  feel  that 
we  lack  time  to  indulge  them;  when,  if 
we  allowed  them  free  play,  we  should 
find  mind  and  body  freshened  and  bet- 
ter fitted  for  effort.  Often  a  little  wool- 
gathering, or  timely  imaginative  fantasy, 
is  a  safety-valve. 

IX 

The  opportunities  for  the  practical 
application  of  these  principles  to  every- 
day life  are  innumerable.  The  writer 
has  a  box  of  bits  of  wood  tinted  with 
different  paint-stains.  Desk-workers, 
whose  eyes  are  much  upon  black  ink 
and  white  paper,  would  find,  upon 


shuffling  over  these  chips  two  or  three 
times  a  day,  that  the  varied  colors  and 
grains  of  the  wood  afford  a  soothing 
and  diverting  exercise  that  will  relieve 
eye-strain  and  prevent  headaches. 
Flowers  and  growing  plants,  kept 
where  the  eye  can  occasionally  rest  on 
them,  are  'liked,'  of  course,  because 
they  minister  to  and  satisfy  the  natural 
demand  of  the  eye  for  color.  There 
are  large  fields  of  practical  suggestion 
for  the  ear,  and  very  definite  prescrip- 
tions of  music  can  be  made  which 
will  keep  the  sense  of  hearing  normal 
and  efficient.  Vocal,  elocutionary,  and 
dramatic  studies,  in  addition  to  their 
general  physical  benefit,  train  the 
voice  to  produce  richer  tones,  and 
make  the  ear  more  keenly  sensitive  to 
beauty  of  sound.  The  Negro's  planta- 
tion songs  were  the  best  antidote  to 
the  monotony  of  his  long  day  under 
the  hot  sun  of  the  cotton-fields. 

As  for  smell,  the  writer  has  made 
use  of  a  little  case  of  four  bottles  of 
mild  selected  odors.  Occasional  sniffs 
from  each  of  these  in  turn  constitute 
a  simple  form  of  gymnastics  for  the 
olfactory  tract,  and  relieve  congestion 
quite  as  effectively  as  the  usual  strong 
smelling-bottle.  Almost  all  druggists' 
preparations  have  certain  virtues  in 
their  appeal  to  smell,  which  account 
in  some  degree  for  their  popularity. 
Mechanical  contrivances  for  the  stimu- 
lation and  exercise  of  this  sense  are  but 
poor  substitutes,  however,  for  the  nat- 
ural odors  of  the  fresh  country  air. 

A  recent  investigation  of  the  condi- 
tions of  the  public  schools  of  a  Western 
city  proved  that  a  marked  increase  of 
the  number  of  colds  among  the  child- 
ren followed  the  closing  of  the  school- 
room windows  and  the  resort  to  arti- 
ficial means  of  ventilation  during  the 
winter  months.  This  was  due  in  a 
considerable  measure  to  the  greater 
dryness  of  the  air.  The  body  requires 
the  moisture  and  fragrance  of  the  free 


RECREATION  THROUGH  THE  SENSES 


423 


outside  air.  It  would  seem  more  im- 
portant to  remedy  by  improved  sani- 
tary construction  the  depressing  con- 
ditions which  so  often  contribute  to 
adenoids  and  tonsillar  troubles,  than 
to  experiment  too  elaborately  in  the 
attempt  to  kill  germs. 

I  have  tried  to  show  how  the  nerves, 
the  sense-organs,  and  the  brain  must, 
like  the  muscles,  have  a  certain  amount 
of  exercise,  stimulation,  and  variety 
to  keep  them  in  order,  and  how  we  can 
select  and  use  for  this  purpose  plenty 
of  simple  apparatus  from  our  surround- 
ings. Health  is  largely  a  matter  of 
intelligence.  The  brain  is  constantly 
receiving  various  impressions  through 
the  senses,  but  the  will  can  determine 
to  admit  only  the  impressions  that  the 
intelligence  selects.  To  give  too  much 
attention,  however,  to  the  shutting  out 
of  all  disagreeable  sensations,  would 
seem  like  setting  ourselves  away  in  a 
glass  case.  Man  is  naturally  a  fighting 
animal;  but  although  he  needs  friction 
and  opposition  to  develop  a  healthy 
power  of  endurance,  over-endurance  is 
to  be  avoided. 

Out  of  the  multitude  of  impressions 
that  knock  daily  at  the  door  of  our 
senses,  it  is  possible  and  wise  to  admit 
enough  pleasant  and  helpful  ones  to 
counteract  the  effect  of  the  harmful 
ones  that  force  their  way  in,  and  so  to 
contribute  to  a  reasonable  mental  and 
physical  balance.  Hunger  is  given  to 
incite  us  to  furnish  the  body  with  its 
necessary  fuel;  pain,  that  we  may  keep 
it  from  contact  with  destructive  agen- 
cies. We  do  not  fast  for  a  week,  and 
then  devote  a  day  to  eating;  we  eat  at 
frequent  intervals,  when  we  feel  the 
need  of  food.  Is  there  any  reason  why 
the  hunger  of  the  eye  and  ear  for  the 
impressions  which  relieve  and  refresh 
the  brain  should  not  be  heeded  and 
satisfied  with  corresponding  frequency? 
Although  we  cannot  always  get  away 
from  unhealthy  sensory  conditions, 


we  can  often  modify  them,  and  it  is 
matter  of  common  sense  to  do  so. 
Some  little  thing  in  a  shop-window 
may  give  more  real  pleasure,  if  there 
is  a  proper  appetite  for  its  absorption, 
than  a  couple  of  hours  at  the  theatre; 
and  the  sound  of  pleasant  voices  on 
the  street  may  be  more  refreshing  to 
the  ear  than  a  symphony.  The  touch 
of  a  glove  may  call  up  the  most  de- 
lightful association;  or  a  remembered 
melody  may  refresh  a  tired  mind  by 
filling  it  with  happy  recollections. 

The  brain  has  the  power  not  only 
to  receive,  but  to  store  up  impressions 
which  may  be  roused  again  by  stimulus 
either  from  within  or  without  the  body. 
It  seems  wise,  then,  to  have  a  pretty 
good  supply  on  hand  for  use  on  either 
the  actual  or  the  figurative  '  rainy  day.' 

Then,  with  the  understanding  that 
recreation  through  the  special  senses 
is  an  easy  possibility,  within  the  reach 
of  every  one,  why  not  give  it  a  chance? 
Why  not  take  advantage  of  the  little 
vacations  and  excursions  that  are 
practicable  for  eye  and  ear  and  mind, 
even  when  the  body  must  keep  on 
working  under  unhygienic  conditions? 

I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  work 
is  to  take  a  secondary  place,  or  that 
adverse  sensory  conditions  are  to  be 
wholly  shunned.  It  is  just  for  the  sake 
of  dealing  wisely  with  such  conditions, 
and  of  keeping  mind  and  body  in  such 
trim  that  men  may  work,  and  work 
efficiently,  that  some  attention  to  sen- 
sory recreation  is  to  be  urged.  The 
sane  and  middle  course  of  a  proper 
adjustment  of  work  and  play  is  the 
course  to  be  followed.  Neither  the  as- 
cetic nor  the  sybarite  gets  the  greatest 
value  out  of  life,  nor  gives  the  most 
in  return.  But  the  intelligent  exercise 
of  the  special  senses  does  minister  to 
health  and  happiness,  and  the  highest 
individual  development.  Recreation 
through  the  senses  should  have  its 
place  in  both  education  and  medicine. 


THE  SCENIC  NOVEL 


BY  ELLIS  PARKER  BUTLER 


I  HAVE  just  been  at  work  on  what 
will  undoubtedly  be  my  masterpiece 
when  I  get  all  the  trimmings  on  it.  At 
present  I  only  have  the  framework  up, 
but  every  day  will  see  progress,  from 
now  on.  I  am  thinking  of  having  a 
lithographed  picture  of  a  pretty  girl  on 
the  cover,  as  a  novelty,  but  that  is  a 
mere  detail. 

In  planning  the  novel  I  have  avoided 
the  commonplace.  The  ordinary  meth- 
od of  writing  a  novel  is  brick  by  brick, 
as  houses  were  built  in  the  old  days, 
but  I  have  adopted  the  sky-scraper 
type  of  construction,  erecting  a  steel 
frame  first  and  then  filling  in  the  terra- 
cotta veneer.  By  this  means  I  shall  se- 
cure a  strong,  earthquake-proof  novel, 
fireproof  and  carrying  a  low  rate  of 
insurance.  That  is  one  of  the  strong 
features.  The  other  is  that  this  is  to 
be  a  scenic  novel.  I  think  it  will  be, 
probably,  the  most  scenic  novel  ever 
written. 

I  have  done  this  because  I  believe 
the  public  is  pining  for  a  great  scenic 
masterpiece.  Heretofore,  it  has  been 
the  custom  to  use  scenery  for  the 
framework  of  the  novel  only,  building 
a  frame  of  local  color,  weather,  hills, 
and  houses,  and  then  filling  in  with 
courtship  and  love,  sudden  death,  hap- 
penings and  events.  But  I  believe  the 
time  has  come  when  the  love-novel  is 
beginning  to  pall,  and  I  have  reversed 
the  thing.  I  have  turned  the  novel  idea 
wrong  side  out.  I  am  using  the  love 
and  adventure  for  the  inconspicuous 
frame,  and  am  putting  all  the  excite- 
ment into  the  scenery.  Already  I  have 

424 


written  some  of  the  most  exciting  scen- 
ery ever  written  by  the  hand  of  man.  I 
believe  people  will  read  my  novel  with 
the  same  intense  desire  to  see  what 
happens  to  the  scenery  in  the  next 
chapter  as  that  with  which  they  have 
heretofore  followed  the  fortunes  of 
mere  heroes  and  heroines. 

About  all  the  attention  scenery  has 
received  from  the  novelist  lately  is 
shown  by  the  beginning  of  a  recent 
great  novel:  'The  woods  were  as  the 
Indians  had  left  them,  but  the  boys 
who  were  playing  there — '  And  then 
come  four  hundred  and  thirty-four 
pages  about  the  boys  —  and  a  girl  or 
two;  but  the  reader  who  feels  an  in- 
tense and  hungry  interest  in  scenery 
hardly  gets  ten  cents'  worth  in  the 
whole  dollar-and-a-half  novel,  until  the 
final  pages  are  reached  and  a  mill-pond 
arises  in  its  might  and  does  some 
drowning.  Here  the  frame  of  the  novel 
is  scenery,  and  the  novelist  neglects  it 
and  mistreats  it  until  the  last  chapter, 
and  then  he  has  to  come  on  his  knees 
and  beg  the  poor,  neglected  scenery  to 
rise  up  and  drown  the  villain,  making 
him  an  angel  at  last.  That  is  not  the 
right  way  to  treat  scenery. 

The  framework  of  my  novel  is  so 
simple  that  it  will  hardly  arouse  any 
interest  in  the  reader  at  all.  I  have 
made  it  so  in  order  that  the  strong, 
virile  scenery  may,  by  contrast,  grasp 
the  reader  with  a  terrific  grip  and  give 
him  thrills  of  joy.  My  framework,  or 
plot,  is  this:  My  hero  is  invited  out  to 
tea,  and  in  the  first  chapter  he  cannot 
decide  whether  he  will  go  or  not.  He 


THE  SCENIC   NOVEL 


425 


sits  thinking,  silently.  In  the  second 
chapter  he  decides  to  go  to  the  tea,  be- 
cause the  weather  is  fair,  with  a  rising 
barometer.  In  the  third  chapter  the 
barometer  falls  a  point  and  he  becomes 
doubtful  of  the  advisability  of  going  to 
tea  that  afternoon.  Along  toward  the 
end  of  the  novel  he  tries  to  make  up 
his  mind  whether  he  wants  to  go  out  to 
tea  or  have  tea  at  home,  and  decides 
he  will  have  tea  at  home.  In  the  last 
chapter  he  goes  to  the  tea-caddy  to  get 
his  tea  ready,  and  discovers  he  is  out  of 
tea,  and  so  he  goes  out  to  tea  after  all, 
and  the  novel  ends  happily. 

The  framework,  you  see,  is  strong 
and  free  from  flaws.  It  has  a  beginning 
and  a  middle  and  an  end,  and  works  up 
to  a  surprise  in  the  climax,  yet  ends 
happily.  A  pessimist  would  have  him 
drop  dead  when  he  discovers  he  has  no 
tea  in  his  tea-caddy,  but  I  do  not  re- 
quire any  such  crude  expedients.  I  get 
my  thrills  through  my  scenery. 

Instead  of  beginning  my  novel  with 
the  woods,  and  then  neglecting  them,  I 
begin  with  the  hero :  — 

'Horace  looked  out  of  the  window. 
Dashed  madly  against  the  side  of  the 
hill,  as  if  cast  there  by  ten  thousand 
wall-eyed  giants,  the  gashed  and 
gnarled  oak  trees  struggled  in  a  holo- 
caust of  upheaved  geology.  The  west- 
ern sky  gushed  fire.  Adown  the  valley 
the  stream  leaped  in  globes  of  purple 
splendor  and  broke  itself  upon  the 
mountain  crest,  where  its  spuming 
spray  gathered  new  impetus  and  broke 
the  dead  inertia  of  the  supine  penin- 
sula. It  was  Autumn!' 

That  is  interesting  scenery,  I  think. 
But  the  interest  increases  in  Chapter 
II,  where  he  decides  to  go  to  tea :  — 

'With  a  sigh,  Horace  crossed  his 
feet.  Over  the  eastern  ridge  the  holly- 
hocks bent  in  huge  parabolas,  now 
kissed  by  the  purling  plain,  now  ca- 
ressed by  the  dazzling  rainbow  that 
struck  the  plateau  amidships  and 


dashed  down,  down,  down,  until  it 
lost  itself  on  the  narrow  verge  of  the 
moss-covered  crags.  Beneath  this  and 
over  the  fen,  an  uprooted  daisy  — 
relic  of  some  vast,  prehistoric  page  — 
gave  forth  a  glimmer  of  greenish  gold, 
and  echoed  the  mirroring  face  of  the 
embattled  hemlock.  The  intervale  lay 
placidly  palpitating  under  its  garner- 
ed fringe  of  whispering  sunbeams.  All 
was  peace!  The  hemlock  twined  around 
the  clinging  vine  and  gave  forth  its  fra- 
grance to  the  summer  seas.  Beyond 
the  hollow  of  the  sweeping  sky  the  low- 
lying  heights  crumbled  slowly  into  the 
gathering  gloom,  and  a  mighty  knob, 
shaped  not  unlike  an  amethyst  blue, 
seemed' to  rock  the  sturdy  sunbeams  in 
the  hollow  of  their  hands.  They  were 
not  lost.  Each,  as  it  dartled  off,  gath- 
ered them  unto  its,  and  theirs  was 
thems.  Thems  was  is.  — ' 

Of  course,  that  bit  is  not  polished  up 
yet.  It  will  be  a  little  better  when  I  get 
the  polish  on,  but  it  shows  what  can  be 
done  with  scenery  when  the  mind  is  set 
firmly  on  the  task.  This  is  what  I  call 
the  Heroic  Style,  and  it  arouses  a  tri- 
umphal feeling  in  the  soul.  It  holds 
the  clash  of  arms  and  strains  the  Eng- 
lish language  to  the  breaking-point. 
After  this  burst,  and  in  Chapter  III,  I 
work  in  some  of  what  I  call  the  Docile 
Style  of  scenery.  This  style  calms  the 
fevered  mind,  and  renders  it  fit  for  the 
sharp  change  to  the  Chivalric  Style, 
which  I  use  in  the  next  chapter.  Chap- 
ter III  begins :  — 

'Horace  yawned.  The  farm  was 
wrapped  in  deep  repose.  Beyond  the 
drowsy  garden,  which  lay  asleep  in  the 
afternoon  sun,  the  fields  lay  hi  the 
afternoon  sun,  asleep;  and  still  beyond, 
sleeping  in  the  sun,  lay  the  meadows. 
Beyond  this  lay  the  sun,  asleep  on  the 
calm  bosom  of  the  sleeping  pasture. 
Here  lay  the  cows  and  kine,  asleep  in 
the  shade  of  the  drowsy  trees,  while  the 
cattle  slept  in  the  shadows  of  the  um- 


426 


THE  SCENIC  NOVEL 


brageous  foliage,  and  the  blades  of 
grass  bent  drowsily  in  the  heavy  som- 
nolence of  the  hour.  A  solitary  bee, 
alone  in  that  vast  stillness,  buzzed 
drowsily,  swayed,  and  fell  asleep  in  the 
heart  of  a  nodding  poppy.'  (I  hope  the 
printer  gets  this  'poppy'  and  not 
'puppy.'  The  last  time  I  had  a  bee  fall 
asleep  it  was  in  a  nodding  peony,  and 
the  printer  got  it  'pony.')  'Now  all 
was  peace.  Not  a  movement  disturbed 
the  quiet  of  the  earth,  and  thus  all  re- 
mained for  one  full  un-wakeful  hour. 
Then,  suddenly  and  as  if  by  magic,  all 
remained  exactly  the  same  for  another 
hour.  It  was  now  an  hour  later,  and 
all  remained  unchanged  for  an  hour. 
Peace  now  seemed  about  to  reign  o'er 
hill  and  dale  when,  like  a  thunder- 
burst,  a  blade  of  grass  grew  one  one- 
hundred-thousandth  of  an  inch.  The 
drowsy  bee  opened  one  eye,  sighed,  and 
all  was  still!' 

If  that  is  not  a  peaceful  rural  scene  I 
do  not  know  one  when  I  see  it,  and  yet 
things  are  happening  in  that  scenery 
all  the  time.  It  is  jammed  full  of  ac- 
tion. But,  by  this  time,  Horace  has 
yawned,  and  the  chapter  closes.  In  the 
beginning  of  Chapter  IV,  his  eye 
alights  on  his  own  tea-caddy,  which  is 
of  tin,  with  a  painted  decoration  of  a 
tropical  scene:  — 

'  Above  this  shore  the  luscious  palms 
sprang  upward,  and  around  it  the  la- 
goon swirled  dizzily,  beating  its  inter- 
minable rune  upon  the  coral  depths. 
But  inward  all  was  changed.  Dank  in 
the  deep  hollows  of  the  sweltering  mist 
the  moist  langoust  climbed  the  lithe 
branches  of  the  banyan  tree  and  dipped 
its  tips  in  the  wraith  of  a  by-gone  day. 
Along  the  studding  soil,  here  covered 
with  unending  vertebrae  of  insects, 
huge  monolithic  madrepores  groped 
their  sightless  way  and  wrapped  their 
crass  coils  about  the  dank  verbiage.' 

That  is  a  good  deal  of  scenery  to 
have  painted  on  one  side  of  a  tin  tea- 


caddy,  and  it  is  told  in  pretty  fine  lan- 
guage; but  Horace  turns  the  tea-caddy 
around  and  looks  at  the  other  side  of 
it:  — 

'  In  the  centre  of  this  glowering  mass 
shimmered  an  isochromatic  pool.  It 
seemed  as  if  wrested  out  of  the  yester- 
days of  some  carboniferous  age  but  to  be 
planted  here  by  some  gigantesque  hand. 
Here  anthracite  and  hematite  vied  in 
common  council,  and  locked  themselves 
in  an  embrace  of  steely  pangs.  Their 
many-spored  anticles  swayed  tremu- 
lously in  the  forbidding  miasma,  and 
wept  sad  tears  of  pale  sickly  collodion 
that  fell  with  a  nauseating  splash  into 
the  humid  coffer  of  the  moor.' 

Naturally,  Horace  decides  he  does 
not  want  any  tea  anywhere,  but  in  the 
next  chapter,  as  he  is  putting  the  tea- 
caddy  back  on  the  shelf,  he  sees  the 
third  side  of  the  tea-caddy:  — 

'Not  elsewhere  on  earth  could  the 
same  riot  of  color  and  hue  be  seen. 
Vast  splashes  of  indigo  ran  dazzlingly 
athwart  the  crimson  greens,  and  cried 
aloud  in  purple  ochre.  Like  shocks  of 
arms,  the  blistering  bistre  stabbed  the 
insurgent  grays  and  burst  in  gold  and 
copper  —  red  as  the  rosy  morn  — 
against  the  general  undertone.  And 
yet  —  and  yet  —  and  yet  mauve  was 
everywhere!  It  tinged  the  orchids 
hanging  from  the  silent  baobabs  and 
flashed  in  the  raucous  birds  that  darted 
glowingly  among  the  tangent  boughs. 
Huge  lizards  stared  at  monster  newts, 
big-eyed  and  glowering,  and  in  the  si- 
lence clashed  their  fangs  upon  the 
doom  of  day. 

'It  was  the  tropic  noon.  The  heat 
arose  in  burning  clouds  of  gauze  and 
swept  the  hill  above  with  shuddering 
glance.  Far,  far  up,  the  eagle  swayed 
above  the  pallid  crest  and  swooped  to 
gash  the  passing  of  the  morn.  But  in 
these  depths  no  light  of  sun  sank  down; 
here  all  was  dark ! ' 

I'll  bet  that  was  hard  to  paint  on  a 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


427 


tea-caddy!  At  any  rate  it  made  Horace 
hungry,  and  he  decides  to  have  tea  at 
home  with  thin  bread  sandwiches.  He 
looks  into  the  tea-caddy,  gasps,  and 
faints. 

While  he  is  fainting  the  barometer 
falls  steadily,  with  rain  and  gales  pre- 
dicted for  Western  Connecticut  and 
Eastern  New  York.  He  comes  to  with 
the  empty  tea-caddy  in  his  hand,  fully 
resolved  to  go  out  for  tea,  just  as  the 
storm  breaks:  — 

'  It  came  unheralded,  springing  from 
whence  nor  where,  wracking  its  dread- 
some  teeth  upon  the  undertones.  The 
harsh  wind  howled  among  the  piute 
trees,  tossing  the  laden  fruit  in  scores 
upon  the  same,  and  whirling  ever  to 
the  rhythmic  zones.  The  crash  of 
mighty  giants  clashed  the  ear  and 
wrested  thus  the  peace  that  fled  from 


sight,  sobbing  and  shuddering  in  the 
awful  gloom,  while  splash  on  splash  the 
lightning  burst  upon  the  haughty  head 
of  hematite  and  vox,  and  slang  them 
upward  with  unwearying  tangs.  Chaos 
was  loose,  bold  seons  sank,  and  the  black 
gross  cosine  of  primeval  days ! ' 

But,  as  might  have  been  expected,  it 
all  turns  out  to  be  a  gentle  little  after- 
noon shower.  The  clouds  drift  over, 
the  barometer  rises,  and  — 

'Swift,  swift  upon  the  deadened  ear 
as  sombre  cymbal  through  the  startled 
air,  dull  silence  fell,  awakened  only  by 
the  moaning  soul,  side-swept  from  some 
ethereal  subterfuge  to  pass  completely 
by  the  sodden  soil!' 

Horace  looks  at  the  barometer,  puts 
on  a  pair  of  rubber  overshoes,  takes  his 
umbrella  in  his  hand,  and  goes  out  to 
tea,  and  the  novel  ends  happily. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


INVALIDS  AND    THEIR   FRIENDS 

INVALIDS,  as  invalids,  are  seldom 
rightly  appreciated.  In  their  common 
human  individuality  they  may  be  cod- 
dled, even  loved ;  but  as  a  class  they  are 
anathema  on  every  tongue.  Practical 
uplifters  of  the  world  condemn  them  as 
a  social  burden;  fastidious  pleasure- 
seekers  despise  them  as  lacking  'vi- 
vacity'; and  —  worst  fate  of  all —  ten- 
der-hearted sentimentalists  pity  them 
because  they  'cannot  enjoy  life.'  Yet, 
in  truth,  though  the  given  invalid  is 
too  often  a  vicious,  uninteresting,  or 
pitiable  specimen,  the  type  is  some- 
thing that  the  world  could  ill  afford  to 
lose.  The  essence  of  invalidism  is  not 
pain,  or  poultices,  or  poverty,  or  peev- 
ishness —  though  any  of  these  except 


the  last  may  profitably  be  among  its 
incidentals.  Like  most  of  God's  gifts 
to  man,  it  may  fulfill  itself  in  various 
ways.  But  its  necessary  character  is 
nothing  more  than  an  enforced  limit- 
ing of  the  field  of  life's  activities.  Life 
being,  at  best,  an  affair  of  but  a  few 
score  years,  with  a  faculty  of  eating  up 
its  moments  much  more  rapidly  than 
it  can  exhaust  their  possibilities,  it  mat- 
ters little  where  we  set  the  limits  of  the 
field.  A  very  small  corner  will  absorb 
a  vast  amount  of  cultivation.  In  an 
unlimited  field  a  man  runs  about  fever- 
ishly, snatching  at  the  complement  of 
painful  excitement  which  is  the  means 
of  realizing  his  existence.  The  invalid, 
on  the  contrary,  may  rest  serenely 
while  his  existence  realizes  itself. 
This  serene,  quiescent  receptivity  of 


428 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


the  invalid,  grateful  as  it  may  be  sub- 
jectively, is  undoubtedly  an  obstacle 
in  the  path  of  the  social  uplifter.  In- 
valids, like  the  idle  rich,  are  abhorrent 
to  the  social  conscience.  They  are  not 
of  the  producing  classes.  They  toil  not, 
neither  do  they  spin.  Their  mouths 
are  perpetually  agape  for  unmerited 
miraculous  loaves  and  fishes.  They 
gather  where  they  do  not  sow.  With- 
out possessing  recognized  authority 
they  say  to  this  man,  'Go,'  and  he 
goeth;  to  another,  'Come,'  and  he 
cometh;  and  to  every  man,  their  serv- 
ant, 'Do  this,'  and  he  doeth  it.  The 
practical  uplifter,  with  the  narrow 
range  of  view  so  often  characteristic  of 
both  practicality  and  uplift,  may  be 
pardoned  if  he  finds  these  things  ob- 
jectionable. But  his  war  against  them 
is  estopped  because  they  are  inevitable. 
No  invalid  boasts  that  he  is  'not  as 
other  men.'  If  he  did  so  —  if  he  were 
an  invalid  by  choice,  and  not  by  divine 
right  —  he  might  well  be  condemned 
as  self-indulgent.  But  because  his  dis- 
tinction is  forced  upon  him  he  goes  down 
to  his  house  justified.  He  achieves  the 
consecration  and  the  glamour  of  mar- 
tyrdom, not  by  having  his  body  racked, 
but  by  having  his  will  violated.  Now 
the  will,  as  the  Hegelians  teach  us, 
is  elastic;  and  violations,  with  the  eter- 
nal rebound  by  which  the  will  rises 
triumphant  over  them,  constitute  its 
very  existence.  The  invalid,  therefore, 
though  a  burden  to  the  community,  is 
such  a  burden  as  the  poet,  the  philo- 
sopher, and  the  saint.  He  serves  as 
they  also  who  only  stand  and  wait,  set- 
ting before  the  world  in  his  own  per- 
son an  example  of  how  slight  the  exer- 
tion, and  how  few  the  external  points  of 
stimulus,  required  to  keep  burning  in 
man's  life  that  constant  gemlike  flame 
of  pure  sensation  which  is  its  fullness 
and,  when  rightly  used,  may  be  its 

joy. 

Justified  or  not  justified  in  his  econo- 


mic standing,  the  invalid  is  too  often  an 
uninteresting  companion.  Usually  the 
individual,  rather  than  the  type,  is  at 
fault.  Most  invalids  become  peevish 
from  mere  convention,  and  in  their 
peevishness  they  build  an  evil  conven- 
tion ever  higher.  But  aside  from  this, 
the  very  advantages  of  the  invalid's 
lot  unfit  him  for  fellowship  with  the 
pleasure-seeker.  His  pleasures  are  self- 
ish pleasures,  but  justifiably  selfish, 
because  incommunicable.  When  he 
enjoys  himself  he  seldom  knows  it,  and 
he  never  can  admit  it.  The  very  pos- 
sibility seems  an  affront  to  his  sympa- 
thetic neighbors.  He  rejoices,  as  pious 
Isaak  Walton  makes  the  Cynic  say, 
'Lord!  How  many  things  there  are  in 
this  world  of  which  Diogenes  hath  no 
need";  and  this  is  hardly  a  sentiment 
to  share  with  persons  whose  glory  is  in 
needing  and  seeking  many  things. 

That  which  is  at  rest  cannot  im- 
part momentum.  Therefore  the  invalid 
is  repulsive  to  those  unquiet  souls  so 
characteristic  of  our  own  age,  and  yet 
so  common  to  all  ages  that  Montaigne 
could  say  three  hundred  years  ago, 
'Occupation  is  with  certain  minds  a 
mark  of  understanding  and  dignity: 
they  seek  repose  in  agitation  as  babes 
are  rocked  to  sleep  in  cradles.'  For 
such  the  invalid  can  have  but  a  nega- 
tive value:  viewing  his  condition  they 
may  thank  God  devoutedly  for  what 
they  have  escaped,  and  may  cultivate 
at  his  expense  the  sentiment  of  com- 
passion, which  is  really  a  valuable  pos- 
session for  a  busy  man.  A  certain 
amount  of  idealization  is  necessary  for 
fellowship  with  invalids;  but  lasting 
friendships  must  in  any  case  rest  upon 
some  such  foundation,  for  our  friends, 
being  human,  can  be  fairly  known  to 
us  only  through  charity,  and  our  friend- 
ships are  none  the  less  real  and  precious 
when  we  have  admitted  that  'the  best 
in  this  kind  are  but  shadows '  —  unless 
imagination  mend  them. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


But,  after  all,  the  practical  uplifter 
and  the  fastidious  pleasure-seeker  must 
not  be  taken  too  seriously.  It  is  the 
good-hearted,  sensible,  plodding  senti- 
mentalists who  people  and  preserve  the 
world;  and  the  greatest  danger  of  the 
invalid  is  that  these  should  overwhelm 
him  with  their  pity  as  the  Sabines  did 
Tarpeia  with  their  shields.  The  sym- 
pathy, like  the  gratitude,  of  men  will 
often  leave  him  mourning.  He  will 
try  in  vain  to  escape  the  ministrations 
of  those  who  are  charitably  determined 
to '  take  him  out  of  himself,' '  make  him 
forget  himself,'  'kill  time  for  him,'  and 
'give  him  something  to  do,'  —  forget- 
ting, in  their  zeal,  that  the  wretched- 
ness of  a  resourceful  man  consists  in 
having  too  little  time  and  a  great  deal 
too  much  to  do. 

Young  people  in  particular  —  inso- 
lent young  animals  whom  the  thump- 
ing red  blood  of  the  brute  whips  con- 
stantly into  purposeless  activity  — 
cannot  understand  how  any  one  can 
live  without  action  and  without  amuse- 
ment. '  He  owned  that  he  enjoyed  life 
very  much,  and  that  he  had  a  great 
desire  to  live  longer,'  writes  young 
Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  on  the 
death  of  his  father's  friend,  Wilber- 
force.  'Strange  in  a  man  who  had,  I 
should  have  said,  so  little  to  attach 
him  to  this  world,  and  so  firm  a  belief 
in  another;  in  a  man  with  an  impaired 
fortune,  a  weak  spine,  and  a  worn-out 
stomach.'  The  aged  Wilberforce  might 
have  retorted  that  in  age  he  had,  for 
the  first  time,  an  opportunity  to  look 
about  and  enjoy  himself.  To  him  it 
must  have  seemed  that  young  Macau- 
lay,  with  the  weight  of  an  Indian  em- 
pire on  him,  a  Whig  revolution  to 
glorify,  his  father's  family  to  support, 
and  all  the  wearisome  duties  of  a  Lon- 
don dandy  to  perform,  was  the  man  to 
be  weary  of  living. 

For,  after  every  pain  and  depriva- 
tion, the  invalid  possesses  three  advan- 


tages for  which  the  able  worker  strives 
in  vain.  He  has  command  of  leisure,  a 
quiet  conscience,  and  a  chance  to  see 
the  best  of  other  men.  The  able  worker 
is  tormented  by  a  thousand  labors  he 
intends  to  perform,  a  thousand  books 
he  intends  to  read,  and  a  thousand 
thoughts  he  intends  to  pursue  to  their 
finer  implications.  The  invalid,  on  the 
contrary,  can  reasonably  intend  to  do 
nothing;  each  new  experience  is  to  him 
an  undiscounted  miracle.  The  able 
worker  has  his  own  necessities  to  sup- 
ply; a  refractory  world  to  keep  in  order; 
and,  at  lowest,  he  must  work,  as  Dio- 
genes beat  his  tub  about  the  market- 
place, because  he  is  ashamed  to  be 
idle.  But  the  invalid's  work,  being  in- 
effectual, may  be  withheld  with  a  clear 
conscience;  his  condition  being  recog- 
nized as  miserable,  he  is  not  under  the 
harrowing  necessity  of  enjoying  him- 
self; his  doctor  being  responsible,  he  is 
not  even  obliged  to  try  to  keep  him- 
self alive. 

Lastly,  the  able  worker  is  constant- 
ly exposing  the  ugly  and  vicious  traits 
that  flaw  the  nature  of  his  fellows. 
But  the  invalid  comes  in  contact  with 
his  fellows  mostly  when  they  are  sane- 
ly at  rest,  or  when  they  are  in  action 
only  to  do  him  good.  Boast  as  he 
may,  he  touches  here  the  wide,  per- 
vading charity  which  shows  humanity 
to  be  greater  than  any  of  its  parts.  The 
love  which  the  world  hides  from  her 
abler  children  is  unveiled  to  make  him 
humble.  Before  the  strong,  gentle,  ten- 
der, patient  friends  who  bear  with  him, 
he  stands  in  silence — perhaps  the  more 
abashed  because  he  knows  they  are 
not  strong,  gentle,  tender,  and  patient 
by  necessity,  or  in  their  freer  dealings 
with  the  rougher  world.  He  feels  that 
it  would  be  good  to  be  one  of  them,  or 
—  this  being  impossible  —  that  it  is 
good  to  be  the  object  of  their  ministra- 
tions, and  to  be  able  to  clasp  hands 
with  them,  if  only  as  an  invalid. 


430 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB 


BORN   OUT   OF  TIME 

BY  a  thousand  indubitable  signs  I 
realize  that  the  time  has  come  for  me 
to  grumble.  The  world  does  not  alto- 
gether suit  me,  and  I  begin  to  say,  with 
a  dubious  shaking  of  the  head,  that  it 
was  not  so  when  I  was  young.  Now 
and  then,  to  be  sure,  it  crosses  my  mind 
that  in  those  far-off  days  things  were 
not  altogether  to  my  liking;  but  this 
occasional  twinge  of  memory  I  conceal 
from  the  young  of  to-day.  Possibly 
the  spring  hats  help  me  to  realize  how 
many  are  the  present  ways  of  life  which 
I  cannot  understand.  Certainly  they 
are  so  fashioned  as  to  strike  home  to 
any  rational  mind  a  sense  of  change, 
and  I  often  rub  my  eyes,  wondering  if 
it  is  real,  this  world  of  the  grotesque  in 
straw,  and  of  equally  choice  novelties 
in  thought  and  in  habit.  Wide-eyed, 
I  marvel  at  my  juniors,  at  their  lan- 
guage, their  ways  of  thinking,  their 
attitude  toward  their  elders,  their  taste 
in  the  matter  of  doing  their  hair,  and 
in  literature,  both  of  which  seem  a  bit 
sensational. 

I  was  born  out  of  time!  Lover  of 
time-honored  ways,  inheritor  of  home- 
spun tastes  in  a  world  of  shining,  flimsy 
silk  and  sham  velvet,  —  what  place  is 
there  for  me  in  the  modern  life?  The 
world  has  grown  smart,  and  I  am  un- 
able to  achieve  even  an  admiration  for 
smartness,  for  I  like  quiet  corners,  and 
the  sound  of  old-fashioned  ideas  dis- 
cussed at  length  therein.  The  duties 
of  eld  press  upon  me,  and  I  feel  that 
upon  my  shoulders  is  laid  the  burden, 
not  of  prophecy,  but  of  loud  lamenta- 
tion over  the  passing  of  the  past.  The 
whole  emphasis  on  things  seems  to 
have  changed  from  inner  to  outer 
values,  from  faith  in  the  indubitable 
realities  of  the  unseen,  to  a  belief 
in  that  which  can  be  merely  seen  and 
touched. 

A,s  I  write  this,  a  certain  feeling  of 


self-satisfaction  enwraps  me,  and  I  re- 
vel in  a  fine  oncoming  sense  of  the  all- 
too-great-wisdom  of  age.  It  is  no  small 
satisfaction  to  feel  that  so  many  of  my 
contemporaries  are  blinded  by  the  shows 
of  things,  which  my  more  penetrating 
glance  pierces;  but  this  joy  is  short- 
lived, for,  thinking  more  deeply,  I  find 
in  myself  a  limitation  and  a  lack.  With 
apprehension  I  realize  how  far  I  lag  be- 
hind the  race,  and  I  begin  to  wonder 
if  I  do  not  belong  to  an  already  extinct 
species,  like  the  trilobite,  which  prob- 
ably had  no  use  for  fresh  ideas.  I  dis- 
like new  inventions.  Why  did  they  de- 
vise the  telephone?  Communication 
between  individuals  of  the  human  race 
was  much  too  free-and-easy  before. 
What  chance  has  a  man  now  to  think? 
to  develop?  to  learn  to  know  him- 
self and  to  be  himself?  What  privacy 
is  there?  Whither  may  he  retreat?  He 
goes,  perchance,  into  the  innermost 
sanctuary  of  his  being;  the  world  is 
upon  him  in  a  motor-car.  He  retires  to 
the  holy  of  holies  of  himself;  the  tele- 
phone bell  jangles;  wireless  messages 
pursue  him  to  the  uttermost  parts  of 
the  sea.  The  telegraph  boy,  the  uni- 
formed messenger,  lurk  by  the  portal 
of  the  human  soul,  waiting  for  it  to 
come  out  so  that  they  may  pounce 
upon  it. 

My  state  of  mind  is  foolish;  I  dare 
say  my  grandfather  felt  just  this  way 
about  steam-cars  and  the  doctrine  of 
evolution,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  I  re- 
sent new  truths  and  new  theories.  It  is 
no  comfort  to  me  that  the  leg  of  one 
animal  will  grow  upon  another,  and,  if 
one  tenth  of  the  stories  of  lingering 
agony  be  true,  it  is  small  comfort  to 
either  animal. 

So  I  jog  along  in  the  old  way,  pick- 
ing out  the  old  footprints,  living  in  a 
house  with  no  telephone,  and  no  ap- 
proach for  motor-cars.  Imagine  the  lot 
of  poor  Job  if  his  three  friends  had  been 
able  to  arrive  with  present-day  swift- 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


431 


ness!  Imagine  how  many  more  would 
have  come  if  transit  had  been  as  rapid 
and  as  easy  as  in  these  days! 

It  is  certainly  most  uncomfortable, 
this  tendency  of  the  human  race  to 
progress;  I  should  like  the  world  better 
if  things  stayed  put.  I  had  grown  used 
to  it,  almost  reconciled  to  it,  and  here 
it  goes  speeding  like  the  wind  away 
from  me  over  leagues  of  roadway;  flut- 
tering into  the  air  over  my  head,  ob- 
scuring the  infinite  blue;  and  discover- 
ing in  earth  magic  new  elements  that 
disturb  the  number  of  those  I  was 
taught  years  ago  at  a  thoroughly  good 
school.  Perhaps  each  one  of  us  in  his 
own  way  lags  behind  his  generation, 
and  the  habit  is  probably  an  old  one. 
Doubtless  the  ichthyosaurus  resented 
the  way  in  which  the  dinosaur  gained 
upon  him,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that 
the  Neanderthaler  man,  who  with  dif- 
ficulty walked  upright,  —  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it  we  have  not  got 
much  beyond  that  now,  —  made  it  ex- 
tremely uncomfortable  for  whatever 
human  thing  it  was  that  went  before 
him  on  four  legs. 

Now  that  I  remember,  in  the  days 
of  my  youth  my  elders  used  to  feel 
precisely  as  I  do  now  about  the  man- 
ners and  the  ideas  of  the  young.  Can 
it  be  that  anything  was  really  wrong 
then?  The  one  unchanging  thing  in 
this  world  of  change  is  the  way  of  the 
grandparent  in  discovering  the  limit- 
ations of  the  grandchild,  and  yet,  in 
spite  of  all  misgivings,  the  youngsters 
seem  to  make  some  progress  for  the 
race  as  they  trudge  on  into  middle 
age.  It  is  just  conceivable  that  there 
is  growth  down  under  the  fantastic  ap-  . 
pearances  of  to-day;  outward  signs  do 
not  always  fully  reveal  the  shaping 
powers  within. 

I  fancy  that  it  has  been  thus  with 
every  organism  in  the  long  chain  of 
being  since  the  first  amoeba  started 
shrinkingly  on  its  fluid  way.  A  bit 


belated  and  a  bit  in  advance,  a  bit 
ahead,  a  bit  behind  one's  generation, 
—  so  we  go  stumbling  on  in  the  old 
fashion  of  any  living  creature  seeking 
adjustmeht.  Ah,  if  one  could  only  find 
the  secret  plan  in  the  seemingly  illog- 
ical, irrational  fashion  in  which  life  goes 
jogging  on,  dumb  to  the  demand  of  the 
young  that  justice  shall  appear  in  all 
its  workings,  as  to  the  prayer  of  the  old 
that  reason  shall  prevail;  capable  of 
working  out  splendid  achievements  by 
its  droll  methods  of  advance,  retreat, 
concession,  —  going  all  ways  at  once. 
The  shambling  step  of  Mother  Nature, 
after  all,  leads  to  glorious  goals.  Does 
each  man  feel  a  bit  out  of  place  in  his 
generation?  How,  otherwise,  could  the 
ceaseless  process  go  on?  Endless  be- 
coming seems  to  be  the  principle  on 
which  this  queer  old  universe  is  made ; 
did  anybody,  or  any  living  thing,  ever 
exist  which  was  not '  born  out  of  time '  ? 

*  THE  BOOTS ' 

THE  Prince  of  Darkness!  What  a 
wealth  of  suggestiveness  in  that  old 
phrase  which  once  had  only  theolog- 
ical significance,  but  now  is  surely  ap- 
plicable only  to  him  who  shines  in 
darkness,  —  'The  Boots.'  There  are 
few  persons  about  whom  I  have  so 
great  a  curiosity  as  about  this  the  most 
serviceable  being  in  Europe.  Nobody 
else  in  England  or  on  the  Continent 
works  so  deftly  by  night,  nobody  else 
has  such  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
or  such  accurate  information  about  the 
details  of  travel.  The  Boots  is,  indeed, 
the  very  basic  element  in  the  traveler's 
comfort. 

There  is  a  kind  of  charm  in  the  fact 
that  he  never  has  a  proper  name; 
not  Tom  or  Will  or  Jack,  but  always 
the  generalized  term, 'the  Boots.'  We 
never  call  the  cook '  the  kettles,'  nor  the 
clergyman  'the  sinners';  why  should 
one  member  of  society  be  singled  out 


432 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


to  receive  a  poetic  appellation?  Is  it 
not  because  we  recognize  something 
picturesque,  poetic,  unusual,  in  his  re- 
lation to  human  kind?  He  makes  no 
demand  that  we  recognize  His  person- 
ality. He  perfects  his  work  in  the  gen- 
erous silence  of  self-abnegation,  willing 
to  be  hidden  behind  a  figure  of  speech 
which  most  of  us  cannot  identify. 

Assuredly  we  take  him  too  much  as 
a  matter  of  course,  and  accept  his 
services  thoughtlessly;  we  never  pause 
to  ponder  over  the  strange  life  which 
he  leads,  this  ruler  over  all  the  shades, 
who  gives  lustre  to  all  he  touches. 
Muddy,  stained,  demoralized  though 
your  shoes  may  be  at  ten  p.  M.,  at 
dawn  they  stand  before  your  door  so 
decorous,  so  statuesque,  with  shining 
morning  faces,  that  you  long  to  hear 
the  tale  of  their  midnight  wanderings. 
The  process  calls  for  a  bit  of  supersti- 
tious wonder,  for  it  seems  to  realize  the 
old  legends  about  that '  merry  wanderer 
of  the  night,'  who  may  now  use  Puck's 
polish,  following  darkness  like  a  dream. 

Think  of  the  Boots's  experience  in 
judging  human  nature  by  its  shoes! 
He,  if  anybody,  knows  what  is  the  chief 
end  of  man.  Doubtless  he  reads  char- 
acter as  subtly  as  Sherlock  Holmes 
could,  and  might  give  extensive  com- 
mentaries upon  his  acquaintances. 
From  the  shape  and  style  and  qual- 
ity of  your  shoes,  from  the  places 
which  show  wear,  he  can  deduce  your 
nationality,  your  age,  your  character, 
even  your  religion,  for,  flat  as  the 
joke  is,  the  Boots  distinguishes  be- 
tween soles  and  souls.  He  knows  your 


whole  walk  in  life,  —  to  the  very  last. 

What  is  his  outlook  on  the  world? 
Is  he  a  melancholy  man  inclined  to 
look  darkly  at  all  things,  or  is  it  only 
over  boots,  shoes,  and  slippers  that  he 
casts  the  pall  of  his  dark  spirit?  Is 
he  jocund  ?  Does  he,  with  Herrick,  love 
a  careless  shoestring?  Is  he  a  respecter 
of  persons,  has  he  preferences  in  boots, 
or  are  all  equal  in  his  sight?  Does  he 
grudge  humanity  two  feet  apiece,  par- 
ticularly muddy  tourists,  and  does  he 
join  with  Caligula  and  wish  that  'all  the 
Roamin'  people  had  but  one  foot'? 

Lest  I  make  too  much  of  a  fetish  of 
the  Boots,  I  must  turn  to  other  aspects 
of  his  life.  He  polishes  knives,  he  car- 
ries luggage,  he  is  general  factotum, 
and,  in  especial,  a  trustworthy  and 
accurate  source  of  information.  He 
knows  the  difference  between  Car- 
lyle  and  Carlisle,  he  can  understand 
that  when  you  say  '  freight '  you  mean 
'goods.'  Last  summer  I  asked  a  hotel 
proprietor  how  many  feet  there  are 
in  the  English  mile.  He  disappeared 
for  an  entire  day.  I  realize  now,  that 
I  should  have  asked  the  Boots.  As  a 
judge  of  hotels  and  lodging-houses, 
the  Boots  is  unequaled.  What  do  we 
not  owe  to  the  Boots  at  the  Rothay 
for  his  suggestion  about  a  lodging  at 
Grasmere?  Did  not  he  recommend  that 
bower  of  roses  where  we  sat  all  day  long 
beside  the  clear  little  river,  watching 
the  Wordsworthian  hills?  Quiet,  re- 
spectful service  he  always  renders  you, 
yet  sometimes  there  must  be  moments 
of  despondency,  for 

Alas!  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care? 


A    CORRECTION 

IN  an  article  on  '  Socialism  and  Hu- 
man Achievement,'  in  the  January 
Atlantic,  the  author  stated  that  in 
Washington  'thousands  of  [govern- 
ment] employees  go  to  work  in  the 
morning  at  nine  or  ten  o'clock  and  go 
home  at  two  or  three  in  the  after- 


noon.' This  statement  is  not  in  ac- 
cord with  the  facts.  In  the  clerical 
departments  of  the  government  serv- 
ice, a  rigidly-enforced  seven-hour  day 
prevails,  while  in  the  government  print- 
ing-office employees  are  required  to 
work  eight  full  hours.  The  Atlantic  is 
glad  to  give  space  to  this  necessary 
correction.  —  THE  EDITORS. 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 

APRIL,  1911 

• 
I 

THE  TENDENCY  OF  MUNICIPAL  GOVERNMENT  IN 
THE  UNITED  STATES 

BY  GEORGE  B.  McCLELLAN 


MUNICIPAL  muck-rakers  have  insist- 
ed so  constantly  that  the  ever-increas- 
ing cost  of  municipal  government  in  the 
United  States  is  due  to  the  waste  and 
corruption  of  city  officials,  that  there 
has  been  a  general  disposition  to  accept 
their  charge  as  true.  Fortunately  the 
muck-raker  seems  to  have  had  his  day, 
and  is  rapidly  losing  the  influence  which 
he  wielded  a  few  years  ago.  While  he 
has  succeeded  in  discrediting  our  muni- 
cipalities in  the  opinion  of  the  foreign- 
er, his  excesses  have  discredited  him  in 
the  opinion  of  the  people  of  this  coun- 
try, so  that  at  last  and  at  least  they  are 
willing  to  discuss  municipal  problems 
with  a  certain  amount  of  calmness. 

It  is  as  unfair  to  assume  that  the 
rapid  increase  which  has  recently  taken 
place  in  the  cost  of  municipal  govern- 
ment has  been  due  to  criminal  waste 
and  corruption  as  it  would  be  to  make 
the  same  assumption  in  reference  to  the 
cost  of  governing  the  several  states  and 
the  nation. 

While  it  is  perfectly  true  that  the 
budgets  of  our  cities  have  increased 
with  startling  rapidity  during  the  last 
few  years,  it  is  no  less  true  that  the  cost 

VOL.  107 -NO.  4 


of  governing  the  states  has  increased 
with  proportionate  speed,  and  that  in 
eighteen  years  the  cost  of  governing  the 
United  States  has  exactly  doubled.  But 
no  matter  how  little  civic  pride  we  may 
have,  no  matter  how  readily  we  may 
damn  city  officials  who  are  trying  to  do 
their  best,  we  always  hesitate  to  believe 
that  our  governors  and  our  presidents 
are  corrupt. 

The  constantly  increasing  cost  of 
municipal  government  is  due  to  causes 
far  more  subtle  and  far  more  compli- 
cated than  corrupt  officials,  dishonest 
bosses,  or  rotten  political  machines. 

It  is  the  fashion  among  those  who 
throw  stones  at  municipal  government 
in  this  country  to  compare  it,  greatly  to 
its  disadvantage,  with  municipal  gov- 
ernment in  England;  the  ultimate  test 
always  being  the  difference  in  cost.  The 
statement  that  municipal  government 
is  far  cheaper  there  than  here,  is  pre- 
dicated upon  the  total  of  budgets  in 
English  and  American  cities,  which  for 
purposes  of  comparison  is  of  course 
valueless.  So  far  as  I  know,  the  only 
effort  that  has  been  made  toward  a  fair 
comparison  is  that  of  President  Lowell 
(The  Government  of  England,  vol.  ii,  p. 
195,  note  1),  who  has  worked  out  a  very 


434 


THE  TENDENCY  OF  MUNICIPAL  GOVERNMENT 


satisfactory  basis.  President  Lowell 
takes  Boston  as  his  typical  American 
city,  the  per  capita  cost  of  government 
in  Boston  being  almost  the  highest  of 
any  city  in  the  Union.  He  finds  the  Bos- 
ton tax  rate  for  1906  to  be  equivalent  to 
an*English  rate  of  seven  shillings  in  the 
pound.  The  rates  for  1906  in  the  ten 
largest  boroughs  of  England  and  Wales 
ranged  from  7s.  4d.  in  Birmingham  to 
10s.  8d.  in  West  Ham.  'In  the  various 
parishes  that  make  up  the  County  of 
London  the  rates  vary  a  great  deal.  In 
one  case  alone  they  were  in  1906  less 
than  6  shillings.  In  most  of  the  parishes 
they  were  more  than  7  shillings,  in  many 
cases  more  than  8  shillings;  in  several 
more  than  9  shillings,  and  in  the  three 
parishes  of  Poplar  they  were  12  shil- 
lings.' In  other  words,  the  highest  cost 
of  municipal  government  in  the  United 
States  was  less  than  that  of  any  of  the 
large  cities  of  England .  It  would ,  there- 
fore, seem  that  there  is  the  same  tend- 
ency toward  high  cost  of  municipal  gov- 
ernment in  England  as  here,  and  it  is 
fair  to  suppose  that  the  same  causes  of 
increasing  expenditure  are  at  work  in 
the  two  countries. 

One  of  the  curious  traits  of  our  na- 
tional character  is  that  we  have  always 
assumed  that  we  are  a  peculiar  people, 
living  under  a  special  Providence,  a  law 
and  an  inspiration  to  ourselves;  while 
in  reality  we  are,  like  every  other  civil- 
ized nation  on  earth,  responsive  to  the 
spirit  and  opinion  of  the  time. 

Although  Jeremy  Bentham  began  to 
obtain  his  hold  upon  the  thought  of  the 
world  early  in  the  last  century,  it  was 
not  until  after  his  death,  in  1832,  that 
the  direct  results  of  his  philosophy  were 
accomplished.  Bentham  applied  prac- 
tically, through  legislation,  Priestley's 
formula,  that  the  one  object  of  life  is 
'  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest 
number.' 

In  the  United  States  under  the  guid- 
ance of  Jefferson,  constitution-worship 


had  produced  a  general  faith  in  the 
power  of  law.  Yet  side  by  side  with  the 
doctrine  of  constitutional  infallibility 
was  the  belief  in  the  social  compact,  and 
the  so-called  inalienable  rights  of  man. 
Before  he  left  the  presidency,  while  still 
preaching  the  rights  of  man  with  all  his 
old  fervor,  Jefferson  had  become,  per- 
haps unconsciously,  as  had  his  follow- 
ers, —  and  they  included  most  of  the 
people  of  the  United  States,  —  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  a  practical  and  an 
ardent  Benthamite.  The  belief  in  indi- 
vidualism became  as  all-pervading  and 
as  strong  as  the  belief  in  the  constitu- 
tion. The  direct  consequences  of  Ben- 
thamism were  the  freedom  and  sanct- 
ity of  contract,  and  the  freedom  of  the 
individual. 

The  constitution-fetich  of  Jefferson, 
the  statute-worship  of  Bentham,  neces- 
sarily resulted  in  inculcating  a  firm  be- 
lief in  the  efficacy  of  legislation.  The 
right  of  every  man  to  work  out  his  own 
salvation  in  his  own  way,  provided  that 
in  so  doing  he  does  not  interfere  with 
any  one  else,  being  conceded,  it  follows 
that  absolute  freedom  of  contract  be- 
comes an  essential  concomitant  to  such 
right.  But  for  full  contractual  liberty, 
the  help  of  the  state  is  almost  always 
necessary.  Unless  a  contract  once  made 
is  maintained  by  law,  the  right  to  con- 
tract is  valueless.  Absu  rd  as  it  may  seem, 
the  Benthamite  recognized  the  right  of 
the  individual  to  contract  away  his  con- 
tractual freedom,  in  corporate  or  labor- 
union  combinations.  But  to  insure  such 
freedom  the  support  of  the  law  is  neces- 
sary. Both  Jefferson  and  Bentham  were 
inclined  to  consider  the  law  an  end  in 
itself,  and  to  forget  that  it  is  only 
the  instrument  through  which  public 
opinion  speaks,  that  it  is  only  the  recog- 
nition of  existing  custom,  that  it  merely 
prescribes  a  penalty  for  a  preexistent 
offense.  From  this  consideration  it  was 
but  a  step  to  regard  law  as  an  omni- 
scient consciousness,  omnipotent  to 


THE  TENDENCY  OF  MUNICIPAL  GOVERNMENT 


435 


accomplish  whatever  its  authors  might 
decree.  When  collectivism  began  to 
influence  public  opinion  in  the  United 
States,  this  view  of  legislation  made  of 
it  a  ready  vehicle  for  the  expression  of 
the  new  doctrine.  As  Professor  Dicey 
has  shown,  the  germ  of  collectivism, 
which  was  latent  in  the  body  of  Ben- 
thamite individualism,  was  the  belief  it 
fostered  in  the  efficacy  of  legislation, 
and  in  the  possibility  of  accomplishing 
results  collectively  which  it  showed  in 
the  organization  of  corporations  and 
labor-unions  created  under  the  right  of 
free  contract  so  ardently  preached  by 
Bentham. 

The  collectivistic  movement  began  in 
the  United  States  almost  immediately 
upon  the  close  of  the  Civil  War.  Events 
which  occurred  during  the  four  years  of 
hostilities  had  greatly  increased  the  fa- 
miliarity of  the  people  with  paternalism 
in  government.  Government  contracts 
easily  acquired  and  easily  filled,  govern- 
ment pensions  and  offices  easily  earned 
and  obtained,  a  policy  of  tariff  legisla- 
tion followed  far  more  in  the  interest 
of  protection  than  of  revenue,  educated 
our  people  into  the  belief  that  govern- 
ment possesses  every  good  and  perfect 
gift  which  can  be  had  by  any  man  for 
the  asking.  Moreover,  under  the  util- 
itarian individualism  of  Hobbes,  Ben- 
tham, and  Austin,  public  opinion  gradu- 
ally educated  itself  to  the  spending  of 
great  sums  for  philanthropic  and  bene- 
volent objects.  Early  in  the  nineteenth 
century  we  already  had  habituated  our- 
selves to  large  expenditures  on  hospit- 
als, primary  education,  and  poor  relief, 
and  to  the  existence  upon  our  statute 
books  of  laws  intended  for  the  protec- 
tion of  human  life  among  workmen  in 
factories  and  in  dangerous  or  semi-dan- 
gerous callings.  It  was  not  difficult  to 
forget  the  purpose  of  philanthropic  and 
restrictive  legislation  and  to  exaggerate 
the  potency  of  the  legislation  by  itself. 
Individualism,  once  the  creed  of  almost 


every  American,  was  generally  laid 
aside,  at  first  quite  unconsciously,  then 
consciously  and  openly. 

The  utilitarian  legislation  of  the  Ben- 
thamite period  sought  to  limit  as  little 
as  possible  the  freedom  of  the  individ- 
ual, and  only  to  limit  the  individual  at 
all  for  the  protection  of  his  fellows.  The 
Benthamite  legislates  merely  for  the 
safety  of  the  state,  while  the  collectivist 
legislates  in  any  direction  which  he 
thinks  will  conduce  to  the  general  wel- 
fare, always  influenced  by  a  belief  in 
the  efficacy  of  legislation. 


ii 

The  practical  expression  of  the  col- 
lectivistic tendency  of  the  day  has  been 
by  means  of  State  Socialism  rather  than 
through  so-called  Pure  Socialism.  I  may 
make  my  meaning  clearer  if  I  explain 
what  I  conceive  to  be  the  difference 
between  the  two,  by  quoting  some- 
what freely  from  Ludwig  Bamberger's 
very  able  article, '  Socialisme  d'fitat '  in 
Leon  Say's  and  Joseph  Chailley's  Nou- 
veau  Dictionnaire  d'Economie  Politique. 
Pure  Socialism  seeks  entirely  to  recon- 
struct the  state  upon  the  basis  of  a 
distributive  justice  founded  upon  the 
material  equality  of  the  means  of  exist- 
ence. Labor  alone  produces  and  has  the 
sole  right  to  the  thing  produced.  State 
Socialism  on  the  other  hand  denies  this 
hypothesis,  and  insists  that  the  funda- 
mental law  of  society  is  the  protection 
of  the  weak  against  the  strong.  Pure 
Socialism  would  abolish  the  old  order 
of  society,  State  Socialism  desires  only 
to  correct  it.  Pure  Socialism  strives 
for  an  absolute  equality  among  indi- 
viduals, while  State  Socialism  strives 
for  an  equalization  of  their  forces,  and 
believes  that  the  equality  of  the  law  is 
more  or  less  an  imaginary  hypothesis. 
Under  the  old  order  of  things,  the  law 
only  protects  the  weak  against  violence 
and  oppression.  State  Socialism  seeks 


436 


THE  TENDENCY  OF  MUNICIPAL  GOVERNMENT 


to  defend  him  against  the  legal  superi- 
ority of  those  who  enjoy  greater  in- 
tellectual or  material  advantages.  It 
not  only  protects  the  individual  against 
others  stronger  than  he  is,  but  even 
against  himself  and  his  own  ignorance 
and  weakness.  The  individualistic 
State  knows  only  one  condition  of 
minority,  due  to  childhood  or  mental 
deficiency,  while  State  Socialism  en- 
larges the  idea  of  minority  so  as  to 
include  all  humanity.  Pure  Social- 
ism would  have  society  consist  of  the 
slaves  of  the  state,  State  Socialism 
would  be  satisfied  with  a  society  con- 
sisting entirely  of  minors.  Under  indi- 
vidualism, the  adult  may  dispose  of 
himself  as  he  sees  fit,  but  under  Social- 
ism he  may  not. 

Although  the  origin  of  State  Social- 
ism as  well  as  that  of  Pure  Socialism 
is  lost  in  antiquity,  the  theoretical  and 
practical  crystallization  of  the  former 
dates  only  from  the  foundation  of  the 
German  Empire.  The  real  father  of 
practical  modern  State  Socialism  was 
Prince  Bismarck,  the  chief  enemy  of 
Pure  Socialism,  or  social  democracy. 
Napoleon  III  toward  the  close  of  his 
reign  had  made  some  tentative  col- 
lectivistic  experiments,  but  it  remained 
for  the  Iron  Chancellor  to  make  of  a 
somewhat  vague  theory  a  very  definite 
political  system.  In  1878,  with  the  help 
of  an  overwhelmingly  conservative 
and  obedient  Reichstag,  Bismarck  sub- 
stituted a  high  protective  tariff  for  the 
existing  system  of  near  free-trade.  The 
doctrine  of  protection  depends  upon 
the  same  principle  as  does  State  So- 
cialism, for  the  original  purpose  of  both 
is  to  protect  the  weak  against  the  strong. 
In  the  case  of  protection  the  weak  is 
the  domestic  producer,  the  strong  is  the 
foreign  competitor;  although  it  may  be 
urged  that  ultimately  protection  is 
State  Socialism  in  the  interest  of  wealth 
at  the  expense  of  poverty. 

Bismarck    found    it    impossible    to 


apply  State  Socialism  for  the  benefit 
of  the  rich,  without  some  application  of 
the  same  policy  for  the  benefit  of  the 
poor.  Moreover  as  a  believer  in  a  strong 
centralized  government  of  which  he 
was  the  head,  he  strove  to  strengthen 
his  own  hands  in  every  possible  way. 
The  direct  result  of  these  two  motives 
was  the  acquisition  by  government  of 
the  Prussian  railroads;  the  institution 
of  a  complicated  workmen's  insurance 
and  pension  system;  the  enactment  of 
an  employers'  liability  law,  and  a  rig- 
orous factory  act.  The  influence  of 
Bismarck's  example  was  felt  almost  at 
once  in  continental  Europe,  and  some- 
what later  in  England  and  the  United 
States. 

While  the  doctrine  of  State  Social- 
ism has  been  put  in  practice  more  di- 
rectly and  rapidly  by  the  several  states 
than  by  the  nation,  it  is  in  the  cities 
that  it  has  flourished  with  the  greatest 
vigor.  So  much  so  that  it  is  no  exag- 
geration to  say  that  our  urban  pop- 
ulation is  composed  entirely  of  State 
Socialists;  that  is,  every  one  living 
in  an  American  city,  and  the  same  is 
true  of  the  cities  of  Europe,  believes 
more  or  less  strongly,  more  or  less  wit- 
tingly, in  the  doctrine  of  State  Social- 
ism. Of  course  it  is  very  difficult,  some- 
times almost  impossible,  to  draw  the 
line  at  which  individualism  ends  and 
State  Socialism  begins :  so  difficult  that 
the  individualist  and  the  State  Social- 
ist may  strive  to  accomplish  exactly  the 
same  thing  in  exactly  the  same  way, 
but  from  entirely  different  motives. 
The  individualist  justifies  the  expend- 
iture of  large  sums  on  hospitals  on  the 
ground  of  protection  to  the  entire  com- 
munity, while  the  State  Socialist  just- 
ifies it  on  the  ground  of  equalizing  the 
forces  of  the  community  by  spending 
the  money  of  the  strong  (the  taxpayer) 
for  the  benefit  of  the  weak,  and  by  giv- 
ing the  weak  a  helping  hand  toward 
health.  On  the  other  hand,  the  simon- 


THE  TENDENCY  OF  MUNICIPAL  GOVERNMENT 


437 


pure  individualist  scarcely  can  justify 
the  support  by  the  community  of  ab- 
solutely free  schools,  while  even  the 
most  diluted  State  Socialist  is  immense- 
ly proud  of  our  free-school  system.  In 
short,  no  activity  of  government  that 
does  more  than  protect  the  community 
as  a  whole  can  be  justified  except  under 
the  doctrine  of  State  Socialism.  While 
the  word  socialist  has  for  us  an  unpleas- 
ant meaning  suggestive  of  the  torch 
and  of  the  bomb,  the  fact  remains  that 
the  old-fashioned  individualist  whom 
our  grandfathers  knew  is  as  dead  as  is 
Jeremy  Bentham. 


in 

In  this  country  we  have  only  felt  the 
full  force  of  State  Socialism  during  the 
last  decade,  the  large  cities  having  felt 
it  more  than  the  small.  According  to 
the  statistical  abstract  for  1909,  in  1907 
the  five  city  governments  in  the  United 
States  with  the  highest  per  capita  cost 
of  maintenance  were:  first,  Washing- 
ton, $35.59;  second,  Boston,  $35.22; 
third,  New  York,  $24.51;  fourth,  Pitts- 
burg,  $21.80;  and  fifth,  Cincinnati, 
$19.87.  According  to  the  census  special 
report  on  cities,  in  1908  the  five  cities 
with  the  largest  per  capita  of  indebted- 
ness were:  first,  New  York,  $157.74; 
second,  Cincinnati,  $128.61;  third, 
Boston,  $119.48;  fourth,  Galveston, 
$113.07;  and  fifth,  Portland,  Maine, 
$107.41.  For  purposes  of  comparison 
the  statistical  abstract  and  the  census 
report  divide  the  147  cities  of  over 
30,000  inhabitants  into  four  groups: 
Group  I  contains  the  15  largest  cities, 
of  300,000  inhabitants  and  over;  Group 
II  contains  25  cities  of  from  100,000 
to  300,000  inhabitants;  Group  III, 
46  cities  of  from  50,000  to  100,000 
inhabitants;  and  Group  IV,  61  cities 
of  from  30,000  to  50,000  inhabitants. 
From  1902  to  1907  inclusive  the  per 
capita  cost  of  maintenance  of  Group  I 


increased  from  $18.76  to  $21.40;  of 
Group  II,  from  $12.94  to  $16.22;  of 
Group  III,  from  $12.88  to  $14.59;  of 
Group  IV,  from  $11.55  to  $12.80;  while 
the  per  capita  cost  of  all  147  cities 
taken  together  increased  during  the 
same  period  from  $16.10  to  $18.58. 

The  per  capita  of  indebtedness  in- 
creased from  1902  to  1905  inclusive, 
in  Group  I,  from  $75.68  to  $91.25;  in 
Group  II,  from  $54.13  to  $56.32;  in 
Group  III,  from  $46.78  to  $48.34;  in 
Group  IV,  from  $40.10  to  $42.41;  while 
in  all  147  cities  taken  together  it  in- 
creased during  the  same  period  from 
$63.62  to  $72.89. 

The  percentage  of  increase  in  per 
capita  cost  of  maintenance  from  1902 
to  1907  was:  Group  I,  14  per  cent; 
Group  II,  25  per  cent;  Group  III,  13 
per  cent;  Group  IV,  10  per  cent;  for 
all  147  cities,  15  per  cent.  The  per- 
centage of  increase  in  per  capita  debts 
from  1902  to  1905  inclusive  was: 
Group  I,  20  per  cent;  Group  II,  4  per 
cent;  Group  III,  3.34  per  cent;  Group 
IV,  5.7  per  cent;  for  all  147  cities,  14 
per  cent.  In  other  words,  there  was  a 
constant  increase  for  all  cities  both  in 
maintenance  and  in  indebtedness. 

The  proportionate  increase  in  cost 
of  maintenance  was  largest  in  Group 
II,  and  fairly  uniform  in  Groups  I,  III, 
and  IV;  the  proportionate  increase  in 
indebtedness  was  much  larger  in  Group 
I  than  in  Groups  II,  III,  and  IV.  It  is 
fair  to  assume  that  while  the  per- 
manent public  improvements  have 
been  much  more  numerous  in  the  fifteen 
largest  cities,  the  increase  in  the  cost 
of  their  government  has  not  been  pro- 
portionately greater  than  in  that  of  the 
smaller  municipalities. 

During  1905  these  147  cities  paid  out 
for  all  expenses,  including  loans,  the 
enormous  sum  of  $1,030,797,319,  or 
more  than  the  cost  of  governing  the 
nation  — an  increase  of  $216,100,248, 
or  26.5  per  cent  in  three  years;  while 


488 


THE  TENDENCY  OF  MUNICIPAL  GOVERNMENT 


in  1908,  158  cities  paid  out  $1,236,- 
782,824. 

Every  one  of  these  cities  maintained 
a  free-school  system,  the  largest  per 
capita  expenditure  for  this  purpose  in 
1908  being  that  of  Salt  Lake  City, 
$8.18;  the  smallest,  Montgomery,  Ala- 
bama, $1.63;  the  average  for  all  cities 
being  $4.70.  The  largest  gross  sum  ex- 
pended for  free  education  in  1910  was 
in  New  York,  $28,578,432.  All  of  these 
cities  owned  and  maintained  public 
parks  of  some  sort,  and  nearly  all  of 
them  maintained  alms-houses  and  hos- 
pitals. Forty-five  cities  had  public  play- 
grounds; seventeen,  river  or  ocean 
beaches;  thirty-one,  public  baths;  and 
twenty-one,  gymnasia.  Forty- two  cities 
owned  zoological  gardens;  one  owned 
and  leased,  and  five  owned  and  operat- 
ed, gas  plants;  twenty-two  cities  owned 
and  operated  electric-light  works.  Dur- 
ing the  year  1908  the  158  largest  cities 
expended  for  new  properties  or  new 
work  $275,003,695,  as  against  $244,- 
117,298  during  the  previous  year. 

While  in  all  cities  the  various  trans- 
portation facilities  are  under  the  more 
or  less  rigorous  control  of  either  the 
state  or  the  municipal  government,  New 
York  is  the  only  large  city  that  has  gone 
into  the  transportation  business,  not 
only  as  the  owner  of  an  underground 
railway  leased  to  a  private  corporation, 
but  also  as  the  operator  of  two  lines  of 
municipal  ferries.  New  York  heads 
the  list  of  cities  engaged  in  municipal 
trading,  having  received,  during  1908, 
from  public-service  enterprises,  such 
as  water-supply,  toll-bridges,  and  the 
like,  $18,604,056;  Chicago  comes  sec- 
ond with  $5,127,401 ;  and  Philadelphia 
third,  with  $4,368,213. 


IV 

There  is  not  a  city  in  the  Union  that 
has  not  joined  the  procession  toward 
collectivism.  The  typical  American 


city  builds,  owns,  and  operates  bridges, 
ferries,  docks,  and  water-supply;  has 
built  subways,  gives  free  primary,  sec- 
ondary, and  higher  education  to  all  boys 
and  girls  who  apply,  for  which  purpose 
it  even  maintains  free  colleges ;  supports 
libraries,  museums,  and  collections  of 
various  kinds,  nautical  schools  and  ob- 
servatories, free  public  baths,  gymnasia, 
playgrounds  and  athletic  fields,  with 
free  instruction  in  swimming,  gym- 
nastics, and  athletics;  all  this  besides 
its  prisons,  reformatories,  work-houses, 
alms-houses,  lodging-houses,  asylums, 
laboratories,  and  hospitals  of  all  sorts 
and  kinds.  Besides  seeing  to  it  that  the 
citizen  is  law-abiding  and  moral,  the 
city  most  carefully  protects  his  health. 
It  inspects  his  food  and  drink,  attends 
to  its  quality,  its  measurement,  and 
weight;  it  watches  over  his  home  or  his 
tenement,  sees  that  he  has  enough  light, 
air,  and  space,  and  that  his  sanitary 
conditions  are  as  they  should  be.  It 
assumes  toward  the  citizen  at  his  birth 
the  relation  of  a  kind  and  generous,  if 
somewhat  fussy,  grandmother,  and  con- 
tinues this  relationship  until  he  has 
passed  away. 

Their  experience  of  paternalism  in 
municipal  government  has  made  the 
American  people  anxious  for  more. 
There  are  no  people  in  the  world  more 
exacting,  more  captiously  critical  of  the 
government  of  our  cities  than  we  are. 
We  demand  the  extension  of  municipal 
activity  in  every  direction,  we  are  never 
satisfied  even  with  the  maximum  of 
efficiency,  and  we  denounce  the  extra- 
vagance of  even  the  minimum  of  cost. 
Every  extension  of  the  function  of  gov- 
ernment makes  us  eager  for  its  further 
development.  What  was  unheard-of  a 
few  years  ago,  we  not  only  accept  to-day 
as  a  matter  of  course,  but  are  thorough- 
ly dissatisfied  with  its  insufficiency.  Not 
so  many  years  ago  most  of  our  free  pub- 
lic schools  limited  their  instruction  to 
the  three  R's.  To-day  they  not  only  car- 


THE  TENDENCY  OF  MUNICIPAL  GOVERNMENT 


439 


ry  the  pupil  through  a  free  college  edu- 
cation, but  maintain  free  trade-schools, 
and  there  is  even  a  demand  in  some 
quarters  for  free  professional  education, 
while  in  other  quarters  a  demand  is 
being  made  seriously  and  vigorously 
for  free  meals  for  school-children,  and 
for  free  medical  attendance  and  inspec- 
tion for  their  parents. 

Not  so  many  years  ago  the  streets  of 
our  cities,  if  cleaned  at  all,  usually  were 
cleaned  by  the  abutting  property  own- 
ers; to-day  street-cleaning  is  a  con- 
stantly expanding  civic  function.  Thus 
in  New  York  the  mileage  of  streets 
cleaned  increased  from  971  in  1903 
to  1210  in  1908,  or  25  per  cent;  the 
amount  of  refuse  collected  increased 
during  the  same  period  27.5  per  cent, 
while  the  length  of  streets  from  which 
snow  and  ice  were  removed  was  in- 
creased from  241  to  471  miles.  In 
the  old  individualistic  days  the  citizen 
hesitated  to  accept  the  aid  of  govern- 
ment except  as  a  last  resort;  in  this 
state-socialistic  era  we  not  only  accept, 
but  demand  as  a  matter  of  right,  what 
our  forbears  would  have  refused.  The 
majority  of  the  parents  whose  child- 
ren attend  our  free  high  schools  and 
free  colleges  can  afford  to  pay  a  tuition 
fee,  many  of  those  who  are  cared  for 
at  our  free  hospitals  and  free  clinics  are 
well  to  do,  while  the  audiences  who 
attend  our  free  popular  lectures  are  in 
no  way  different  from  those  who  may 
be  seen  at  any  of  our  theatres. 

With  our  mixed  population  much 
of  the  paternalism  in  our  municipal 
government  is  absolutely  necessary. 
Our  great  cities  receive  annually  vast 
accretions  to  their  population  from 
every  country  on  earth.  Most  of  these 
aliens  come  to  us  ignorant  of  our  lan- 
guage, our  customs,  and  our  institu- 
tions; many  of  them  have  been  sub- 
jected in  the  lands  of  their  origin  to 
unjust  governmental  restraint;  almost 
all  of  them  have  been  used  to  a  more 


or  less  oppressive  governmental  inter- 
ference in  every  relation  of  life.  If  they 
are  to  become  useful  citizens  of  the 
United  States,  if  they  are  to  be  ab- 
sorbed into  our  nationality  and  made 
Americans,  government  must  care  for 
them,  for  they  are  unable  to  care  for 
themselves.  The  city  then  must  teach 
them,  or  at  least  their  children,  to  read 
and  write  and  think  in  English;  must 
make  them  observe  habits  of  health 
and  cleanliness ;  must  protect  them  from 
disease,  and  care  for  them  when  they 
are  ill;  must  give  them  parks  and  play- 
grounds, baths  and  gymnasia;  must,  in 
short,  fulfill  toward  them  the  parental 
relationship  of  State  Socialism. 

The  marvelous  results  that  have  been 
attained  by  education  and  by  wise  gov- 
ernmental regulation  and  inspection, 
in  transforming  our  aliens  into  Amer- 
icans, have  fully  justified  the  enormous 
cost.  Were  Jeremy  Bentham  to  return 
to  earth  and  visit  New  York,  he  would 
doubtless  deplore  the  abandonment 
of  his  principles,  but  he  could  not  fail 
to  approve  the  accomplishments  of  the 
last  decade  in  social  regeneration  and 
human  improvement.  Even  Jeremy 
Bentham  would  hesitate  before  return- 
ing to  the  straight  and  narrow  path  of 
individualism,  by  the  abandonment  of 
the  almost  innumerable  public  activ- 
ities to  which  our  cities  are  committed. 

It  being  conceded  that,  because  of 
the  demand  of  almost  all  their  citizens, 
our  cities  have  adopted  a  policy  of  state 
socialism,  the  question  naturally  sug- 
gests itself,  —  'Where  will  it  all  end?' 
It  is  easy  enough  to  dismiss  the  subject, 
as  the  mayor  of  one  of  our  largest  cities 
is  alleged  to  have  done,  with  the  cyn- 
ical remark,  'What  do  I  care?  The 
taxpayers  only  number  four  per  cent 
of  the  total  vote.'  But  the  devoted 
four  per  cent  may  be  tried  past  en- 
durance; there  is  a  limit  to  the  burden 
that  the  taxpayer  can  bear. 

The  public  improvements  now  under 


440 


THE  TENDENCY  OF  MUNICIPAL  GOVERNMENT 


way  or  contemplated  in  our  large  cities, 
such  as  new  water-supply,  lines  of 
rapid  transit,  sewers,  bridges,  public 
buildings,  and  the  like,  are  intended  in 
most  cases  to  meet  the  needs  or  rather 
the  demands  of  populations  not  much 
larger  than  those  of  to-day.  The  state- 
socialistic  demand  always  keeps  ahead 
of  the  possible  government  supply. 
Even  when  population  remains  nearly 
stationary,  as  in  some  European  cities, 
the  cost  of  government  nevertheless 
constantly  increases.  Where  popula- 
tion increases,  the  cost  of  government 
grows  still  more  rapidly. 

The  chief  source  of  municipal  in- 
come in  this  country  is  a  direct  tax  on 
real  estate,  a  tax  whose  incidence  is 
perfectly  certain,  for  it  is  shifted  di- 
rectly to  the  consumer,  that  is,  to  the 
tenant.  No  relief  can  be  hoped  for  in 
a  reduction  of  the  per  capita  cost  of 
municipal  government,  and  a  conse- 
quent lightening  of  the  burdens  of 
taxation  to  the  tenant;  for  while  gross 
municipal  expenditure  at  the  present 
rateofincrease(8.08  per  cent  per  annum) 
will  double  in  eleven  years,  the  per 
capita  cost  is  increasing  at  the  rate  of 
3  per  cent  per  annum,  which,  if  main- 
tained, will  double  in  thirty-three  years. 
In  most  of  our  cities  real  estate  is  as- 
sessed for  purposes  of  taxation  at  almost 
if  not  quite  its  actual  market  value. 
The  margin  between  market  value  and 
tax  valuation  is  usually  so  slight  that 
a  continuance  of  'hard  times'  would 
cause  the  former  to  fall  below  the  lat- 


ter.1 On  the  other  hand,  even  under 
normal  conditions,  if  the  present  rate 
of  increase  in  the  cost  of  municipal 
government  continues,  the  tax  on  city 
real  estate  must  ultimately  equal  its 
rental  value.  Of  course,  the  moment 
that  this  occurs  taxation  has  become 
confiscation,  and  the  dearest  wish  of 
the  pure  socialist  has  been  realized. 

The  only  alternative  is  retrench- 
ment, retrenchment  so  merciless  as  to 
be  beyond  practical  consideration  until 
the  pendulum  of  public  opinion,  hav- 
ing reached  its  collectivistic  limit,  be- 
gins to  swing  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. 

Time  alone  can  show  whether  we 
are  on  the  eve  of  an  individualistic  re- 
action, or  whether  the  present  collect- 
ivistic tendency  is  destined  to  grow 
stronger  and  more  widespread,  until 
it  commits  us  to  a  policy  of  govern- 
mental activity  hitherto  undreamed  of, 
and  only  possible  of  realization  through 
the  repudiation  of  public  debt,  and  the 
confiscation  of  private  property. 

1  An  estate  consisting  of  twenty-three  parcels, 
situated  in  different  parts  of  the  Borough  of  Man- 
hattan (New  York  City),  was  recently  sold  at 
auction  after  great  competition  for  a  total  of 
$2,299,450,  or  six  per  cent  more  than  the  assessed 
tax  valuations.  Previous  to^the  sale,  the  estate 
had  been  valued'  by  various  private  appraisers, 
the  highest  valuation  being  $35,000  less  than  the 
tax  valuation.  Since  the  sale,  assessed  valuations 
have  been  generally  increased;  the  President  of 
the  Department  of  Taxes  has  recently  stated  that 
assessed  valuations  now  generally  equal  actual 
market  values. 


THE  NEW  MISSIONARY  OUTLOOK 


BY   HERBERT   W.   HORWILL 


WHEN,  a  few  years  ago,  the  generos- 
ity of  Mr.  Alfred  Mosely  sent  several 
English  teachers  on  a  tour  in  the  United 
States,  an  American  teacher  contribut- 
ed to  a  New  York  paper  her  impres- 
sions of  those  visitors  whom  chance 
had  led  to  her  own  school.  Her  un- 
grudging tribute  to  their  various  excel- 
lent qualities  reached  a  climax  in  her 
exclamation  of  delighted  surprise :  '  So 
different  from  the  teachers  in  Dick- 
ens!' The  discovery  that  Mr.  Squeers 
is  scarcely  a  type  of  the  present-day 
English  schoolmaster  and  that  the 
methods  of  Dotheboys  Hall  do  not 
fairly  represent  modern  English  peda- 
gogics may  appear  somewhat  belated. 
But  one  cannot  very  well  describe  this 
school-teacher's  mental  attitude  as 
exceptional,  when  one  remembers  how 
many  people,  otherwise  well-informed, 
still  derive  from  the  same  source  their 
ideas  about  foreign  missions  and  for- 
eign missionaries.  By  many  intelligent 
persons  Mrs.  Jellyby's  projects  for  the 
enlightenment  of  Borrioboola-Gha  are 
taken  as  representing  the  real  charac- 
ter of  contemporary  missionary  enter- 
prise, and  a  half-century-old  carica- 
ture is  seriously  accepted  as  a  faithful 
record  of  fact. 

How  amazed  these  poco  cognoscenti 
would  be  if  by  any  chance  they  should 
come  across  a  few  casual  fragments 
of  the  official  records  of  the  World 
Missionary  Conference  at  Edinburgh!1 

1  Reports  of  the  World  Missionary  Conference, 
1910.  New  York,  Chicago,  &  Toronto:  Revell; 
Edinburgh  &  London:  Oliphant,  Anderson  & 
Ferrier. 


And  how  their  whole  conception  of  the 
purpose,  the  methods,  and  the  results, 
of  foreign  missions  would  be  revolu- 
tionized if  they  would  take  the  pains  to 
study  these  nine  volumes  with  the  same 
care  and  freedom  from  prejudice  as  if 
they  were  candidates  for  a  doctorate, 
investigating  the  science  of  missions 
with  a  view  to  the  preparation  of  a 
thesis.  We  have  here  a  collection  of 
data  of  first-rate  authority  and  value. 
In  one  respect  it  is  admittedly  imper- 
fect, for  the  missions  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  and  Greek  Churches  are  out- 
side its  scope.  As  regards  Protestant 
missions,  however,  the  Conference  was 
widely  representative,  delegates  being 
invited  from  all  societies  which  have 
agents  in  the  foreign  field,  and  which 
expend  on  foreign  missions  not  less  than 
$10,000  a  year.  Hundreds  of  mission- 
aries, themselves  unable  to  be  present 
at  Edinburgh,  contributed  memoranda 
which,  when  sifted,  summarized,  and 
reported  on  by  the  several  'commis- 
sions,' provided  material  for  the  dis- 
cussions. Almost  every  phase  of  the 
missionary  problem  was  exhaustively 
considered,  so  that  these  published 
volumes  of  transactions  constitute 
practically  an  encyclopaedia  to  which 
students  of  missions  will  resort  for 
many  years,  both  for  accurately  ascer- 
tained facts  and  for  carefully  weighed 
opinions. 

Nor  is  it  unfriendly  or  apathetic 
outsiders  alone  to  whom  this  publica- 
tion would  open  up  new  vistas  of 
thought  and  knowledge.  Sympathiz- 
ers, as  well  as  critics  and  opponents, 

441 


442 


THE   NEW   MISSIONARY  OUTLOOK 


need  to  revise  their  conceptions  of  the 
problem  by  its  assistance.  For  even 
in  the  most  ardent  and  aggressive  sec- 
tions of  the  Christian  Church,  it  is 
only  the  specialists  who  have  as  yet 
understood  how  widely  the  conditions 
of  the  task  have  changed  since  the  days 
of  Moffat  and  Judson. 

That  the  general  missionary  situation 
has  been  seriously  modified  during  the 
last  half-century  is  the  first  impression 
left  upon  the  mind  of  the  reader  by  a 
survey  of  the  accumulated  evidence. 
The  new  developments  can  be  attribut- 
ed in  the  main  to  one  specific  cause.  If 
the  missionary  societies  are  compelled 
to-day  to  recast  their  methods  in  or- 
der to  meet  unfamiliar  difficulties  and 
to  solve  a  problem  that  is  almost  be- 
wildering in  its  novel  complications,  it 
is  not  on  theologiaas,  'old'  or  'new,' 
that  they  must  cast  the  blame  for  the 
upheaval.  The  real  creators  of  the  re- 
volution are  James  Watt,  George 
Stephenson,  and  Robert  Fulton.  When 
we  scrutinize  the  changes  that  make 
the  most  severe  demands  on  mission- 
ary statesmanship,  we  find  them  nearly 
all  reducible  to  the  question  of  com- 
munications. Of  course  this  shrinkage 
of  the  world  works  both  ways.  When 
a  missionary  can  stand  up  before  an 
audience  in  Edinburgh  and  remark  in- 
cidentally that  three  weeks  ago  he  was 
traveling  in  Mongolia,  we  can  see  as  in 
a  flash  how  the  earlier  difficulties  of 
access  have  been  simplified.  It  is  no 
exaggeration  to  say  that,  by  recent 
railway  extensions  alone,  hundreds  of 
millions  of  people  —  in  the  Levant,  in 
Central  Asia,  in  China,  in  the  more 
populous  parts  of  the  East  Indies,  and 
in  Africa  —  have  been  brought  within 
comparatively  easy  range  of  Christian 
evangelistic  effort.  Yet,  on  the  whole, 
the  disadvantages  of  the  quicker  and 
cheaper  means  of  transit  seem,  so  far, 
to  have  outweighed  the  advantages. 

In  the  first  place,  by  these  changes 


many  parts  of  the  world,  hitherto  pro- 
tected by  their  isolation,  have  now 
become  exposed  to  the  danger  of  mili- 
tary and  imperialistic  aggression  by 
Western  powers,  with  the  natural  con- 
sequence that  the  instinct  of  self-pre- 
servation prompts  a  cautious,  not  to 
say  hostile,  attitude  to  outside  influ- 
ences that  previously  excited  little 
alarm.  The  conflict  between  Russia 
and  Japan  has  revolutionized  the  situ- 
ation in  the  Far  East.  To-day  we  find 
everywhere  not  merely,  as  before,  a  ra- 
cial spirit,  but  a  national  spirit,  which 
especially  resents  the  introduction  of 
any  religion  that  arrives  under  foreign 
auspices.  The  cry  has  even  been  raised 
in  some  countries  that  Christianity, 
being  universal  in  its  aim,  must  neces- 
sarily be  a  foe  to  the  spirit  of  patriot- 
ism. Again  and  again,  stress  is  laid  by 
the  missionary  correspondents  on  the 
significance  of  this  awakening  of  a  new 
national  consciousness.  Not  only  in 
China  and  Japan  has  this  spirit  received 
a  strong  impulse,  but  in  India,  we  are 
told,  '  it  is  now  the  conviction  of  many 
that  everything  Oriental,  including 
their  faith,  must  be  conserved  at  all 
hazards,  and  everything  Occidental, 
including  Christianity,  must  be  with- 
stood to  the  uttermost.'  Similar  re- 
ports come  from  such  diverse  regions 
as  Persia,  Siam,  Java,  the  Philippines, 
Egypt,  and  the  native  section  of  South 
Africa. 

In  the  more  progressive  countries, 
such  as  Japan,  one  of  the  results  of 
this  more  ardent  patriotism  has  been 
the  establishment  of  government  sys- 
tems of  education  on  such  a  scale  as 
to  compel  the  missionary  societies  to 
revise  from  the  foundation  their  policy 
of  using  schools  and  colleges  as  a  means 
of  spreading  the  Christian  faith.  The 
greater  resources  of  the  government  in- 
stitutions make  competition  with  them 
difficult.  At  the  same  time  the  largely 
materialistic  tendency  of  the  teaching 


THE  NEW  MISSIONARY  OUTLOOK 


443 


in  these  state  schools  makes  the  need 
of  definitely  Christian  schools  more 
urgent  than  ever.  Within  the  native 
churches  themselves  the  leaven  of  na- 
tionalism is  also  working  in  aspirations 
for  fuller  powers  of  self-government  and 
for  liberation  from  the  control  of  for- 
eign missionaries  or  mission  boards. 

The  railroad  and  the  steamer  have 
facilitated  commercial  and  industrial, 
as  well  as  political,  changes.  The  ex- 
pansion of  modern  trade  has  not  left 
the  mission  field  untouched.  'Scat- 
tered throughout  Africa  and  the  Pacific 
Islands,  not  to  mention  othe'r  sections 
of  the  world,  are  thousands  of  Western 
traders,  large  numbers  of  whom  are 
exerting  a  demoralizing  influence.' 
With  every  anxiety  to  beware  of  hasty 
generalizations,  one  is  compelled  to 
admit  the  conclusion  that  'whenever 
an  Eastern  and  a  Western  nation 
impinge  upon  one  another,  the  contact 
in  some  mysterious  way  tends  to  bring 
out  the  worst  there  is  in  each.'  A  sam- 
ple is  the  report  from  British  East 
Africa  that '  the  railway  is  bringing  up 
into  the  country  men'whose  evil  lives 
are  positive  hindrances  to  Christian 
work.' 

Of  late  years  the  peril  of  injuri- 
ous moral  influences  from  industrial 
movement  has  taken  a  new  form.  The 
Fijian  group,  Christianized  by  the  lab- 
ors of  the  Wesleyan-Methodist  mis- 
sionaries, ha£  been  invaded  by  thou- 
sands of  Indian  coolies,  many  of 
them  described  as  'the  sweepings 
of  the  Calcutta  jails.'  The  Hawaiian 
natives,  nearly  all  of  them  Christians, 
are  now  outnumbered  three  to  one  in 
their  own  islands  by  Japanese  and 
Chinese  immigrants.  More  serious  still 
is  the  new  problem  created  in  many 
large  communities  by  the  introduction 
of  Western  industrial  conditions.  In 
South  Africa  the  natives,  when  once 
they  have  worked  in  the  mines  for 
wages,  'go  back  to  their  tribal  system 


with  their  whole  view  of  social  relations 
and  of  duty  transformed.'  In  Japan 
and  India,  home  industries  are  being 
supplanted  by  the  factory  system  with 
its  usual  accompaniment,  the  slum  pro- 
blem. As  Bishop  Bashford  points  out, 
China,  with  her  hundreds  of  millions 
of  inhabitants,  is  to-day  confronted,  all 
unawares,  with  the  crisis  of  a  transition 
from  hand-labor  to  machine-labor,  — 
a  transition  which  in  Western  lands 
has  often  been  attended  by  political  as 
well  as  economic  upheavals.  Whether 
the  foreign  missionary  confine  himself 
strictly  to  his  evangelistic  message  or 
offer  the  native  communities  the  guid- 
ance in  social  developments  which  his 
wider  education  should  have  qualified 
him  to  give,  such  profound  changes 
must  inevitably  affect  the  whole  mis- 
sionary outlook  in  these  countries. 

Another  by-product  of  modern  com- 
munications is  the  opportunity  thereby 
given  for  the  activity,  in  non-Christian 
countries,  of  those  intellectual  forces 
of  the  West  which  are  antagonistic  to 
Christianity.  Half  a  century  ago  the 
religion  brought  by  the  missionary  had 
no  rival  save  the  religion  indigenous  to 
the  country.  But  the  train  or  steamer 
that  carries  Bibles  can  carry  also  liter- 
ature that  is  critical  of  the  Christian 
revelation,  even  to  the  point  of  avow- 
ed hostility.  'The  same  problems  of 
philosophy  and  theology,'  says  Dr. 
Lepsius,  'which  come  up  at  the  uni- 
versities of  Oxford  and  Cambridge, 
of  Berlin  and  Jena,  are  discussed  in 
Calcutta,  Peking,  and  Tokyo,  and  in 
the  daily  papers  of  Cairo  and  of  Con- 
stantinople.' The  cities  of  Japan  and 
China  are  to-day  flooded  with  agnostic 
publications.  A  missionary  from  the 
Southern  Mahratta  country  reports 
that  the  names  of  such  writers  as  Scho- 
penhauer and  Haeckel  are  well  known 
there.  Delitzsch's  'Babel-Bibel'  lec- 
ture was  rendered  into  Marathi  imme- 
diately on  its  delivery,  and  a  widely- 


444 


THE   NEW   MISSIONARY  OUTLOOK 


circulated  newspaper  took  it  into  every 
corner  of  the  district.  The  more  popu- 
lar arguments  of  Ingersoll  and  Brad- 
laugh  have  been  translated  into  the 
Indian  vernaculars,  and  are  being  dis- 
tributed in  the  public  free  libraries  and 
throughout  the  villages.  To  this  ac- 
count of  the  hindrance  caused  by  anti- 
Christian  activities  in  the  press  must 
be  added  a  note  of  the  stimulus  to  ma- 
terialistic ideas  which  has  frequently 
been  given  by  the  temporary  residence 
of  Oriental  students  in  Europe  and 
America,  where  they  are  exposed  to 
new  and  subtle  influences  which  may 
weaken  their  old  moral  traditions  with- 
out supplying  any  wholesome  princi- 
ples in  their  place. 

These  reports  further  bring  out  very 
clearly  the  aid  given  by  improved 
methods  of  travel  to  the  worship  and 
propaganda  of  some  of  the  leading 
non-Christian  religions.  By  this  means 
Mohammedanism  has  gained  a  new  hold 
on  the  Malays  of  the  Dutch  East  In- 
dies. 'A  generation  ago  their  Moham- 
medanism was  merely  superficial,  but 
it  is  daily  becoming  a  more  and  more 
pervasive  and  dominant  faith.  The 
greatly  increased  pilgrimage  to  Mecca, 
brought  about  by  cheap  steamer-rates 
and  better  facilities,  is  consolidating 
Islam.  The  Hadji,  or  returned  pilgrim, 
is  thenceforth  an  ardent  defender  and 
propagator  of  the  faith,  which  gives 
him  peculiar  honor.'  In  the  same  way, 
Buddhism  has  been  able  to  revive  the 
enthusiasm  of  its  adherents  by  organ- 
izing on  a  larger  scale  pilgrimages  to 
the  sacred  shrines.  The  Buddhists  of 
Japan  have  also  established  a  mission- 
ary society,  which  has  sent  workers  to 
the  mainland  of  Asia.  As  to  Africa, 
'Mohammedan  traders  are  finding 
their  way  into  the  remotest  parts  of 
the  continent,  and  it  is  well  known  that 
every  Mohammedan  trader  is  more 
or  less  a  Mohammedan  missionary.' 
Even  among  the  natives  of  Cape  Col- 


ony 'there  is  a  certain  Moslem  pro- 
paganda, to  which  the  conditions  of 
the  situation  are  not  unfavorable.' 

It  is  evidence  received  direct  from  the 
field,  let  us  remember,  that  has  brought 
to  light  these  new  conditions.  The  mis- 
sionaries reveal  themselves  in  their 
own  communications  as  keenly  alive 
to  every  variation  in  national  policy  or 
social  environment  that  tends  to  mod- 
ify the  character  of  their  work.  It  is 
from  the  study  of  their  letters  that  one 
of  the  commissions  of  the  Conference 
draws  the  conclusion  that '  the  problems 
of  the  future  differ  in  kind,  as  well  as 
in  scope  and  dimensions,  from  the 
problems  of  the  past.'  Everywhere  the 
missionaries  are  eager  that  the  cam- 
paign shall  be  planned  with  a  more  de- 
liberate and  careful  strategy,  and  that 
the  training  and  equipment  of  the  re- 
cruits shall  more  closely  match  their 
task.  They  believe  that  the  sacredness 
of  their  cause  demands  the  devotion  to 
it  of  the  ripest  judgment  and  shrewd- 
est calculation.  So  far  from  excusing 
slipshod  methods,  their  confidence  that 
their  work  is  divine  and  that  it  is  as- 
sisted by  the  Spirit  of  God  requires 
that  the  human  cooperation  shall  be 
of  the  very  highest  quality. 

The  whole  character  of  the  Edinburgh 
Conference  emphasizes  this  conviction 
that  the  missionary  problem  must 
henceforth  be  treated  as  a  problem  in 
applied  science.  These  elaborate  reports 
of  the  commissions,  based  on  thousands 
of  letters  received  from  all  parts  of  the 
world,  mean  an  awakening  to  the  fact 
that  truly  scientific  research  must  pre- 
cede any  helpful  generalizations  on 
foreign  missions,  as  on  any  other  sub- 
ject of  inquiry,  and  that  the  results  of 
these  investigations  must  largely  de- 
termine the  course  of  further  efforts. 
The  appointment  of  a  Continuation 
Committee,  to  carry  on  and  extend  the 
work  of  these  commissions,  is  a  guar- 
antee that  the  scientific  idea  will  be 


THE   NEW   MISSIONARY  OUTLOOK 


445 


a  permanent  factor  in  future  policies  of 
missionary  expansion. 

Too  often  in  the  past  the  enterprise 
of  evangelizing  the  world  has  been  re- 
garded as  a  kind  of  guerilla  warfare 
instead  of  as  a  unified  campaign  de- 
manding thorough  organization  and 
prevision.  Mere  accident  has  often  de- 
cided whether  a  new  station  shall  be 
opened  here  rather  than  there.  From 
this  time  forward  a  heavy  responsibil- 
ity will  rest  upon  any  mission  board 
which  distributes  its  resources  of  money 
or  men  without  regard  to  the  location 
of  representatives  of  other  societies,  or 
to  the  comparative  urgency  of  calls 
from  various  lands.  In  the  disposition 
of  the  missionary  forces,  account  must 
be  taken  of  such  matters  as  the  density 
of  the  population,  climatic  conditions, 
the  range  of  languages  and  dialects 
spoken,  the  temperamental  charac- 
teristics of  the  people,  their  degree  of 
culture,  and  the  probability  of  raising 
up  a  strong  staff  of  native  workers.  In 
some  fields  the  concentration  of  several 
missionaries  at  one  centre  is  the  wiser 
policy;  in  others  their  diffusion  over  a 
wide  area  will  be  more  effective. 

Questions  of  time  and  opportun- 
ity have  also  a  bearing  on  mission- 
ary strategy.  For  instance,  at  certain 
stages  in  the  history  of  a  country  which 
has  recently  come  into  touch  with  the 
West,  there  are  exceptional  chances  of 
influencing  the  young  men  who  in  a 
few  years  will  become  the  national 
leaders.  These  and  similar  problems  of 
generalship  will  compel  the  coordina- 
tion of  different  societies  and  churches 
to  a  degree  that  has  never  yet  been 
attempted.  To  avoid  overlapping  and 
friction  there  will  be  required  in  some 
instances  such  a  reconstruction  of  tra- 
ditional plans  as  will  give  an  unrivaled 
occasion  for  the  display  of  the  truest 
Christian  comity. 

A  scientific  adaptation  of  means  to 
ends  will  also  determine  the  choice  of 


methods.  Roughly  speaking,  the  prin- 
cipal missionary  methods  may  be  class- 
ified as  evangelistic  (including  not 
only  preaching,  but  pastoral  and  other 
means  of  caring  for  the  native  church), 
educational,  medical,  literary,  and  in- 
dustrial. There  is  probably  no  country 
in  which  each  of  these  would  not  be  of 
service,  but  their  importance  will  natu- 
rally vary  according  to  local  conditions. 
Medical  missions,  which  have  done 
more  than  anything  else  to  break  down 
anti-Christian  prejudice  in  Persia, 
count  for  comparatively  little  in  a  coun- 
try like  Japan,  with  its  modern  de- 
velopments of  medical  science  and  its 
excellent  provision  of  public  hospitals. 
The  industrial  training  so  valuable  in 
developing  the  powers  of  the  South 
African  native  is  practically  useless  as 
a  way  of  approach  to  the  Chinaman, 
already  diligent  and  expert  in  the  prac- 
tice of  the  manual  arts. 

But  the  most  finished  strategy  de- 
pends for  its  execution  on  the  compe- 
tence of  'the  man  behind  the  gun.'  The 
Preparation  of  Missionaries  is  accord- 
ingly the  subject  of  one  of  the  largest 
of  these  nine  volumes,  and  the  ques- 
tions with  which  it  is  concerned  over- 
flow into  almost  every  other  section 
also.  It  is  here  that  we  are  especially 
impressed  with  one  of  the  outstanding 
characteristics  of  the  modern  mission- 
ary. This  demand  for  a  more  thorough 
special  training  —  a  demand  most  urg- 
ently pressed  by  men  now  on  the  field, 
who  have  discovered  how  the  lack  of 
such  preparation  has  handicapped  their 
own  efforts  —  grows  largely  out  of  the 
sympathetic  attitude  of  the  missionar- 
ies toward  the  life  of  the  people  among 
whom  they  labor.  So  far  from  regard- 
ing the  religion  and  social  customs  of 
these  people  with  scorn  and  contempt, 
they  show  an  almost  painful  anxiety  to 
get  into  close  touch  with  native  tradi- 
tion and  native  thought.  They  have 
undertaken  their  life-work,  it  is  true, 


446 


THE  NEW  MISSIONARY  OUTLOOK 


with  the  deliberate  aim  of  promoting 
the  supremacy  of  the  religion  in  which 
they  themselves  believe.  But  that  does 
not  necessarily  mean  that  they  are 
blind  to  the  purifying  and  uplifting 
elements  in  other  systems. 

There  are  some  forms  of  religion,  no 
doubt,  in  which  it  is  difficult  to  find 
much,  either  in  doctrine  or  in  prac- 
tice, of  which  the  friendliest  student 
can  say  that  the  mission  of  Christian- 
ity is  not  to  destroy  but  to  fulfill  it. 
After  reading,  for  instance,  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  beliefs  and  observances 
of  Animism,  one  can  easily  under- 
stand the  reluctance  of  some  mis- 
sionaries to  apply  the  name  'religion' 
to  them  at  all.  Nor  is  one  surprised  to 
find  from  the  discussions  of  the  Con- 
ference that  some  missionaries  of  long 
experience  hesitate  to  endorse  the  re- 
presentations given  by  the  Fourth  Com- 
mission —  that  on  'The  Missionary 
Message  in  relation  to  Non-Christian 
Religions'  —  of  the  extent  to  which 
these  religions  afford  a  foundation  for 
Christian  teaching.  'The  Hinduism 
you  have  got  in  the  report,'  says  one  of 
them  point-blank, '  is  not  the  Hinduism 
which  bulks  largest  in  daily  life.' 

In  a  supplementary  report  the  Com- 
mission make  their  position  clearer 
by  the  following  admirable  statement: 
'It  is  entirely  true  that  Hinduism 
cannot  be  spoken  of  as  a  preparation 
for  Christianity  in  anything  like  the 
same  way  as  the  Old  Testament  is 
such  a  preparation.  No  such  view  has 
ever  been  contemplated  by  the  Com- 
mission. The  analogy  suggested  in 
the  report  is  not  with  the  Old  Testa- 
ment but  with  Hellenism,  which  as- 
suredly had  the  basest  elements  in  it 
side  by  side  with  nobler  things.  It  has 
its  beautiful  but  poisonous  mythology, 
its  corrupt  sexual  morality,  its  cruel 
system  of  slavery,  as  well  as  its  noble 
philosophy.  Yet  the  presence  of  this 
base  and  cruel  side  of  Hellenism  did 


not  prevent  St.  John  or  the  author  of 
the  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews  from  using 
its  highest  categories  of  thought  and 
transforming  them  through  the  vital 
power  of  the  Spirit.  .  .  There  is  no 
reason  whatever  for  Christian  propa- 
ganda,' they  conclude,  'unless  the  mis- 
sionary has  something  new  to  proclaim ; 
but  it  is  equally  certain  that  there  is 
no  basis  whatever  for  the  missionary 
appeal  unless  the  missionary  can  say, 
"  Whom  therefore  ye  worship  in  ignor- 
ance, him  declare  I  unto  you."  ' 

Even  where  the  native  faith  itself 
seems  to  offer  few  '  points  of  contact ' 
with  Christianity,  there  is  sure  to  be  in 
the  minds  of  the  people  some  upward 
impulse,  some  desire  for  deliverance 
from  evil  powers,  some  vague  aspira- 
tions for  a  higher  life,  which  may  in 
some  measure  be  used  as  a  preparatio 
evangelica.  But  this  cannot  be  done  ex- 
cept by  a  missionary  who  has  acquired 
an  insight  into  the  working  of  the  nat- 
ive mind  on  religious  themes,  and  this 
insight  is  the  fruit  of  a  combination  of 
an  unprejudiced  and  kindly  spirit  and 
a  long  and  careful  study.  Of  these  two 
qualifications  it  is  only  the  second  that 
is  often  lacking.  Nothing  could  be 
more  tactful  than  the  general  attitude 
of  the  missionary  toward  the  people  he 
addresses.  His  normal  policy  is  con- 
structive rather  than  destructive.  The 
shrewd  suggestion  is  made  that,  if  any 
destructive  work  has  to  be  done,  it 
should  be  left  to  the  native  minister, 
who  can  say  freely  things  that  in  the 
mouth  of  a  foreigner  would  be  regarded 
as  insulting.  In  the  same  way,  Princi- 
pal Mackichan,  of  Bombay,  refuses  to 
call  himself  an  iconoclast.  'It  seems  to 
me,' he  says,  'that  our  mission  is  to  pre- 
sent Christ  to  the  people  and  win  them 
from  their  idols,  so  that  they,  and  not 
we,  should  become  iconoclasts.'  It  is  in 
the  backing  up  of  this  kindly  temper 
by  an  intelligent  appreciation  of  native 
thought  that  the  missionary  has  too 


THE  NEW  MISSIONARY  OUTLOOK 


447 


often  come  short,  mainly  through  de- 
ficient opportunities  of  study. 

If  the  plans  outlined  at  the  Conference 
are  carried  into  effect,  the  missionary  of 
the  future  will  not  be  sent  out  to  pick 
up  this  knowledge  as  best  he  can  in  the 
midst  of  the  exhausting  duties  of  his 
post,  but  will  already  have  taken  a  gen- 
eral course  of  instruction  in  compara- 
tive religion,  supplemented  by  special 
courses  in  the  subjects  most  closely 
related  to  his  own  field.  In  certain 
cases  recognition  will  be  made  of  the 
high  technical  qualifications  needed  to 
meet  the  demands  of  a  particular  field 
at  a  particular  juncture.  Work  among 
Hindu  students,  for  instance,  requires 
just  now  the  services  not  simply  of  men 
of  liberal  culture,  but  of  experts  in  phil- 
osophy competent  to  hold  their  ground 
against  apologists  for  Hindu  Panthe- 
ism. In  another  environment  a  schol- 
arly acquaintance  with  the  Koran  or 
with  the  Confucian  classics  may  be  an 
almost  indispensable  condition  of  suc- 
cess. In  every  way  the  colleges  and 
boards  responsible  for  the  curriculum 
must  so  study  the  problem  of  adapta- 
tion that,  so  far  as  possible,  to  the 
Arabs  the  missionary  may  become  an 
Arab,  to  the  Chinese  he  may  become  a 
Chinaman,  and  to  the  Kaffirs  he  may 
become  a  Kaffir. 

The  call  for  a  blending  of  sympathy, 
knowledge,  and  judgment,  is  no  less 
exacting  in  the  region  where  religious 
faith  is  involved  with  social  custom.  It 
is  often  extremely  difficult  to  deter- 
mine the  precise  status  of  a  particular 
usage,  and  to  decide  whether  it  is  to  be 
regarded  as  essentially  part  of  a  pagan 
cult,  or  as  of  neutral  quality,  and  there- 
fore capable  of  being  perpetuated  with- 
out harm  if  once  it  can  be  freed  from  its 
traditional  associations.  A  typical  ex- 
ample is  the  reverence  paid  in  China 
and  Japan  to  departed  ancestors  and 
national  heroes,  a  reverence  which  is 
closely  interwoven  with  the  historic 


civilization  of  those  countries.  There 
are  certain  elements  in  this  'ancestor 
worship '  in  its  popular  form  which  are 
plainly  inconsistent  with  Christianity; 
for  example,  the  belief  that  the  welfare 
of  the  dead  depends  upon  the  offerings 
made  to  them  by  the  living,  and  that 
likewise  the  welfare  of  the  living  de- 
pends upon  the  protection  of  the  dead. 
Accordingly,  both  the  native  churches 
and  the  missionaries  in  China  are 
agreed  that  the  practice  must  not  be 
continued  by  the  Christian  converts. 
At  the  same  time  the  idea  at  the  basis 
of  this  custom  has  an  obvious  kinship 
with  the  great  Christian  doctrine  of  the 
communion  of  saints,  which  binds  the 
seen  and  the  unseen  in  one  vast  fellow- 
ship, as  well  as  with  Christian  teach- 
ings as  to  the  dignity  of  family  relation- 
ships. It  is  wisely  recommended  that 
these  features  of  the  Christian  faith 
should  be  emphasized  in  the  mission- 
ary propaganda  in  China,  and  especial- 
ly that  every  Christian  burial  should 
be  made  an  occasion  of  showing  the 
falsity  of  the  charge  that  Christians  are 
guilty  of  an  unfeeling  disregard  for  the 
memory  of  their  departed  friends. 

A  more  startling  but  quite  reason- 
able suggestion  is  that  the  Oriental  in- 
stitution of  the  'go-between'  —  a  wo- 
man who  makes  a  living  professionally 
by  arranging  betrothals  and  marriages 
—  should  be  explicitly  recognized  by 
the  Christian  churches,  and  that  they 
should  use  their  influence  to  secure 
that,  in  the  case  of  Christian  families, 
this  important  function  be  exercised 
by  those  persons  only  who  are  of  ap- 
proved character.  This  proposal  is  an 
admirable  example  of  the  alertness  of 
the  modern  missionary  to  promote  the 
Christianizing  of  any  existing  social 
customs,  which,  however  strange  to 
Western  ideas,  are  not  in  themselves 
objectionable.  Here,  again,  prelimin- 
ary study  of  anthropology  and  kindred 
subjects,  with  special  reference  to  the 


448 


THE  NEW  MISSIONARY  OUTLOOK 


field  in  which  he  is  to  labor,  will  go 
a  long  way  to  prepare  the  missionary 
for  an  intelligent  handling  of  such 
problems.  To  this  may  well  be  added 
a  training  in  sociology  for  the  benefit 
of  those  missionaries  at  least  who  are 
likely  to  undertake  work  in  communi- 
ties where  industrial  and  commercial 
changes  are  creating  a  new  social  en- 
vironment. 

It  might  seem  a  commonplace  to  in- 
clude a  knowledge  of  the  vernacular 
among  the  necessary  conditions  of  a 
really  competent  understanding  of  the 
religion  and  the  life  of  a  people.  There 
is  reason  to  believe,  however,  that  in 
the  past  a  standard  of  bare  intelligibil- 
ity has  too  often  been  considered  suffi- 
cient. This  has  been  due  partly  to  the 
pedagogic  incompetence  of  native 
teachers,  and  partly  to  the  urgency  of 
the  demand  for  immediate  service  in 
the  field,  which  has  prevented  new- 
comers from  completing  even  such 
meagre  courses  of  study  as  had  been 
arranged  for  them.  The  missionaries 
themselves  admit  that  to  attempt  to 
gain  an  insight  into  the  native  concep- 
tions of  things  except  through  the  me- 
dium of  the  vernacular  is  'to  hang  a 
ladder  in  the  air.'  Even  college  stud- 
ents who  can  speak  and  read  English 
can  best  be  approached  on  the  deepest 
subjects  in  the  mother- tongue  —  the 
language  of  the  heart  and  of  the  home. 
For  this  reason  the  Conference  approves 
the  practice  of  Christian  schools  in 
China  of  devoting  considerable  time  to 
the  Chinese  classics,  and  recommends 
that  efforts  be  made  in  every  country  to 
develop  a  native  literature  permeated 
with  Christian  ideas,  which  shall  in- 
clude not  only  books  with  a  definite 
theological  message,  but  biography, 
history,  social  science,  and  even  fiction. 

As  regards  the  missionary's  own  lan- 
guage-training, it  is  urged  by  some  high 
authorities  that  it  should  begin  before 
he  sails.  It  can  be  carried  out  at  home, 


so  it  is  alleged,  by  more  scientific  meth- 
ods and  in  a  less  distracting  environ- 
ment than  on  the  field.  On  this  point 
there  is  a  conflict  of  opinion,  but  the 
Commission  has  no  doubt  of  the  value 
at  any  rate  of  instruction  in  the  modern 
science  of  phonetics  as  preparatory  to 
any  subsequent  linguistic  work.  And 
those  who  most  doubt  the  wisdom  of 
spending  time  in  language-study  at 
home  are  emphatic  in  their  insistence 
upon  the  need  of  establishing  in  the  va- 
rious fields  a  really  first-class  system  of 
training  colleges  in  place  of  the  happy- 
go-lucky  methods  of  instruction  with 
which  so  many  missionary]  recruits  in 
the  past  have  had  to  be  content. 

The  new  missionary,  the  product  of 
the  training  above  outlined,  will  in 
some  fields  have  to  discharge  very  dif- 
ferent functions  from  those  of  his  pre- 
decessor. In  many  countries  his  primary 
task  will  no  longer  be  that  of  a  pioneer 
evangelist  —  for  such  duties  will  fall 
mainly  to  the  lot  of  the  native  work- 
er— but  of  a  leader  and  educator.  How- 
ever expert  he  may  become  in  his  spe- 
cial studies  the  disadvantages  of  his 
alien  origin  and  upbringing  can  never 
be  entirely  overcome.  Only  by  indigen- 
ous thinkers  and  apostles  can  the  inter- 
pretation of  Christianity  in  terms  of 
native  thought,  and  its  acclimatization 
in  the  life  of  the  people  on  a  large  scale, 
really  be  brought  about.  To  discover 
and  train  men  capable  of  this  service 
will  be  the  foreign  missionary's  most 
critical  and  most  fruitful  occupation. 

Regret  is  frankly  expressed  that  hith- 
erto the  native  preacher  or  teacher 
has  been  scarcely  more  than  an  echo. 
The  native  church  has  shown  very  lit- 
tle sign  of  'any  original  or  formative 
thought  on  the  great  questions  of  the 
Divine  revelation  and  of  spiritual  life.' 
It  has  accepted  not  only  the  substance 
of  the  missionary's  message,  but  the 
form  also.  In  its  delight  at  the  new 
power  and  life  communicated  by  the 


THE  NEW  MISSIONARY  OUTLOOK 


449 


spirit  of  the  Gospel  teaching,  it  has 
been  conscious  of  no  incongruity  in  the 
framework  of  creeds  and  confessions 
which  has  been  fashioned  in  the  ec- 
clesiastical conflicts  of  the  European 
churches.  It  seemed  to  him  'shock- 
ing,' said  Bishop  Gore  at  the  Confer- 
ence, that  the  native  pastors  should  so 
largely  have  been  trained  by  the  aid  of 
documents  like  the  Thirty-nine  Arti- 
cles and  the  Westminster  Confession, 
'documents  full  of  controversies  which 
are  partial,  which  do  not  belong  to  the 
universal  substance  of  our  religion.' 
But  as  yet  no  such  thrill  of  indignant 
protest  agitates  the  native  churches. 
Indeed,  many  native  correspondents 
candidly  replied  that  they  could  not 
understand  the  meaning  of  the  ques- 
tion asking  whether  they  had  been  per- 
plexed by  'the  distinctively  Western 
elements'  in  the  missionary  message  as 
presented  to  them.  The  Western  char- 
acter of  the  missionary  himself  was  ob- 
vious enough,  and  in  some  cases  had 
aroused  prejudice  against  him,  but 
they  were  unaware  of  anything  in  the 
message  which  was  especially  difficult 
to  assimilate.  Perhaps  if  the  question 
had  been  put  to  non-converts,  a  differ- 
ent answer  might  have  been  received. 
The  missionaries  themselves  are  well 
aware  of  the  handicap  they  suffer 
through  the  crystallization  of  Christian 
doctrine  in  shapes  that  are  repugnant 
to  the  Oriental  mind,  and  the^y  tell  us 
how  practical  experience  in  the  field, 
while  not  in  any  way  shaking  their 
own  faith,  has  profoundly  modified 
their  conceptions  of  the  due  propor- 
tion of  the  various  elements  in  its  con- 
tent. The  report  of  Commission  IV, 
indeed,  goes  so  far  as  to  declare  that 
'Christian  theology  must  be  written 
afresh  for  every  fresh  race  to  which 
it  comes,  so  that  it  may  justify  it- 
self to  all  as  the  abiding  wisdom  that 
cometh  from  above,  ever  quick  and 
powerful,  and  not  be  misrepresented  as 

VOL.  107  -  NO,  4 


if  it  were  no  more  than  a  precipitation 
from  the  antiquated  text-books  of  the 
West.' 

There  is  something  that  appeals 
powerfully  to  the  imagination  in  the 
prospect  of  what  will  happen  when 
Oriental  thought  has  had  time  to  make 
its  contribution  to  the  rectifying  of 
the  traditional  Christian  theology  and 
Christian  ethics.  'What  we  desire  to 
see,'  says  a  correspondent  of  this  Com- 
mission, 'is  not  simply  Christianity  in 
India,  but  an  Indian  Christianity.' 
For  the  present  generation  the  desire 
will  have  to  suffice.  But  before  many 
decades  are  past  the  sight  itself  may 
gladden  the  eyes  of  our  children,  who 
will  then  become  the  contemporaries  of 
an  event  in  religious  history  worthy  of 
being  compared  in  its  significance  with 
the  great  Reformation.  That  new  form 
of  religion  yet  to  be  developed  in  Asia 
will  not  be  an  amalgam  of  Christianity 
and  Buddhism,  but  will  as  fully  de- 
serve the  name  of  Christianity  as  any- 
thing now  preached  from  English  or 
American  pulpits.  It  will  differ  from 
Christianity,  as  we  know  it,  not  by  any 
heretical  omissions  or  substitutions, 
but  by  bringing  into  prominence  cer- 
tain phases  of  the  Christian  Gospel 
which  have  hitherto  been  obscured  or 
overlooked  through  the  peculiar  de- 
velopment of  Western  civilizations  and 
types  of  character.  These  elements 
have  been  existing  all  the  time  in  the 
Christianity  of  the  New  Testament, 
but  we  have  ignored  them  or  underesti- 
mated their  importance  because  they 
did  not  suit  our  own  way  of  thinking. 

'  Eastern  theology,'  predicts  the  prin- 
cipal of  a  college  in  Bengal,  'will  be 
more  on  the  lines  of  the  gospel  of  St. 
John  than  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans.' 
The  Hindu,  more  contemplative  and 
mystical  than  we,  will  find  himself  at 
home  in  regions  of  Christian  thought 
where  the  most  cultivated  Western 
thinker  moves  with  difficulty.  Hence 


450 


THE  NEW  MISSIONARY  OUTLOOK 


the  members  of  Commission  IV  look 
forward  with  eager  anticipation  to  the 
time  when '  whether  through  the  Chris- 
tianized mind  of  India,  or  through  the 
mind  of  the  missionary  stirred  to  its 
depths  by  contact  with  the  Indian 
mind,  we  shall  discover  new  and  won- 
derful things  in  the  ancient  Revela- 
tion which  have  been  hidden  in  part 
from  the  just  and  faithful  of  the  West- 
ern world.'  China,  again,  by  her  in- 
tense feeling  of  the  solidarity  of  the 
people,  has  a  valuable  contribution  to 
make  to  the  interpretation  of  the  truth 
that  if  one  member  suffers  all  the  mem- 
bers suffer  with  it.  If  these  glowing 
forecasts  are  fulfilled,  even  in  a  moder- 
ate degree,  will  there  not  come  back  to 
the  countries  from  which  the  mission- 
aries were  sent  an  enrichment  of  their 
spiritual  life  which,  in  its  reward  for 
the  labors  and  gifts  of  the  past,  will  il- 
lustrate once  more  the  great  law  of 
blessing  through  sacrifice? 

It  is  not  only  on  its  formularies  and 
theological  text-books  that  the  con- 
flicts of  the  Church  have  stamped  a 
peculiarly  Occidental  mark.  Systems 
of  church  government  bear  equally  the 
impress  of  provincial  conditions  and 
temporary  emergencies.  Here  again, 
the  new  missionary  will  be  prepared 
to  take  the  place  of  a  learner  as  well  as 
a  teacher.  Naturally,  when  the  foreign 
evangelist  has  gathered  around  him 
sufficient  converts  to  be  grouped  in  a 
native  church,  he  establishes  an  eccles- 
iastical system  corresponding  to  that 
of  the  church  which  sent  him  out. 
Every  church  organization  that  has 
yet  been  devised  has  merits  of  its  own 
as  a  practical  working  scheme,  and  it  is 
scarcely  surprising  that  in  this  point 
also  the  native  converts  have  generally 
been  quite  willing  to  adopt,  without 
serious  criticism,  whatever  pattern  of 
church  order  may  have  been  commend- 
ed to  them.  As  in  the  case  of  doctrine, 
the  native  mind  has  hitherto  done  little 


in  the  way  of  any  original  attempt  to 
solve  the  problems  of  administration. 
But  two  forces  are  arousing  it  into 
activity.  One  is  the  general  awakening, 
as  already  mentioned,  of  a  national 
consciousness.  This  is  bound  to  bring 
with  it  an  impatience  of  foreign  con- 
trol, a  readiness  to  assume  those  re- 
sponsibilities of  initiative  and  direction 
which  have  hitherto  been  borne  by  the 
missionary  on  the  ground  or  the  mis- 
sion board  at  home,  a  desire  to  exercise 
in  church  government  an  independence 
parallel  to  that  which  is  claimed  in 
politics.  The  almost  unanimous  sym- 
pathy with  these  aspirations  shown  in 
the  discussions  at  Edinburgh  was  a 
notable  feature  of  the  Conference. 

Another  impulse  comes  from  the  fact 
that  the  native  Christians  are  discov- 
ering how  sorely  the  progress  of  their 
faith  is  hampered  by  ecclesiastical  di- 
visions, which  may  have  had  sufficient 
justification  in  other  lands  and  at 
other  times,  but  which  there  is  no  ex- 
cuse for  perpetuating  on  the  mission 
field  to-day.  The  whole  thing  reaches 
its  reductio  ad  absurdum  in  the  story  of 
a  Hindu  who  is  asked  by  a  visitor  to 
what  church  he  belongs,  and  has  just 
enough  knowledge  of  English  to  be 
able  to  reply  that  he  is  a  Scotch  Pres- 
byterian. To  the  converts  from  a  non- 
Christian  religion  the  difference  be- 
tween one  form  of  church  government 
and  anotjier  seems  so  trifling  that  they 
cannot  understand  why  it  should  be 
allowed  to  interfere  with  the  united 
action  that  is  required  to  make  the 
Christian  propaganda  most  effective. 
If  the  missionaries  will  lead  them  in 
the  movement  for  union,  so  much  the 
better;  if  not,  the  evidence  is  clear  that 
in  some  countries  at  least  the  native 
churches  will  within  a  few  years  take 
the  matter  into  their  own  hands. 

An  example  of  practical  alliance  has 
been  set  in  West  China,  where  the 
Protestant  missions  (1)  have  mapped. 


A  WAVE 


451 


out  the  field  so  as  to  prevent  over- 
lapping, (2)  have  established  a  union 
university,  and  a  common  board 
of  study  and  examination,  (3)  have 
united  in  the  management  of  a  mis- 
sion hospital,  (4)  are  cooperating  in 
the  working  of  a  mission  press  with  a 
common  hymn-book,  a  common  maga- 
zine, etc.,  and  (5)  have  a  standing  com- 
mittee on  church  union,  whose  aim  is 
definitely  expressed  as  'one  Christian 
Church  for  Western  China.'  The  pos- 
sible results  of  a  widespread  following 
of  this  example  may  be  inferred  from 
the  deliberate  statement  of  Mr.  J.  R. 
Mott,  that  a  well-considered  plan  of 
cooperation  in  the  missionary  work  of 
the  societies  represented  in  the  Confer- 
ence 'would  be  more  than  equivalent  to 
doubling  the  present  missionary  staff.' 


And  just  as  the  mission  churches 
may  be  expected  in  the  course  of  time 
to  influence  the  thought  of  Occidental 
Christianity,  so  one  may  hope  that  be- 
fore long  their  freedom  from  the  eccles- 
iastical restraints  imposed  by  tradi- 
tion may  lead  the  mother  churches 
into  the  same  liberty.  '  It  is  a  thought 
not  without  its  grandeur,'  said  Lord 
Balfour  of  Burleigh,  the  President  of 
the  Conference,  in  his  opening  address, 
'  that  a  unity  begun  in  the  mission  field 
may  extend  its  influence  and  react 
upon  us  at  home  and  throughout  the 
older  civilizations;  that  it  may  bring 
to  us  increased  hope  of  international 
peace  among  the  nations  of  the  world, 
and  of  at  least  fraternal  cooperation 
and  perhaps  a  greater  measure  of  unity 
in  ecclesiastical  matters  at  home.' 


A  WAVE 


BY   CHARLES   LEMMI 


FROM  the  vast  surface  of  the  ocean  gray, 
'Neath  leaden  clouds  banked  o'er  the  wintry  day, 
Silent  I  swell,  and  swelling  silent  glide 
Towards  the  beach  that,  gray  as  all  beside, 
Stretches  its  endless  length  and  on  each  hand 
Dies  in  the  mist  as  dies  the  inward  land. 


The  light  glints  dully  on  my  rounded  mass 

As  o'er  the  shifting  depths  below  I  pass 

To  add  my  note  to  the  mysterious  dirge 

That  moans  and  mutters  darkly,  'Surge  on  surge, 

From  the  unknown,  amid  perpetual  roar, 

To  the  mute,  half-known  shore  1' 


NULLIFYING    THE    LAW    BY    JUDICIAL 
INTERPRETATION 

BY   HARRISON  S.  SMALLEY 


ONE  of  the  most  familiar  facts  con- 
cerning our  political  system  is  the  divi- 
sion of  powers  between  the  legislative, 
executive,  and  judicial  branches  of  the 
government.  Hardly  less  familiar  is 
the  conventional  method  of  describing 
the  respective  spheres  of  these  three 
branches,  —  that  it  is  the  function  of 
the  legislative  department  to  make 
law;  of  the  executive,  to  enforce  law; 
and  of  the  judicial,  to  apply  law  in  the 
settlement  of  controversies  or  'cases.' 
Yet  it  is  obvious  to  all  who  have  given 
the  matter  any  thought  that  none  of 
the  departments  keeps  strictly  within 
its  own  proper  sphere,  but  that,  on  the 
contrary,  whatever  the  theory  may  be, 
in  practice  each  performs-  to  a  limited 
extent  functions  which  belong  to  the 
others.  Thus  it  is  evident  that  when 
the  Senate  is  engaged  in  the  conduct  of 
impeachment  proceedings  it  is  perform- 
ing a  judicial  function,  and  that  when 
the  President  vetoes  a  bill,  or  a  depart- 
ment chief  issues  a  ruling  or  order,  the 
executive  is  concerned  with  lawmak- 
ing,  and  hence  is  discharging  a  legis- 
lative function. 

But  of  the  three,  the  judicial  depart- 
ment is  the  one  which  is  permitted  by 
our  system  to  encroach  most  deeply 
upon  the  others.  Instead  of  being  con- 
fined to  the  truly  judicial  function  of 
applying  law  to  cases,  our  courts  ex- 
ercise several  great  classes  of  powers, 
none  of  which  is  judicial  in  character. 

452 


One  of  these  it  is  the  purpose  of  this 
article  to  discuss. 

The  courts  are  constantly  engaged 
in  interpreting  statutes  which  have 
been  enacted  by  legislative  authority. 
In  a  sense  it  is  quite  natural  that  they 
should  do  this;  indeed,  it  is  so  natural 
that  the  propriety  of  the  proceeding 
has  remained  practically  unquestioned. 
A  statute  is  enacted;  a  case  arises  under 
it;  in  connection  with  the  case  a  differ- 
ence of  opinion  appears  as  to  the  mean- 
ing or  application  of  some  word,  or 
phrase,  or  clause.  What  is  the  court  to 
do?  Conceivably  it  might  submit  the 
controverted  question  to  the  legislature 
and  ask  that  body  to  interpret  its  own 
act;  but  this  the  court  would  not  be 
likely  to  do.  The  legislature  might  not 
be  in  session  at  the  time;  and  moreover 
there  is  no  precedent  for  so  referring 
a  question  of  statutory  construction. 
But  if  the  question  is  not  to  be  submit- 
ted to  the  legislature,  the  court  must 
itself  shoulder  the  responsibility  of  fur- 
nishing the  answer.  Hence  this  is  a  sort 
of  responsibility  which  it  is  the  estab- 
lished practice  of  our  courts  to  accept. 

But  however  natural  it  may  be  that 
our  courts  should  assume  this  duty,  in 
the  absence  from  our  political  system 
of  any  other  convenient  method  of 
interpretation  of  statutes,  it  is  never- 
theless a  fact  that  the  function  itself  is 
legislative  rather  than  judicial  in  char- 
acter. Such  a  statement  runs  counter 
to  the  idea  commonly  held,  that  statu- 
tory construction  is  a  prerogative  of 


NULLIFYING  THE   LAW  BY  JUDICIAL  INTERPRETATION     453 


the  courts;  but  it  must  be  remembered 
that  this  idea  is  derived  wholly  from 
the  fact  that  the  judiciary  has  for  a 
long  period  exercised  this  type  of  au- 
thority, and  does  not  inquire  into  the 
reasons  which  explain  that  fact.  The 
truth  is  that  in  so  far  as  they  have 
exercised  this  function  the  courts  have 
exercised  it,  not  as  a  matter  of  right, 
but  because  they  have  been  suffered 
to  do  so  by  the  legislative  branch  of 
government.  And  the  legislature  has 
allowed  them  the  privilege  solely  as 
a  matter  of  convenience,  in  order  to  ex- 
pedite the  application  of  laws  in  the 
settlement  of  controversies.  But  the 
function  is  nevertheless  purely  legis- 
lative. This  seems  so  obvious  as  hard- 
ly to  need  argument.  To  interpret  law 
is  to  assist  in  making  it.  To  expound 
the  meaning  of  a  statutory  provision 
is  virtually  to  amend  and  amplify  the 
provision  in  question,  and  hence  is 
legislative  activity. 

If  a  legislature,  having  enacted  a 
law,  should  become  convinced  that  its 
meaning  was  not  sufficiently  clear  or 
precise,  and  should  therefore  proceed 
to  revise  or  expand  certain  of  its  pro- 
visions, would  not  such  supplementary 
action  be  strictly  legislative?  Yet  that 
is  in  substance  exactly  what  the  judi- 
ciary does  when  it  construes  a  statute. 
Interpretation  subsequent  to  the  pass- 
age of  an  act  is  essentially  amendment 
of  it. 

That  the  interpretative  function  is 
legislative  in  its  nature,  is  often  implic- 
itly recognized  even  by  our  courts.  Fre- 
quently a  legislature  gives  its  own  in- 
terpretation of  a  statutory  provision. 
It  embodies  in  the  law  a  declaration 

that  'wherever  the  word is  used 

in  this  act  it  shall  be  taken  to  mean 
.  .  .  .'  Or  else  a  clause  is  inserted  pro- 
viding that  'nothing  in  this  act  con- 
tained shall  be  construed  to  forbid 
.  .  .  ,'  or,  'this  section  shall  not  be 
construed  to  allow  .  .  .'  And  in  vari- 


ous other  ways  the  meaning  and  appli- 
cation of  phrases  and  sections  are  spec- 
ified. Now,  when  the  legislature  in- 
cludes in  a  statute  such  an  interpreting 
clause,  the  courts  never  fail  to  adopt 
the  interpretation  there  given.  And  in 
so  doing  they  recognize  the  superiority 
of  the  legislative  voice  in  the  matter; 
they  admit  that  legislative  construc- 
tion controls;  they  concede,  therefore, 
the  fundamentally  legislative  character 
of  the  function. 

But  while  the  interpretation  of  stat- 
utes is  thus  a  legislative  matter,  the 
courts  are  in  the  habit  of  attending  to 
it,  and  all  must  admit  that  in  some  ways 
it  is  convenient  that  they  should  do  so. 
Hence  they  will  doubtless  continue  the 
practice  unless  weighty  reasons  are 
found  why  some  other  arrangement 
should  be  made.  Do  such  reasons 
exist? 

In  a  recent  article  Justice  Lurton,  of 
the  Supreme  Court,  touched  upon  this 
subject,  and  although  he  upholds  the 
judicial  power  to  construe  statutes,  he 
nevertheless  concedes  that  in  the  in- 
terpretative function  there  lurks  an 
immeasurable  power,  which  is  all  the 
more  dangerous  to  the  public  welfare 
because  under  its  cover  it  is  possible  for 
a  bad  or  ignorant  judge  to  defeat  the 
legislative  purpose.  But  this  is  not 
the  only  danger.  Aside  from  the  con- 
duct of  bad  or  ignorant  judges,  the 
practice  of  judicial  interpretation  has 
developed  very  serious  evils,  which  are 
now  beginning  to  make  themselves  felt. 
Four  of  these  evils  I  wish  to  discuss  at 
some  length. 

First.  A  fairly  complete  interpretation 
of  an  important  statute  can  be  obtained 
only  after  prolonged  delay,  and  by  the  in- 
curring of  large  expense. 

Under  our  present  system  statutory 
construction  is  an  incident  of  litiga- 
tion. A  question  of  interpretation  can 
receive  no  official  consideration  until 


454     NULLIFYING  THE  LAW  BY  JUDICIAL  INTERPRETATION 


it  arises  in  connection  with  a  lawsuit, 
and  no  answer  can  be  regarded  as  au- 
thoritative until  the  case  is  settled,  not 
by  the  trial  court,  but  by  the  highest 
court  which  is  competent  to  pass  upon 
it.  Thus  the  slow-moving  'wheels  of 
justice'  delay  the  answer  for  a  year  or 
more,  —  usually  more, — and  re-trials, 
appeals,  and  other  supplementary  pro- 
ceedings are  likely  to  postpone  it  for  at 
least  another  year.  And  as  in  each  case 
only  the  particular  questions  of  con- 
struction necessarily  involved  in  the 
controversy  can  properly  be  settled  by 
the  court,  it  frequently  happens  that  a 
series  of  cases  must  be  carried  to  final 
judgment  before  all  the  dubious  points 
in  an  act,  or  even  in  one  section  of  an 
act,  can  be  fully  cleared  up.  The  ex- 
pense of  this  litigation  must  be  borne 
by  some  one,  and  is  not  an  item  to  be 
ignored;  but  the  more  important  phase 
of  the  matter  is  the  delay.  Many  years 
must  pass  in  which  the  people  are  in 
doubt  as  to  the  meaning  of  the  statute; 
and  if,  as  is  often  the  case,  it  is  an  act 
which  affects  industrial  interests,  the 
prolonged  uncertainty  is  a  depressing 
factor  in  the  business  situation. 

A  capital  illustration  may  be  found  in 
the  Sherman  Anti-Trust  law.  Passed 
by  Congress  in  1890,  its  meaning  has 
not  yet,  after  twenty  years,  been  fully 
elucidated  by  the  Supreme  Court,  al- 
though many  cases  have  been  tried  un- 
der it.  Some  people  are  so  discouraged 
by  the  failure  of  protracted  litigation 
adequately  to  illuminate  the  act,  that 
.  they  are  inclined  to  regard  it  as  hope- 
lessly obscure.  President  Taft,  on  the 
other  hand,  seems  confident  that  the 
significance  of  the  law  has  in  the  main 
been  explained  by  judicial  decisions. 
But,  after  all  is  said,  the  fact  remains 
that  under  our  present  system  twenty 
years  have  not  sufficed  for  a  full  inter- 
pretation of  a  statute  which  was  so  im- 
portant that  a  complete  understand- 
ing of  it  should  have  been  gained  by 


the  people  of  the  country  with  the 
least  possible  delay.  Any  number  of 
other  illustrations  may  be  given,  and 
some  will  be  found  in  cases  mentioned 
later  in  other  connections. 

Second.  The  existing  practice  compels 
our  judges  to  assume  an  attitude  on  cur- 
rent economic  and  political  questions. 

As  has  been  said,  law-interpretation 
is  law-making,  and  to  the  extent  that 
judges  are  engaged  in  the  exposition  of 
statutes  they  are  making  laws  for  the 
people.  They  can  no  longer,  therefore, 
maintain  the  position  of  arbiters,  im- 
partially applying  rules  of  law  to  the 
controversies  of  litigants.  They  have 
become  legislators,  engaged  in  the  de- 
termination of  governmental  policy  in 
matters  of  a  political  and  economic 
character. 

A  law  is  passed  by  the  legislature 
for  the  regulation  of  corporations; 
but  whether  the  regulation  shall  be 
mild  or  severe  rests,  within  wide  lim- 
its, with  the  judges  who  interpret  it. 
By  one  construction  they  can  nullify 
the  law;  by  another,  they  can  hold  the 
corporations  to  a  very  strict  account. 
And  so  it  is  necessary  for  judges  to 
take  an  attitude,  to  reveal  their  per- 
sonal convictions  with  reference  to 
those  '  problems  of  the  day '  which  are 
the  subject  of  so  much  important  legis- 
lation. Almost  inevitably  their  deci- 
sions disclose  whether  they  are  more  in 
sympathy  with  the  trusts,  the  financial 
'interests'  and  those  magnates  popu- 
larly known  as  'malefactors  of  great 
wealth,'  who  so  loudly  proclaim  their 
'  vested  interests '  and  'property  rights,' 
or  with  the  great  body  of  the  people 
who  urge  in  reply  their  claims  of  *  popu- 
lar rights'  and  the  'public  welfare.' 

Similarly,  judicial  interpretation  may 
well  serve  to  indicate  whether  the 
judges  sympathize  with  labor  or  with 
capital;  whether  they  are  in  accord 
with  movements  for  the  alleviation  of 


NULLIFYING  THE   LAW   BY  JUDICIAL  INTERPRETATION    455 


the  working  conditions  of  labor;  and, 
in  general,  whether  they  favor  those 
modern  measures  which  aim  at  the 
elevation  of  the  moral  plane  of  com- 
petition and  of  business,  and  which 
do  not  refuse  to  make  some  sacri- 
fice of  the  traditional  rights  of  liberty, 
contract,  and  property,  when  that  is 
necessary  in  order  to  attain  the  end 
desired.  Their  decisions  disclose  these 
things  because  it  is  practically  impos- 
sible for  them  to  conceal  their  point 
of  view  in  construing  statutes  dealing 
with  such  subjects. 

But  this  necessity  of  descending 
from  their  judicial  aloofness  into  the 
turmoil  of  present-day  industrial  and 
political  struggles,  is  not  a  good  thing 
from  any  point  of  view.  It  detracts 
from  the  dignity  of  the  judges,  and  di- 
minishes the  respect  which  has  so  long 
been  felt  for  our  courts.  Worst  of  all 
from  their  point  of  view,  it  exposes  the 
judges  to  a  new  species  of  criticism,  — 
a  criticism  not  of  their  learning,  nor  of 
their  judicial  fairness,  nor  of  their  legal 
acumen,  but  of  their  economic  policy. 
The  wisdom  and  righteousness  of  their 
ideas  in  regard  to  great  matters  of  pub- 
lic policy  are  being  called  in  question, 
and  from  the  effects  of  such  criticism 
they  should  surely  be  protected,  if  any 
means  of  protection  can  be  found. 
Moreover,  as  will  presently  appear,  the 
entrance  of  the  judges  into  the  arena 
of  industrial  conflict  is  not  helpful  to 
the  people  in  their  efforts  to  solve  the 
problems  which  perplex  them. 

Third.  The  existing  practice  promotes 
carelessness  in  legislation. 

It  is  the  duty  of  a  legislative  body  to 
give  to  the  people  laws  which  are  as 
precise  and  clear  as  possible;  but  this  is 
a  duty  which  is  often  neglected,  for  leg- 
islators know  that  any  confusion,  am- 
biguity, or  uncertainty  in  a  statute  will 
in  the  long  run  be  cleared  up  by  the 
courts,  and  this  knowledge  is  one  of  the 


causes  which  are  producing  careless 
drafting  of  bills.  Indeed  it  sometimes 
happens  that  legislators  deliberately 
frame  an  act  so  that  its  meaning  will 
not  be  clear,  in  order  to  throw  on  the 
courts  the  task  of  determining  the 
question  of  policy  involved,  thereby 
avoiding  the  necessity  of  deciding  it 
themselves. 

An  excellent  illustration  of  this  line 
of  conduct  was  furnished  by  Congress 
in  the  passage  of  the  Hepburn  bill  in 
1906.  Since  that  measure  conferred  on 
the  Interstate  Commerce  Commission 
power  to  fix  railroad  rates  on  com- 
plaint, it  was  of  the  utmost  importance 
to  define  precisely  the  limits  of  that 
power.  Should  the  Commission  be  al- 
lowed to  regulate  rates  freely  except  as 
limited  by  constitutional  restraints,  or 
should  more  narrow  restrictions  be 
placed  upon  it?  Unable  to  agree  on 
this  question,  the  differing  factions  in 
Congress  at  last  concurred  in  a  phras- 
ing of  the  law  which  left  the  matter 
unsettled.  They  adopted  provisions 
which  were  capable  of  different  inter- 
pretations, thereby  compelling  the 
courts  to  solve  a  legislative  problem,  to 
determine  the  nation's  policy  as  to  this 
important  phase  of  the  regulation  of 
railway  corporations.  After  what  has 
been  said  as  to  the  stately  progress  of 
judicial  construction,  need  it  be  added 
that  the  problem  is  still  unsolved? 

Fourth.  Frequently  the  legislative  in- 
tent fails  of  recognition,  and  a  statute  is 
made  to  accomplish  more  or  less  than  its 
authors  purposed. 

This  is  by  all  means  the  most  serious 
result  of  the  existing  system  of  judicial 
interpretation.  An  act  of  legislation, 
however  much  demanded  and  needed 
by  the  public,  may  totally  fail  to  ac- 
complish its  end,  or  at  least  may  be- 
come such  a  feeble  instrument  as  to 
be  altogether  disappointing,  while  on 
the  other  hand  it  may  be  applied  to  sit- 


456    NULLIFYING  THE   LAW   BY  JUDICIAL  INTERPRETATION 


nations  not  contemplated  at  the  time 
of  its  enactment.  Such  broadening  of 
the  scope  of  a  statute  is  not  common, 
but  examples  may  be  found,  one  of 
which  is  furnished  by  the  Sherman 
Anti-Trust  law.  That  statute  was  de- 
signed to  meet  the  evils  of  the  indus- 
trial trusts,  but  seven  years  after  its 
passage  the  Supreme  Court  ruled  that 
it  should  also  be  applied  to  railway 
agreements  and  combinations. 

In  a  large  majority  of  cases,  however, 
judicial  construction  produces  an  op- 
posite result,  and  operates  to  restrict 
the  application  of  statutes.  In  fact,  the 
tendency  in  this  direction  is  so  strong 
that  in  many  cases  provisions  of  law 
are  actually  nullified  by  judicial  inter- 
pretation, —  provisions,  that  is,  which 
the  courts  uphold  as  perfectly  valid  and 
constitutional,  but  upon  which  they 
place  so  peculiar  a  construction  as  to 
deprive  them  of  all  their  vitality.  Thus 
many  a  law  admirably  designed  for  the 
alleviation  of  some  distressing  social  or 
economic  ill  gives  little,  if  any,  of  the 
relief  desired. 

Before  proceeding  to  enforce  the  ser- 
iousness of  this  evil  by  reference  to  im- 
portant laws  which  have  been  weak- 
ened or  nullified  by  the  courts,  we  shall 
do  well  to  pause  and  ask  why  our 
judges  exhibit  so  marked  a  tendency 
to  interpret  statutes  in  this  man- 
ner. Two  potent  reasons  may  be  sug- 
gested. 

While  contemplating  a  statute,  judges 
are  thinking  of  legal  technicalities,  and 
not  of  the  social  conditions  which 
called  forth  the  law  and  which  it  was 
intended  to  ameliorate.  Often  judges 
have  but  an  imperfect  understanding 
of  such  conditions;  but  however  com- 
plete or  limited  their  knowledge  may 
be,  when  called  upon  to  give  a  judicial 
ruling  on  the  statute,  the  technical- 
ities of  the  law  control  their  thoughts. 
This  is  a  most  natural  result  of  the 
character  of  the  law  in  which  they  have 


been  trained.  When  James  I  tried  to 
convince  Lord  Coke  that  the  king  was 
competent  to  dispense  justice,  because 
the  law  was  supposed  to  settle  cases 
through  reason,  and  the  king  had  rea- 
son as  well  as  the  judges,  Lord  Coke 
replied,  — 

'True  it  is  that  God  has  endowed 
your  Majesty  with  excellent  science  as 
well  as  great  gifts  of  nature,  but  your 
Majesty  will  allow  me  to  say,  with  all 
reverence,  that  you  are  not  learned  in 
the  laws  of  this  your  realm  of  England, 
and  I  crave  to  remind  your  Majesty 
that  causes  which  concern  life,  or  in- 
heritance, or  goods,  or  fortunes  of  your 
subjects  are  not  decided  by  natural 
reason,  but  by  the  artificial  reason  and 
judgment  of  the  law.' 

In  this  statement  Lord  Coke  express- 
ed an  important  truth.  The  reasoning 
of  the  law,  and  hence  the  thinking  of 
judges,  is  in  a  high  degree  artificial. 
Its  course  is  determined  by  fictions, 
presumptions,  precedents,  technical 
definitions;  and  hence  the  interpreta- 
tion of  a  statute  by  a  judge  may  be 
far  from  that  which  one  would  give 
to  it  who  endeavored,  in  a  plain,  com- 
mon-sense way,  to  effectuate  the  pur- 
pose of  the  statute.  Judges  are  more 
intent  on  upholding  the  technicalities 
of  the  law,  and  on  preserving  the  har- 
mony of  judicial  definitions  and  dicta, 
than  they  are  on  accomplishing  the 
social  object  contemplated  by  the  legis- 
lative mind. 

A  second  reason  why  judicial  inter- 
pretation so  often  proves  fatal  to  the 
effectiveness  of  an  act  is  to  be  found  in 
the  fact  that  much  modern  legislation 
is  designed  for  the  regulation  of  indus- 
try; and  in  the  further  fact  that,  in 
principle  and  spirit,  the  system  of  law 
which  prevails  in  this  country,  and 
which  we  inherited  from  England,  is 
hostile  to  such  legislation.  For  the  reg- 
ulation of  industry  invariably  means 
the  limitation  of  personal  and  property 


NULLIFYING  THE  LAW  BY  JUDICIAL  INTERPRETATION     457 


rights  in  commercial  enterprise;  while 
it  is  the  traditional  policy  of  the  law  to 
preserve  such  rights  inviolate.  The 
great  body  of  the  people  clearly  recog- 
nize that  during  the  last  century,  and 
especially  during  the  last  generation, 
serious  social  and  industrial  evils  have 
come  into  existence,  to  the  injury  of  the 
general  public;  and  they  also  plainly 
see  that,  to  mitigate  or  destroy  these 
evils,  some  distinct  limitations  must 
be  placed  on  private  rights  of  contract 
and  property.  But  our  system  of  law 
has  not  followed  the  course  of  indus- 
trial evolution,  or  at  best  has  followed 
it  with  slow  and  reluctant  step.  In  the 
main  our  system  of  law  is  still  lingering 
in  the  eighteenth  century.  Indeed,  it 
has  been  so  little  impressed  by  the 
evils  with  which  the  public  are  strug- 
gling that  it  has  modified  little,  if  at 
all,  its  ancient  declaration  in  favor  of 
the  protection  of  private  rights  against 
interference.  And  hence  judges  still 
proclaim,  as  in  the  language  of  the  late 
Justice  Brewer,  that '  the  protection  of 
vested  rights  of  property  is  a  supreme 
duty  of  the  courts,'  that,  indeed,  'the 
primary  duty  of  the  courts  is  the  pro- 
tection of  the  rights  of  persons  and 
property,'  —  having  in  mind,  not  the 
social  or  popular  rights  which  are  to- 
day struggling  for  recognition  through 
government  regulation  of  industry, 
but  rather  those  strictly  private,  self- 
ish rights  which  it  is  the  object  of  pub- 
lic control  to  limit  in  the  interest  of  the 
general  welfare. 

If  such  is  still  the  avowed  purpose  of 
the  law,  and  the  declared  duty  of  the 
courts,  it  is  but  natural  that  judges 
who  are  trained  in  the  law,  and  filled 
with  its  spirit,  should  look  askance 
at  modern  industrial  legislation,  and 
should  think  of  it,  not  as  a  body  of 
rules  which  should  be  applied  with  a 
firm  hand,  but  as  a  body  of  rules  all  out 
of  harmony  with  the  traditions  and 
ideals  of  the  law, — designed,  in  fact,  to 


invade  those  'sacred  rights'  which,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  law,  it  is  the  very  pur- 
pose of  government  to  preserve.  Look- 
ing at  industrial  legislation  in  this  way, 
it  is  only  natural  that  judges  in  their 
interpretations  should  tend  both  con- 
sciously and  unconsciously  to  moder- 
ate the  rigor  of  the  statutes.  It  would 
hardly  be  humanly  possible  for  them 
to  give  any  more  force  than  they  felt 
absolutely  obliged  to  give  to  statutes 
which,  from  their  eighteenth-century 
point  of  view,  are  fundamentally 
wrong.  In  brief,  the  legal  and  judicial 
bias  against  legislation  of  this  type 
must  be  and  is  manifested  in  statutory 
interpretation. 

To  show  that  this  is  practically  as 
well  as  theoretically  true,  several  hir- 
stances  will  now  be  cited  in  which  judi- 
cial construction  has  destroyed,  or  at 
least  emasculated,  provisions  of  im- 
portant statutes. 

The  Interstate  Commerce  Act,  as 
passed  in  1887,  contained  no  provision 
which  declared  in  precise  terms  that 
the  Commission  should  have  power  to 
regulate  railway  rates.  But  the  act  did 
declare  that  all  rates  must  be  reason- 
able and  not  unjustly  discriminatory, 
and  did  authorize  the  Commission  to 
investigate  rate-conditions,  and  to  is- 
sue orders  requiring  railways  to  desist 
from  violations  of  the  act.  These  pro- 
visions clearly  admitted  of  the  inter- 
pretation that  the  Commission  could 
regulate  rates.  Such  was  the  under- 
standing at  the  time,  and  the  Commis- 
sion assumed  it  to  be  true.  But  in  the 
decisions  rendered  in  1896  and  1897, 
the  Supreme  Court  placed  an  opposite 
construction  on  the  act  and  refused  to 
permit  the  Commission  longer  to  regu- 
late rates.  Thus  the  Commission  was 
bereft  of  its  authority  until  Congress 
restored  it  in  1906. 

Among  the  evils  which  the  Interstate 
Commerce  Act  aimed  to  prevent  was 
that  form  of  discrimination  which  con- 


458     NULLIFYING  THE  LAW   BY  JUDICIAL  INTERPRETATION 


sists  in  charging  more  for  a  short  than 
for  a  long  haul.  Railways  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  reducing  rates  at  com- 
petitive points  without  making  corre- 
sponding reductions  at  intermediate 
points,  thus  placing  the  latter  towns  at 
a  serious  disadvantage  in  comparison 
with  the  former.  To  prevent  such 
practices,  the  act  provided  that  it 
should  be  unlawful  'to  charge  or  re- 
ceive any  greater  compensation  in  the 
aggregate  for  the  transportation  of 
passengers  or  of  like  kind  of  proper- 
ty, under  substantially  similar  circum- 
stances and  conditions,  for  a  shorter 
than  for  a  longer  distance  over  the 
same  line,  in  the  same  direction,  the 
shorter  being  included  within  the 
longer  distance.'  But  to  obviate  the 
danger  that  rates  might  become  too 
rigid,  or  that  other  injury  might  re- 
sult from  the  too  strict  application  of 
this  clause,  Congress  gave  the  Com- 
mission power  to  relieve  railways  from 
the  application  of  the  clause  in  specific 
cases  in  which  good  cause  could  be 
shown. 

The  intent  of  this  'Long  and  Short 
Haul  Clause '  was  obvious,  but  unfor- 
tunately at  least  two  phrases  admit- 
ted of  differing  constructions.  Certain 
lower  federal  courts  began  to  construe 
'over  the  same  line '  in  such  a  way  as  to 
destroy  much  of  the  effectiveness  of  the 
clause.  They  held  that  when  a  ship- 
ment passed  over  tracks  of  two  or 
more  railway  companies,  it  was  not 
carried  'over  the  same  line'  as  a  ship- 
ment not  passing  over  the  same  com- 
bination of  tracks.  Thus  if  A  and  B 
were  two  connecting  railways,  a  long 
haul  over  A  and  B  and  a  short  haul 
over  A  alone  were  said  not  to  be  over 
the  same  line,  although  they  passed 
over  the  same  rails,  perhaps  in  the 
same  car.  It  seems  incredible  that  so 
strained  and  artificial  an  interpreta- 
tion should  have  gained  even  moment- 
ary acceptance,  yet  it  was  adopted 


by  the  lower  courts  until  the  Supreme 
Court  finally  held  to  the  contrary, 
in  1896  —  nine  years  after  the  act  was 
passed. 

But  while  the  Supreme  Court  thus 
renounced  an  interpretation  which  was 
limiting  the  usefulness  of  the  clause, 
one  year  later  the  same  tribunal  con- 
strued another  phrase  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  to  annul  the  clause  entirely,  for 
all  practical  purposes.  It  held,  in  1897, 
that  two  hauls  do  not  take  place 'under 
substantially  similar  circumstances  and 
conditions,'  when  the  longer  is  between 
two  towns  at  which  the  railway  com- 
pany is  subject  to  competition,  while 
the  shorter  is  between  two  towns  at 
which  there  is  no  such  competition. 
As  these  were  the  very  circumstances 
under  which  the  discriminations  aimed 
at  by  the  clause  were  taking  place,  as 
the  lower  charges  for  longer  hauls  were 
being  made  almost  exclusively  at  com- 
petitive points,  this  construction  meant 
that  there  were  practically  no  cases  to 
which  the  clause  could  apply.  In  other 
words,  the  Supreme  Court  interpreted 
the  clause  as  allowing  the  very  abuses 
which  it  was  intended  to  prohibit!  As 
a  result  the  famous  'Long  and  Short 
Haul  Clause '  became  a  dead  letter  and 
remained  such  until  1910,  when  Con- 
gress made  an  effort  to  revitalize  it  by 
eliminating  the  phrase,  'under  sub- 
stantially similar  circumstances  and 
conditions.' 

In  1903,  Congress  passed  the  Elkins 
law,  which,  though  it  dealt  with  rail- 
way rates,  was  really  designed  as  an 
anti-trust  measure.  On  the  theory  that 
one  of  the  strong  props  supporting  the 
trusts  is  the  use  of  railway  discrimin- 
ations, the  act  endeavored  to  prevent 
such  practices,  especially  those  per- 
sonal preferences  which  are  awarded 
in  the  shape  of  rebates.  In  the  famous 
'twenty-nine  million  dollar'  Standard 
Oil  case,  the  Circuit  Court  of  Appeals 
gave  to  the  act  two  disastrous  con- 


NULLIFYING  THE  LAW  BY  JUDICIAL  INTERPRETATION    459 


structions.  Under  the  rules  of  federal 
procedure,  the  case  could  not  be  ap- 
pealed to  the  Supreme  Court,  so  a  final 
judgment  was  not  rendered;  but  if  the 
rulings  of  the  Court  of  Appeals  are 
finally  sustained,  the  El-kins  law  will  be 
enormously  weakened,  notwithstand- 
ing the  fact  that  an  amendment  passed 
by  Congress  has  dulled  the  edge  of  one 
of  the  rulings. 

The  act  was  construed  by  the  Court 
of  Appeals  as  requiring  the  government 
to  prove,  not  only  that  the  shipper  re- 
ceived a  concession,  but  also  that  he 
knew  at  the  time  that  he  was  re- 
ceiving a  concession.  To  secure  legal 
proof  of  such  knowledge  is  an  extreme- 
ly difficult  task,  and  to  throw  the  bur- 
den of  proof  on  the  government  would 
mean  that  it  would  fail  in  a  great  many 
cases  in  which  it  ought  to  succeed. 
This  interpretation  therefore  was  cal- 
culated to  impair  very  seriously  the  ef- 
ficiency of  the  act. 

The  other  construction  related  to 
the  'unit  of  offense.'  The  act  imposed 
as  a  penalty  a  fine  of  not  less  than  one 
thousand  nor  more  than  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars  for  each  offense,  but  un- 
fortunately did  not  indicate  precisely 
what  should  constitute  an  offense. 
Now,  in  connection  with  discrimina- 
tions any  one  of  the  following  acts  may 
be  thought  of  as  the  misdeed :  — 

The  formation  of  an  agreement  to 
give  and  receive  a  concession. 

The  making  of  a  settlement  under 
such  an  agreement;  that  is,  the  pay- 
ment by  the  favored  shipper  of  a  sum 
less  than  would  be  due  under  the  es- 
tablished rates;  or  the  payment  by  the 
railway  of  an  amount  of  money  con- 
stituting a  rebate. 

The  making  of  a  consignment  of 
goods  under  such  an  agreement. 

The  shipment  of  a  hundredweight, 
or  of  a  ton,  or  of  a  carload,  or  of  a 
train-load  of  goods  under  such  an 
agreement. 


In  the  trial  court  Judge  Landis  in- 
terpreted the  act  to  mean  that  the 
shipment  of  each  carload  constitutes 
a  separate  offense,  and  he  accordingly 
endeavored  to  inflict  on  the  Standard 
Oil  Company  of  Indiana  the  'twenty- 
nine-million-dollar  fine.'  But  the  Cir- 
cuit Court  of  Appeals  rejected  his  con- 
struction and  held  that  an  actual 
settlement  is  to  be  regarded  as  the  unit 
of  offense.  Whether  shipments  are  large 
or  small,  whether  violations  of  the  act 
are  serious  or  slight,  were  held  to  be 
matters  of  no  consequence.  The  num- 
ber of  payments  determines  the  guilt 
of  the  parties.  If  the  rebate  is  paid  in 
small  sums  each  week,  there  will  be 
fifty-two  offenses  in  the  year;  but  if  it 
is  paid  in  one  lump  sum,  there  will  be 
but  one  offense.1 

Now  it  is  easy  to  see  what  the  effect 
of  the  decision  would  have  been,  if 
finally  sustained,  had  not  Congress 
passed  an  amendment  which  meets  the 
situation.  Its  effect  would  have  been 
to  encourage  the  very  thing  which  the 
act  was  designed  to  prevent.  Under  the 
interpretation  given  by  the  Court  of  Ap- 
peals large  shippers  would  have  found 
it  possible  to  violate  the  law,  but  small 
shippers,  not  so.  For  a  shipper,  by  re- 
ceiving his  rebates  only  once  or  twice 
annually,  would  be  guilty  of  only  one 
or  two  offenses  a  year;  and  even  if  he 
were  apprehended,  indicted,  tried, 
and  convicted  for  every  offense,  — 
which,  of  course  would  never  happen, 
—  the  advantages  derived  from  the  re- 
bates by  a  large  shipper  would  more 
than  offset  the  fines  which  could  be  im- 
posed upon  him.  This,  however,  would 
not  be  the  case  with  a  small  shipper,  to 
whom  the  concession  would  not  be  of 
such  great  importance. 

This  construction  of  the  Elkins  act, 
therefore,  was  one  under  which  large 

1  In  the  Standard  Oil  case  there  had  been  but 
thirty-six  settlements  for  the  shipment  of  four- 
teen hundred  and  sixty-two  cars. 


460    NULLIFYING  THE  LAW  BY  JUDICIAL  INTERPRETATION 


shippers  would  be  permitted  to  en- 
joy preferential  advantages  as  against 
small  shippers,  thereby  accelerating 
the  very  tendency  which  it  was  the 
purpose  of  the  act  to  retard  —  the 
tendency  toward  monopoly.  In  his 
opinion  Judge  Baker  pronounced  the 
supposedly  established  doctrine  that 
*  the  purpose  of  all  canons  of  interpret- 
ation is  to  discover  and  effectuate  the 
will  of  the  lawmakers ' ;  yet  he  concurred 
in  a  construction  the  inevitable  tend- 
ency of  which  would  have  been  to 
cause  the  act  to  accomplish  the  very 
opposite  of  what  was  intended  by  the 
lawmakers.  This  case  admirably  illus- 
trates the  point  that  sometimes  a  court 
utterly  ignores  the  social  or  industrial 
conditions  which  prompted  the  passage 
of  a  law.1 

The  'commodities  clause'  of  the 
Hepburn  act  furnishes  another  illus- 
tration. For  many  years  the  railroads 
which  serve  the  eastern  coal-fields  have 
themselves  been  engaging  in  the  coal 
business  either  directly  or  through  the 
agency  of  subsidiary  coal  corporations 
owned  and  controlled  by  themselves. 
The  independent  coal  producers  have 
complained  bitterly  of  this  expansion 
of  the  railways'  activities,  for,  of 
course,  a  railway  company  can  carry 
its  own  coal  to  market  at  the  bare  cost 
of  transportation,  but  will  naturally 
see  to  it  that  the  independents  pay  a 
rate  which  puts  them  at  a  disadvant- 
age in  the  market,  as  compared  with 
the  railway.  To  relieve  this  situation 
the  Hepburn  act  sought  to  divorce 
the  railways  from  their  coal  properties, 
and  to  compel  them  to  confine  them- 

1  The  amendment  passed  by  Congress  to 
which  reference  has  been  made,  adds  the  pen- 
alty of  imprisonment  to  the  bare  punishment  by 
fine,  and  thereby  creates  a  real  deterrent  to  pre- 
vent the  large  shipper  from  taking  advantage  of 
the  loophole  made  by  the  decision  of  the  Court 
of  Appeals.  He  will  often  feel  safe,  however,  be- 
cause of  the  burden,  cast  upon  the  government, 
of  proving  his  knowledge  of  the  concession. 


selves  to  their  proper  functions  as  pub- 
lic-service corporations.  To  that  end 
the  following '  commodities  clause '  was 
enacted:  — 

'  It  shall  be  unlawful  for  any  railroad 
company  to  transport  from  any  State, 
Territory,  or  the  District  of  Columbia, 
to  any  other  State,  Territory,  or  the 
District  of  Columbia,  or  to  any  foreign 
country,  any  article  or  commodity, 
other  than  timber  and  the  manufac- 
tured products  thereof,  manufactured, 
mined,  or  produced  by  it,  or  under  its 
authority,  or  which  it  may  own  in 
whole  or  in  part,  or  in  which  it  may 
have  any  interest  direct  or  indirect, 
except  such  articles  or  commodities  as 
may  be  necessary  and  intended  for  its 
use  in  the  conduct  of  its  business  as  a 
common  carrier.' 

The  railways  made  it  manifest  that 
they  would  not  willingly  obey  this  law, 
whereupon  test  cases  were  started  and 
carried  to  the  Supreme  Court.  In  set- 
tling these  cases  that  tribunal  practi- 
cally annihilated  the  clause  by  its  in- 
terpretation of  the  words  '  any  interest, 
direct  or  indirect.'  It  held  that  a  rail- 
way which  owns  the  stock  of  a  coal 
company  has  no  interest,  direct  or  in- 
direct, in  the  coal!  This  amazing  con- 
struction was  received  with  great  satis- 
faction by  the  railways,  for  most  of 
them  had  already  formed  subsidiary 
coal  companies,  and  the  rest  hastened 
to  do  so  at  once.  Thus  the  clause  is 
utterly  impotent,  and  cannot  affect  the 
evils  it  was  designed  to  correct. 

It  is  true  that  Congress  might  have 
included  in  the  clause  a  specific  refer- 
ence to  property  owned  by  subsidiary 
companies, — as  was,  indeed,  proposed 
while  the  bill  was  under  discussion. 
But  Congress  felt  that  it  had  covered 
the  ground  completely  when  it  not 
only  mentioned  commodities  'manu- 
factured, mined,  or  produced  by  it  [the 
railroad],  or  under  its  authority,  or 
which  it  may  own  in  whole  or  in  part,' 


NULLIFYING  THE   LAW   BY   JUDICIAL   INTERPRETATION    461 


but  even  included  articles  in  which  the 
railway  'may  have  any  interest,  direct 
or  indirect.'  Surely  such  a  provision 
would  seem  to  be  thoroughly  inclusive, 
and  the  failure  of  Congress  to  go  fur- 
ther into  detail  can  hardly  justify  the 
judiciary  in  adopting  a  construction 
which  is  not  only  extraordinary  in  it- 
self, but  which  prevents  the  clause 
from  accomplishing  its  avowed  ob- 
ject —  even  from  accomplishing  any- 
thing at  all. 

Many  other  illustrations  could  be 
given,  but  perhaps  those  which  have 
been  presented  sufficiently  enforce  the 
truth  of  the  proposition  that  judicial 
interpretation  often  weakens  and  some- 
times nullifies  acts  of  legislation. 


ii 

If  there  is  even  moderate  force  in  the 
points  which  have  thus  far  been  made, 
two  things  seem  evident. 

First,  that  greater  care  should  be 
taken  by  our  legislative  bodies  in  draft- 
ing statutes.  Each  law  should  be  made 
as  clear  and  precise  as  possible,  so  that 
the  number  of  questions  of  construc- 
tion to  be  afterwards  passed  upon  will 
be  reduced  to  a  minimum.  To  this  end 
it  would  be  advisable  for  each  lawmak- 
ing  body  to  maintain  a  standing  com- 
mittee on  phraseology,  charged  with 
the  duty  of  revising  and  perfecting  the 
language  of  all  bills  before  their  final 
passage.  But  even  under  the  most  fav- 
orable circumstances  our  legislators 
cannot  be  expected  to  do  their  work  so 
perfectly  as  to  avoid  entirely  the  neces- 
sity of  later  interpretation.  However 
careful  they  may  be,  they  cannot  pos- 
sibly foresee  every  question  which 
may  arise.  And  hence  it  is  certain 
that,  however  excellent  the  legislative 
work  may  be,  statutes  will  usually 
require  more  or  less  interpretation. 
Therefore,  — 

Secondly,  in  view  of  the  manifest 


evils  connected  with  judicial  interpret- 
ation, the  suggestion  is  at  least  de- 
serving of  consideration,  that  the  sys- 
tem might  advantageously  be  replaced 
by  some  other  not  so  open  to  objection. 
In  the  light  of  the  preceding  discussion, 
it  is  easy  to  see  what  the  essential 
features  of  a  more  satisfactory  system 
would  be.  Such  a  system  would  be  one 
in  which  statutes  could  be  interpret- 
ed promptly  and  without  unnecessary 
expense  to  the  people,  and  in  which 
interpretations  would  be  rendered  by 
a  non-judicial  authority,  —  a  body,  in 
fact,  composed  of  persons  outside  of  the 
legal  profession. 

If  the  delay  and  expense  of  the  pre- 
sent system  were  its  only  defects,,  they 
could  be  removed  without  a  fundamen- 
•  tal  change.  Nothing  would  be  required 
beyond  a  modification  of  judicial  prac- 
tice in  the  direction  of  a  more  business- 
like procedure.  If,  xoithout  resorting  to 
litigation,  people  were  privileged  to 
raise  questions  of  construction  before 
the  highest  court  competent  to  pass 
upon  a  statute,  and  the  court  were 
authorized  to  answer  such  questions, 
prompt  and  inexpensive  interpreta- 
tions could  be  secured.  But  while  such 
a  reform  would  be  highly  useful,  it 
would  not  meet  all  the  requirements  of 
the  situation.  It  would  not  relieve  our 
judges  of  the  necessity  of  assuming  an 
attitude  on  public  problems,  nor  would 
it  relieve  the  people  of  the  evils  re- 
sulting from  the  legalistic  bias  against 
industrial  regulation  and  from  the 
judicial  penchant  for  technicalities.  If 
these  difficulties  are  to  be  met,  a  radi- 
cal change  is  necessary.  Judicial  inter- 
pretation must  be  abandoned,  and  the 
function  must  be  assumed  either  by  the 
legislative  or  by  the  executive  branch 
of  the  government. 

Now,  since  the  function  is  essentially 
legislative  in  character,  it  would  seem 
quite  natural  and  proper  to  transfer  it 
to  the  lawmaking  authority;  but  inas- 


462    NULLIFYING  THE   LAW  BY  JUDICIAL  INTERPRETATION 


much  as  legislative  assemblies  are  not 
in  session  the  greater  part  of  the  time, 
such  a  proceeding  would  obviously  be 
out  of  the  question.  On  the  other 
hand  it  is  conceivable  that  the  inter- 
pretative function  might  advantage- 
ously pass  to  the  executive  department 
of  the  government.  Indeed,  an  admin- 
istrative body  would  seem  to  be  a  most 
desirable  agency  for  the  discharge  of 
this  important  class  of  duties.  Such  an 
authority  could  proceed  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible after  the  enactment  of  a  law  to 
make  it  the  subject  of  study,  and  to  in- 
terpret any  passages  which  were  found 
to  be  obscure.  All  persons  would  be 
allowed  to  present  inquiries  to  this  au- 
thority, with  reference  to  the  meaning 
of  any  statutory  provision;  and  in  case 
a  question  of  construction  not  already 
settled  should  arise  in  the  course  of  liti- 
gation, the  court  would  at  once  refer  it 
to  the  same  authority  for  decision.  Of 
course,  all  rulings  in  the  nature  of  in- 
terpretations would  be  made  public, 
and  printed  copies  would  be  sent  free 
to  all  persons  applying  for  them.  More- 
over all  rulings  would  be  regarded  as 
part  and  parcel  of  the  acts  to  which 
they  applied,  and  hence  would  be  final 
unless  later  amended  by  legislative 
action. 

Under  such  a  system  it  is  probable 
that  within  a  few  weeks  —  at  most  a 
few  months  —  after  the  passage  of  an 
act,  all  the  more  important  points 
would  have  been  suggested  and  settled. 
Thus  would  be  saved  the  expense  of 
litigation,  and  the  tedious  delay  and  un- 
certainty characteristic  of  the  present 
system;  the  courts  also  would  be  saved 
the  time  which  they  are  now  com- 
pelled to  give  to  such  matters,  and 
would  be  spared  the  necessity  of  dis- 
closing their  ideas  on  current  ques- 
tions; while  the  public  at  large  would 
be  secured  from  the  serious  results 
which  flow  from  judicial  nullification 
of  important  statutes. 


An  authority,  then,  such  as  has  been 
described,  is  highly  to  be  desired,  but 
how  is  it  to  be  constituted?  Several 
suggestions  might  be  made,  but  the 
following  two  seem  to  offer  the  greatest 
promise  of  success. 

So  far  as  national  legislation  is  con- 
cerned, Congress  might  confer  on  the 
heads  of  the  administrative  depart- 
ments the  power  and  duty  of  interpret- 
ing all  acts  pertaining  to  their  respect- 
ive departments,  with  final  authority 
vested  in  the  President;  except  that 
interstate  commerce  legislation  would 
naturally  be  interpreted  by  the  Inter- 
state Commerce  Commission  rather 
than  by  a  member  of  the  Cabinet.  Or 
else  Congress  might  provide  for  a  per- 
manent Commission  on  Statutory  Con- 
struction, which  would  devote  itself 
exclusively  to  this  work.1 

Of  these  two  plans  probably  the  lat- 
ter would  prove  the  more  successful, 
provided  that  the  commission  was 
small;  provided  also  that  so  far  as  pos- 
sible it  was  composed  of  persons  out- 
side of  the  legal  profession,  who  would 
have  the  attitude  of  the  publicist  rather 
than  that  of  the  lawyer;  and  provided 
further  that  the  salaries  were  made  so 
large,  and  the  circumstances  surround- 
ing the  commission  so  dignified,  that 
men  of  large  calibre  would  be  attracted 
to  it  —  men  fully  of  cabinet  grade. 

It  is  essential  that  the  commission 
should  be  composed  largely,  if  not 
wholly,  of  laymen,  for  otherwise  the 
legalistic  attitude  and  processes  of 
thought  would  continue  to  control  the 
construction  of  statutes.  But  it  must 
be  noted  that  there  would  be  one  im- 
portant limitation  upon  the  usefulness 
of  a  body  so  constituted.  The  nature 
of  this  limitation  will  be  perceived 
when  it  is  understood  that  there  are 
two  kinds  or  classes  of  statutes,  which, 

1  A  similar  arrangement  could  be  made  in 
each  state,  for  the  interpretation  of  local  legis- 
lation. 


NULLIFYING  THE   LAW   BY  JUDICIAL  INTERPRETATION    463 


for  lack  of  better  names,  may  be  called 
'social'  and  'legal.'  The  former  class 
embraces  all  statutes  pertaining  to  po- 
litical, economic,  and  sociological  sub- 
jects. Examples  may  be  found  in  the 
laws  relating  to  the  tariff,  the  census, 
the  regulation  of  railway  rates,  the 
control  of  trusts,  the  determination  of. 
labor  conditions  in  factories,  and  so  on. 
It  is  legislation  of  this  important  type 
which  has  been  held  in  mind  in  the 
preceding  discussion.  But  there  are 
numerous  other  statutes  which  pertain 
merely  to  matters  of  law.  Such,  for 
example,  are  the  acts  which  modify  the 
common-law  rules  on  real  property, 
wills,  bailments,  damages,  and  so 
forth.  For  the  intelligent  interpreta- 
tion of  such  statutes  one  obviously 
needs  a  broad  comprehension  of  legal 
principles  and  a  knowledge  of  their 
historical  development;  and  hence  a 
tribunal  composed  of  men  without 
training  in  the  law  could  not  properly 
deal  with  legislation  of  this  class. 

An  administrative  body,  then,  while 
exactly  the  sort  of  authority  needed  for 
the  interpretation  of  '  social'  measures, 
would  not  be  ideal  when  'legal'  stat- 
utes were  to  be  passed  upon.  A  dif- 
ficulty thus  arises,  which  is  serious  but 
not  by  any  means  insuperable.  At 
least  two  methods  of  overcoming  it 
may  be  suggested.  On  the  one  hand 
a  legislative  body,  in  enacting  'legal' 
statutes,  might  definitely  assign  them 
to  the  courts  for  interpretation,  rather 
than  to  the  commission.  On  the  other 
hand  the  commission  might  be  provided 
with  competent  legal  advisers  whose 
duty  it  would  be  to  make  clear  the 
legalistic  significance  of  provisions  un- 
der consideration.  This  would  prevent 
the  commission  from  falling  into  error 
because  of  ignorance  of  the  legal  back- 
ground of  statutes,  while  at  the  same 
time  it  would  also  permit  the '  common- 
sense  '  rather  than  the  purely  legalistic 
frame  of  mind  to  control  the  situation. 


The  same  results  could  be  accom- 
plished, perhaps  as  well,  by  providing 
that  one  member  of  the  commission 
should  be  a  lawyer. 

It  will,  of  course,  be  objected  that  a 
law  transferring  the  power  of  inter- 
pretation from  the  courts  to  an  admin- 
istrative body  would  be  declared  un- 
constitutional by  the  Supreme  Court; 
but  this  is  not  by  any  means  certain. 
If  such  a  law  were  passed,  the  question 
which  that  court  would  have  to  de- 
cide would  be  the  following:  To  which 
department  of  government  does  the 
power  of  statutory  interpretation  pro- 
perly belong?  The  court  might  hold, 
on  the  legalistic  basis  of  precedent, 
that  since  the  courts  have  so  long  ex- 
ercised the  power,  it  is  judicial  in  char- 
acter. If  such  were  its  ruling,  the  law 
would  of  course  be  declared  an  uncon- 
stitutional attempt  to  deprive  the 
courts  of  a  part  of  the  judicial  auth<5r- 
ity  conferred  on  them  by  our  funda- 
mental law.  But  if  the  court  were  to 
regard  the  power  as  administrative, 
the  law  would  be  upheld.  If,  however, 
the  court  were  to  hold  the  power  to  be 
legislative,  a  new  problem  would  arise, 
involving  the  question  as  to  whether 
the  lawmaking  body  can  delegate  this 
phase  of  its  authority  to  an  adminis- 
trative body.  The  general  principle  is 
that  legislative  powers  cannot  be  dele- 
gated, but  one  may  nevertheless  hold 
that  administrative  interpretation 
could  be  established  without  a  consti- 
tutional amendment.  It  would  seem 
that  if  the  power  of  interpretation  is 
now  being  delegated  to  the  courts  with- 
out impropriety,  it  could  be  delegated 
to  administrative  officers  without  im- 
propriety. Furthermore,  a  somewhat 
analogous  case  has  long  been  familiar. 
Legislative  bodies  pass  laws  declaring 
in  general  terms  that  railway  rates 
must  be  just  and  reasonable,  but  dele- 
gate to  commissions  the  task  of  deter- 
mining what  that  declaration  means, 


464 


AFTER  HE  WAS  DEAD 


specifically,  in  the  case  of  the  railways 
subject  to  the  laws;  and  this  delega- 
tion of  power  has  long  been  upheld  by 
the  courts  as  valid.  By  analogy,  there- 
fore, it  would  seem  proper  for  a  legis- 
lative body  to  pass  a  law  leaving  to  a 
commission  the  duty  of  rendering  it 
precise  and  clear. 

Of  course,  if  such  administrative 
interpretation  is  unconstitutional,  it  is 
highly  improbable  that  it  can  ever  be 
established,  since  constitutional  amend- 
ments are  so  difficult  to  secure  in  this 
country.  But  there  seems  to  be  suf- 
ficient reason  for  believing  in  its  valid- 
ity to  warrant  the  enactment  of  a  law 
which  would  raise  the  question  and 


secure    an   answer    from   the   federal 
Supreme  Court. 

That  there  would  be  problems  to 
solve  in  connection  with  the  establish- 
ment of  such  a  system,  is  of  course 
true.  That  the  system  would  meet 
with  difficulties  and,  especially  at  first, 
become  involved  in  complications,  is 
likewise  true.  It  would  unquestionably 
take  time  to  determine  clearly  the  ex- 
act relation  of  the  administrative  au- 
thority to  the  legislature  and  the  courts. 
But  whether  all  of  these  difficulties 
would  not  be  much  less  serious  than 
the  evil  results  of  the  present  system, 
is  a  question  which  deserves  the  earn- 
est attention  of  the  American  people. 


AFTER  HE  WAS  DEAD 


BY  MELVILLE   DAVISSON   POST 


AN  hour  before  sunset  the  man,  who 
had  been  at  work  all  day,  turned  out 
of  the  cornfield.  He  crossed  the  fur- 
rows to  the  rail  fence,  with  the  hoe  in 
his  hands.  At  the  bars  leading  into  the 
field  a  squirrel  rifle,  with  a  long  wooden 
stock  reaching  to  the  end  of  the  barrel, 
stood  against  the  chestnut  post;  be- 
side it  lay  a  powder-horn  attached  to  a 
pouch  of  deerskin  containing  bullets. 
The  man  set  his  hoe  against  the  fence. 
He  wiped  his  hands  on  the  coarse  fox- 
grass  growing  in  the  furrows,  examined 
the  sun  for  a  moment,  then  took  up 
the  rifle,  removed  an  exploded  cap  from 
the  nipple,  and  began  to  load  it. 

He  poured  the  black  powder  into  his 
palm,  and  bending  his  palm  emptied  it 
into  the  barrel.  The  measure  of  pow- 
der was  a  sufficient  charge,  but  he 


added  to  it  half  the  quantity  again, 
emptied  into  his  palm  from  the  horn. 
Then  he  took  a  handful  of  bullets  out 
of  the  pouch,  selected  one  of  which  the 
neck  was  squarely  cut,  and  placing  a 
tiny  fragment  of  calico  over  the  muzzle 
of  the  rifle,  drew  out  the  hickory  ram- 
rod and  forced  the  bullet  down.  He 
got  a  percussion  cap  out  of  a  paper 
box,  examined  it,  placed  it  on  the  nip- 
ple, and  gently  pressed  it  down  with  the 
hammer  of  the  lock. 

When  the  gun  was  thus  carefully 
loaded  the  man  threw  it  across  his 
shoulder  and,  taking  the  horn  and 
pouch  in  his  hand,  left  the  field.  He 
went  along  a  path  leading  through  a 
wood  to  the  valley  below.  Midway  of 
the  wood  he  stopped  and  concealed  the 
horn  and  pouch  in  a  hollow  tree.  Then 


465 


he  continued  on  his  way  with  the  rifle 
tucked  under  his  arm. 

The  country  below  him  was  one  of 
little  farms,  skirted  by  trees  lining  the 
crests  of  low  hills.  The  man  traveled 
for  several  miles,  keeping  in  the  shelter 
of  the  wood.  Finally,  he  crossed  a 
river  on  a  fallen  tree  and  sat  down  in 
a  thicket  behind  a  rail  fence.  Beyond 
this  fence  was  a  pasture  field  and  a 
score  of  grazing  cattle.  In  this  field, 
some  twenty  paces  from  where  the  man 
sat,  the  earth  was  bare  in  little  patches 
where  the  owner  of  the  cattle  had  been 
accustomed  to  give  them  salt. 

The  sun  was  still  visible,  but  great 
shadows  were  beginning  to  lengthen 
across  the  valley.  Presently  an  old 
man,  riding  a  gray  horse,  entered  the 
field  from  the  road.  When  he  came 
through  the  gate,  the  man  concealed  in 
the  brush  cocked  his  rifle,  laid  the 
muzzle  on  a  rail  of  the  fence,  and  wait- 
ed, with  his  jaw  pressed  against  the 
stock.  The  old  man  rode  leisurely 
across  the  field  to  the  place  where  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  'salt'  his  cat- 
tle. There  he  got  down,  opened  a  bag 
which  he  carried  across  the  pommel  of 
his  saddle,  and  began  to  drop  handfuls 
of  salt  on  the  bare  patches  in  the  pas- 
ture. From  time  to  time  he  called  the 
cattle,  and  when  he  did  so  he  stood  up 
with  his  back  toward  the  fence,  look- 
ing at  the  bullocks  approaching  slowly 
from  another  quarter  of  the  field. 

There  was  a  sharp  report.  The  old 
man  turned  stiffly  on  his  heels  with  his 
arms  spread  out.  His  face  was  dis- 
torted with  amazement,  then  it  changed 
to  terror.  He  called  out  something,  in 
a  thick,  choked  voice;  then  he  fell  with 
his  arms  doubled  under  him. 

A  thin  wisp  of  smoke  floated  up  from 
the  rail  fence;  the  horse,  however,  did 
not  move;  it  remained  standing  with 
its  bridle-rein  lying  on  the  earth.  The 
cattle  continued  to  approach.  The  man 
in  the  brush  arose.  The  dead  man 
VOL.  107 -NO.  4 


had  called  out  his  name  'Henry  Fuget.' 
Of  that  he  was  certain.  That  he  had 
distinctly  heard.  But  of  the  other 
words  he  was  not  so  certain.  He 
thought  the  old  man  had  said,  'You 
shall  hear  from  me!'  But  the  words 
were  choked  in  the  throat.  He  might 
have  heard  incorrectly.  He  looked 
carefully  about  him  to  be  sure  that  no 
one  had  heard  his  name  thus  called 
out;  then  he  took  up  his  rifle,  crossed 
the  river  on  the  fallen  tree,  and  re- 
turned toward  the  cornfield. 

He  was  a  stout,  compactly-built  man 
of  middle  life.  His  hair  was  dark,  but 
his  eyes  were  blue.  He  was  evidently 
of  Celtic  origin.  He  walked  slowly, 
like  one  who  neither  delays  nor  hurries. 
He  got  the  horn  and  pouch  from  the 
hollow  tree  as  he  passed,  reloaded  his 
rifle,  shot  one  or  two  gray  squirrels  out 
of  the  maple  trees,  took  them  in  his 
hand,  and  went  down  the  ridge  through 
the  little  valley,  to  a  farmhouse.  He 
had  traveled  seven  miles,  and  it  was 
now  night. 

After  the  evening  meal,  which  the 
laborer  ate  with  the  family  of  his  em- 
ployer, he  went  to  his  bed  in  the  loft 
of  the  farmhouse.  On  this  night  Fuget 
ate  well  and  slept  profoundly.  The 
stress  which  had  attended  his  plan  to 
kill  Samuel  Pickens,  seemed  now  to 
disappear.  The  following  morning  he 
returned  to  his  work  in  the  cornfield. 
But  as  the  day  advanced  he  became 
curious  to  know  if  the  body  of  Pickens 
had  been  found,  and  how  the  country 
had  received  the  discovery.  He  had  no 
seizure  of  anxiety.  He  had  carefully 
concealed  every  act  in  this  tragic 
drama.  He  was  unknown  in  this  part 
of  the  country.  Pickens  had  not  seen 
him  before  the  shot.  He  had  come  here 
quietly,  obtained  employment  as  a 
farm  laborer,  under  the  name  of  Wil- 
liams, located  his  man,  watched,  and 
killed  him.  True,  Pickens  had  realized 
who  it  was  who  had  fired  the  shot  when 


466 


AFTER  HE   WAS  DEAD 


the  bullet  entered  his  body,  but  he  was 
dead  the  following  moment,  and  before 
that  he  had  believed  Fuget  in  another 
part  of  the  world. 

As  Fuget  remembered  the  scene,  he 
found  himself  trying  to  determine 
what,  exactly,  it  was  that  Pickens  had 
said,  after  he  had  called  his  name.  It 
seemed  to  Fuget  that  he  must  have 
heard  incorrectly.  He  labored  to  recall 
the  exact  sounds  that  had  reached  him. 
If  not  these  words,  —  '  You  shall  hear 
from  me,'  —  what  was  it  that  Pickens 
had  said?  And  as  he  puzzled,  he  be- 
came more  curious  to  know  how  Pick- 
ens  had  been  found,  and  what  the  peo- 
ple were  saying  of  the  murder.  Such 
news  travels  swiftly. 

As  the  day  advanced,  Fuget's  curios- 
ity increased.  He  paused  from  time 
to  time  in  the  furrow,  and  remained 
leaning  on  his  hoe-handle.  Finally  he 
thrust  the  blade  of  the  hoe  under  a 
root,  broke  it  at  the  eye,  and  returned 
to  the  farmhouse,  with  the  broken  hoe 
in  his  hand. 

At  the  door  he  met  the  farmer's  wife. 
She  spread  out  her  arms  with  a  sudden, 
abrupt  gesture. 

'La!  Mr.  Williams,'  she  said,  'have 
you  heard  the  news?  Somebody  shot 
ole  Sam  Pickens.' 

Fuget  stopped.  'Who's  Sam  Pick- 
ens?'  he  said. 

'Bless  my  life!'  said  the  woman;  *I 
forgot  you  're  a  stranger.  Sam  Pickens  ? 
Why,  he 's  a  cattle-man  that  come  over 
the  mountains  about  two  year  ago. 
He  bought  the  Carpenter  land  on  the 
River.' 

Fuget  had  now  his  first  moment  of 
anxiety. 

'I  hope  he  ain't  much  hurt,'  he  said. 

'Hurt!'  replied  the  woman.  'Why, 
he's  dead.  They  found  him  a-layin'  in 
his  pasture  field,  where  he'd  gone  to 
salt  his  cattle.' 

Fuget  stood  for  a  moment,  nodding 
his  head  slowly. 


'Well,  that's  a  terrible  thing.  Who 
done  it?' 

The  woman  flung  up  her  hands. 

'That's  the  mystery,' she  said.  'He 
did  n't  have  any  enemies.  He  was 
curious,  but  he  was  a  good  neighbor, 
folks  say.  They  liked  him.  He  lived 
over  there  by  himself.' 

Fuget  ventured  a  query. 

'Did  they  see  any  signs  of  anybody 
about  where  they  found  him?' 

'There  would  n't  be  any  signs  in  a 
pasture  field,'  said  the  woman,  'an'  the 
person  that  shot  him  must  have  been 
standin'  out  in  the  pasture  field,  be- 
cause he  was  a-layin'  a-facin'  the  river. 
An'  he'd  been  shot  in  the  back.  They 
could  tell  that  for  a  certainty,'  she 
added,  '  because  a  bullet  tears  where  it 
comes  out,  an'  it  carries  in  stuff  with 
it  where  it  goes  in.' 

Fuget  made  some  further  comment, 
then  he  held  up  the  pieces  of  the  hoe. 

'I  come  in  to  get  another  hoe,'  he 
said.  'I  broke  the  blade  on  a  root.' 

Then  he  went  out  to  the  log  barn, 
selected  a  hoe  from  a  number  hanging 
in  a  crack  of  the  logs,  and  returned  to 
the  cornfield. 

He  had  now  a  sense  of  complete  se- 
curity. Even  chance  had  helped.  The 
turning  of  the  old  man  in  the  act  of 
death  had  diverted  inquiry  from  the 
direction  of  the  river,  where  some 
broken  bushes  might  have  indicated 
his  hiding-place.  He  worked  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day  in  the  cornfield. 
He  had  the  profound  satisfaction  of 
one  who  successfully  shapes  events  to 
a  plan.  Nevertheless,  he  found  him- 
self pausing,  now  and  then,  to  consider 
what  it  was  that  Pickens  had  said.  The 
elimination  of  all  anxieties  seemed 
somehow  to  have  brought  this  feature 
of  the  tragedy  forward  to  the  first 
place.  It  seized  his  attention  with  the 
persistent  interest  of  a  puzzle. 

That  evening  at  supper  the  farmer 
related  the  gossip  of  the  countryside. 


AFTER  HE  WAS  DEAD 


467 


There  was  nothing  in  this  gossip  that 
gave  Fuget  the  slightest  concern.  No 
clue  of  any  character  had  been  ob- 
served, and  there  were  no  conjectures 
that  remotely  approached  the  truth. 
Fuget  talked  of  the  tragedy  without 
the  least  restraint.  That  anxiety  which 
he  had  feared  to  feel  when  the  matter 
would  come  to  be  discussed  did  not 
present  itself.  The  old  wives'  tales  of 
tortured  conscience  and  the  like,  while 
he  had  not  believed  them,  had,  never- 
theless, given  him  a  certain  concern. 
They  were  like  tales  of  ghosts,  which 
one  could  laugh  at,  but  could  not  dis- 
prove until  one  had  slept  in  the  haunt- 
ed house.  He  now  knew  that  they  were 
false. 

He  went  to  bed  with  the  greatest 
composure.  He  was  even  cheerful.  But 
he  did  not  sleep.  His  mind  seemed  un- 
usually clear  and  active.  It  reverted  to 
the  details  of  the  tragedy,  not  with  any 
sense  of  anxiety,  but  with  a  sort  of 
satisfaction,  as  of  one  who  contem- 
plates an  undertaking  successfully  ac- 
complished. He  passed  the  incidents 
in  review,  until  he  reached  the  words 
which  Pickens  had  uttered.  And,  keen- 
ly alert,  like  a  wrestler  in  condition, 
his  mind  began  to  struggle  with  that 
enigma.  He  endeavored  to  compose 
himself  to  slumber.  But  he  could  not. 
He  was  intensely  awake.  His  mind 
formulated  all  the  expressions  that 
might  resemble  in  sounds  those  words 
which  Pickens  seemed  to  have  said, 
but  they  were  of  no  service.  He  turned 
about  in  his  bed,  endeavoring  to  dis- 
miss the  problem.  But  his  mind 
seemed  to  go  on  with  it  against  every 
effort  of  his  will.  He  concluded  that 
this  sleeplessness  was  due  to  the  coffee 
which  he  had  taken  at  supper,  and  he 
determined  to  abandon  the  use  of  it. 
Now  and  then  he  fell  asleep,  but  he 
seemed  almost  instantly  to  awaken. 
He  was  glad  when  the  daylight  began 
to  appear. 


The  following  night  he  drank  no 
coffee,  and  he  fell  asleep.  But  some 
time  in  the  night  he  awoke  again  to 
the  besetting  puzzle.  He  sat  up  in  the 
bed,  and  determined  to  dismiss  it.  He 
had  believed  Pickens  to  say,  'You 
shall  hear  from  me';  very  well  then, 
that  was  what  he  had  said.  And  he  lay 
down.  But,  instantly,  upon  that  de- 
cision, there  appeared  another  phase 
of  the  puzzle  that  fascinated  his  atten- 
tion. Why  had  Pickens  used  that  ex- 
pression? Why  should  he  say,  'You 
shall  hear  from  me'?  He  was  in  the 
act  of  death  when  he  spoke.  He  knew 
that.  The  realization  of  it  was  in  his 
face.  These  words  were  inconsistent 
with  a  sense  of  death. 

He  lay  for  a  long  time,  intent  upon 
this  new  aspect  of  the  matter.  Did  the 
dying  man  intend  this  as  a  threat 
which  he  expected  to  carry  out?  But 
how  could  one  hear  from  a  dead  man. 
And  there  arose  a  medley  of  all  the 
tales  that  he  had  ever  heard,  relating 
to  messages  transmitted  to  the  living 
from  the  spirit  world.  He  dismissed 
these  tales  as  inconsistent  with  the 
sane  experiences  of  men.  But  the 
effect  of  them,  which  he  had  received 
as  a  child,  he  could  not  dismiss.  More- 
over, how  could  one  be  certain  that, 
under  some  peculiar  conditions,  such 
messages  were  not  transmitted?  Learn- 
ed men  were,  themselves,  not  abso- 
lutely sure. 

And  intent  upon  this  thing  he  re- 
membered that  those  about  to  die  were 
said  sometimes  to  catch  glimpses  of 
truths  ordinarily  hidden.  Men  plucked 
from  death  had  testified  to  a  supernal 
activity  of  the  mind.  And  those  who 
had  watched  had  observed  the  dying 
to  use  words  and  gestures  which  in- 
dicated a  sight  and  hearing  beyond  the 
capacities  of  life. 

He  reflected.  When  Pickens  had 
said,  'You  shall  hear  from  me,'  it  was 
certain  that  he  meant  what  he  said. 


468 


AFTER  HE   WAS  DEAD 


Men  did  not  utter  idle  threats  when 
they  were  being  ejected  out  of  life.  The 
law,  ordinarily  so  careful  for  the  truth, 
recognized  this  fact.  He  had  heard 
that  the  declarations  of  those  who  be- 
lieved themselves  in  dissolution,  were 
to  be  received  in  courts  of  law  without 
the  sanctity  of  an  oath.  It  was  the 
common  belief  that  the  dying  did  not 
lie.  Then,  if  he  had  heard  correctly, 
this  business  was  not  ended.  But  had 
he  heard  correctly?  And  here  the  abom- 
inable thing  turned  back  upon  itself. 
And  he  began  again  on  this  intermin- 
able circle,  as  a  fly  follows  the  inside 
of  a  bowl,  from  which  it  can  never 
escape. 

In  the  realities  of  daylight,  he  was 
able  to  assail  this  thing,  and,  in  a 
measure,  overcome  it.  The  dead  did 
not  return,  and  their  threats  were 
harmless.  But  in  the  insecurity  of 
darkness,  it  possessed  him.  In  the 
vast,  impenetrable,  mysterious  night, 
one  could  not  be  so  certain.  One 
seemed  then  on  the  borderland  of  life 
where  things  moved  that  did  not  ven- 
ture out  into  the  sun,  or  in  the  sun  be- 
came invisible.  And,  under  the  cover 
of  this  darkness,  the  dead  man  might 
somehow  be  able  to  carry  out  his 
threat.  This  was  the  anxiety  that  be- 
set him.  And  in  spite  of  his  disbelief 
and  the  assurance  of  his  reason  he  be- 
gan to  expect  this  message.  And  he 
began  to  wonder  from  what  quarter  it 
would  approach  him,  and  at  what  hour, 
and  in  what  form.  This  thing  ap- 
palled him:  that  one,  whom  he  did  not 
fear  from  the  activity  of  life,  should 
thus  disturb  him  from  the  impotency 
of  death. 

Fuget  was  preparing  quietly  to  leave 
the  country  when,  about  a  week  later, 
the  farmer  inquired  if  he  wished  to  go 
with  him,  on  that  morning,  to  the 
county  seat.  It  was  the  day  on  which 
the  circuit  court  convened,  —  'court 
day,' — and  by  custom  the  country  peo- 


ple assembled  in  the  village.  The  farm- 
er had  been  drawn  on  the  grand  jury. 

'The  judge  will  be  chargin'  us  about 
the  Pickens  murder,'  he  said.  'You'd 
better  go  in  an'  hear  him;  the  judge  is 
a  fine  speaker.' 

It  was  the  custom  of  these  circuit 
judges  to  direct  the  attention  of  the 
grand  jury  to  any  conspicuous  crime, 
and  they  usually  availed  themselves  of 
this  custom  to  harangue  the  people. 

That  curiosity  which  moved  Fuget 
to  seek  the  earliest  news  of  the  murder 
now  urged  him  to  hear  what  the  judge 
would  say,  and  he  went  with  the  farmer 
to  the  village.  The  court-room  was 
crowded.  Fuget  remained  all  the  after- 
noon seated  on  one  of  the  benches. 
After  the  assembling  of  the  grand  jury, 
the  judge  began  his  charge.  He  re- 
viewed the  incidents  of  the  assassina- 
tion. Fuget  found  himself  following 
these  details.  Under  the  speaker's 
dramatic  touch  the  thing  took  on  a 
more  sinister  aspect. 

It  could  not  avail  the  assassin  that 
no  human  eye  had  seen  him  at  his 
deadly  work.  By  this  act  of  violence 
he  had  involved  himself  with  mysteri- 
ous agencies  that  would  not  permit 
him  to  maintain  his  secret.  It  was  in 
vain  that  human  ingenuity  strove 
against  these  influences.  One  might 
thrust  his  secret  into  the  darkness,  but 
he  could  not  compel  the  darkness  to 
retain  it.  These  agencies  would  pre- 
sently expel  it  into  the  light:  as  one 
could  cast  the  body  of  the  dead  into 
the  sea,  but  could  not  force  the  sea  to 
receive  it;  it  would  be  there  when  he 
returned,  ghastly  on  the  sand.  And 
the  hideous  danger  was  that  one  never 
could  tell  at  what  hour,  or  in  what 
place,  or  by  what  means,  these  mys- 
terious agencies  would  reveal  the  thing 
which  he  had  hidden. 

While  the  judge  spoke,  Fuget  thought 
of  the  strange  words  which  Pickens 
had  uttered,  and  he  felt  a  sense  of  in- 


AFTER  HE   WAS  DEAD 


469 


security.  He  moved  uneasily  in  his 
seat,  and  the  perspiration  dampened 
his  body.  When  the  court  adjourned, 
he  hurried  out.  He  passed  through  the 
swinging  doors  of  the  court-room,  and 
descended  the  stairway  into  the  cor- 
ridor below.  As  he  elbowed  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  he  thought  some 
one  called  out  his  name,  'Henry  Fu- 
get,'  and  instinctively  he  stopped,  and 
turned  around  toward  the  stairway. 
But  no  one  in  the  crowd  coming  down 
seemed  to  regard  him,  and  he  hurried 
away. 

He  was  now  alarmed,  and  he  deter- 
mined to  leave  the  country  at  once. 
He  returned  with  the  farmer.  That 
night,  alone  in  the  loft  of  the  farm- 
house, he  packed  his  possessions  into 
a  bundle  and  sat  down  on  the  bed  to 
wait  until  the  family  below  him  should 
be  asleep.  He  did  no£  cease  to  consider 
this  extraordinary  incident.  And  it 
presently  occurred  to  him  that  if  some 
one  had,  in  fact,  recognized  him,  and 
he  should  now  flee  in  the  night,  his 
guilt  would  be  conclusively  indicated. 
And  side  by  side  with  that  suggestion, 
there  arose  another.  Had  he,  in  fact, 
heard  a  human  tongue  call  out  his 
name?  He  labored  to  recall  the  sounds 
which  he  seemed  to  have  heard,  as  he 
had  labored  to  recall  those  which  Pick- 
ens  had  uttered.  The  voice  had  seemed 
to  him  thin  and  high.  Was  it  a  human 
voice? 

He  rose,  unpacked  the  bundle,  and 
went  over  to  the  window.  The  night 
seemed  strange  to  him.  The  air  was 
hard  and  bright,  thin  clouds  were  mov- 
ing, a  pale  moonlight  descended  now 
and  then  on  the  world.  There  was 
silence.  Every  living  thing  seemed  to 
have  departed  out  of  life.  He  thought 
of  all  the  persons  whom  he  had  this 
day  seen  alert  and  alive,  as  now  no 
better  than  dead  men,  lying  uncon- 
scious, while  the  earth  turned  under 
them  in  this  ghostly  light.  And  it 


seemed  to  him  a  thing  of  no  greater 
wonder,  that  the  dead  should  appear 
or  utter  voices,  than  that  these  innum- 
erable bodies,  prone  and  motionless, 
should  again  reenter  into  life. 

The  following  morning  the  farmer 
reassured  him.  No  witness  had  come 
before  the  grand  jury,  and  the  prose- 
cuting attorney  had  no  evidence  to 
offer. 

'  I  reckon  nobody  will  ever  know  who 
killed  oF  Pickens,'  he  said.  Then  he 
added,  'The  grand  jury's  goin'  to  set 
pretty  late,  an'  I  may  have  to  stay  in 
town  to-night.  I  wish  you  'd  go  in  with 
me,  an'  bring  the  horse  home.' 

Fuget  could  not  refuse,  and  he  re- 
turned to  the  village.  Again  he  sat  all 
day  in  the  crowded  court-room.  Loss 
of  sleep  and  fatigue  overcame  him,  and 
occasionally,  in  the  heat  of  the  room, 
in  spite  of  his  anxiety,  he  would  almost 
fall  asleep.  And  at  such  times  he 
would  start  up,  fearful  lest  some  word 
or  gesture  should  escape  him.  And 
always,  when  the  judge  turned  in  his 
chair,  or  an  attorney  spoke,  he  was 
anxious.  And  when  any  one  passed  the 
bench  on  which  he  sat,  he  appeared 
to  be  watching  something  in  the  op- 
posite corner  of  the  court-room,  or,  by 
accident,  to  screen  his  face  with  his  hat. 

But  as  the  day  advanced,  he  became 
reassured,  and  when  the  court  ad- 
journed he  went  out  quietly  with  the 
crowd.  On  the  stairway  and  in  the  cor- 
ridor below,  he  was  anxious  lest  he 
should  again  hear  his  name  called  out. 
But  when  it  did  not  occur  and  he  ap- 
proached the  exit  of  the  court-house, 
his  equanimity  returned.  On  the  steps, 
in  the  sun,  he  stopped  and  wiped  his 
face  with  his  sleeve.  He  seemed  to 
have  escaped  out  of  peril,  as  through 
a  door.  He  was  glad  now  of  the  good 
judgment  that  had  turned  him  back 
from  flight,  and  of  the  incident  that 
had  brought  him  here  to  face  the  thing 
that  he  had  feared.  He  came  forth, 


470 


like  one  who  had  braved  a  gesticulat- 
ing spectre  and  found  its  threatening 
body  to  be  harmless  and  impalpable. 

He  descended  the  long  stone  steps 
leading  down  from  the  portico  of  the 
ancient  court-house,  with  that  sense  of 
buoyant  freedom  peculiar  to  *  those 
who  are  lifted  out  of  danger.  At  the 
street,  as  he  was  about  to  walk  away, 
some  one  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 
He  turned.  The  sheriff  of  the  county 
was  beside  him. 

'Will  you  just  step  into  the  Squire's 
office,'  he  said. 

Fuget  was  appalled. 

'Me!'  he  stammered.  'What  does 
the  Squire  want  with  me?' 

But  obedient  to  the  command,  he 
followed  the  sheriff  into  the  basement 
of  the  court-house,  and  through  a  cor- 
ridor into  the  office  of  the  justice  of  the 
peace.  Here  he  found  himself  come 
into  the  presence  of  the  prosecuting 
attorney,  the  justice,  and  a  little  man 
with  sharp  black  eyes,  and  a  thin, 
clean-shaven  face.  He  remembered 
having  seen  this  man  enter  the  court- 
room, on  the  first  day,  while  the  judge 
was  speaking.  He  had  carried  then  a 
pair  of  saddle-pockets  over  his  arm 
and  had  seemed  to  be  a  stranger,  for 
he  had  stopped  at  the  door  and  looked 
about,  as  if  the  court-room  were  un- 
familiar to  him.  Fuget  had  observed 
this  incident,  as  with  painful  attention 
he  had  observed  every  incident  occur- 
ring in  the  court-room  during  these 
two  days  of  stress.  He  had  not  seen 
this  man  again.  But  he  now  distinctly 
recalled  him. 

The  justice  of  the  peace  sat  at  a 
table.  Before  him  lay  a  printed  paper, 
certain  blank  lines  of  which  had  been 
written  in  with  a  pen.  He  put  his 
hand  on  this  paper;  then  he  spoke. 

'Is  your  name  Henry  Fuget?'  he 
said. 

Fuget  looked  around  him  without 
moving  his  head,  swiftly,  furtively, 


like  an  animal  penned  into  a  corner. 
The  eyes  of  the  others  were  on  him. 
They  seemed  to  know  all  the  details  of 
some  mysterious  transaction  that  had 
led  up  to  this  question,  and  of  which 
he  was  ignorant.  He  felt  that  he  had 
entered  some  obscure  trap,  the  deadly 
peril  of  which  these  men  had  cunningly 
hidden  that  he  might  the  more  easily 
step  into  it.  Nevertheless,  he  realized 
that  he  could  not  remain  silent. 

'No,  sir,'  he  said,  'my  name's  Silas 
Williams.'  Then  he  added,  'I  work  for 
Dan'l  Sheets,  out  on  the  ten-mile  road. 
You  can  ask  him;  he'll  tell  you.' 

The  justice  continued,  as  though 
following  a  certain  formula,  — 

'Did  you  know  Samuel  Pickens?' 

'No,  sir.' 

The  justice  seemed  to  consult  a  mem- 
orandum in  pencil  on  the  margin  of 
the  written  paper. 

'Were  you  not  convicted  of  arson, 
on  the  testimony  of  Samuel  Pickens, 
and  sentenced  to  the  penitentiary;  and 
have  you  not  repeatedly  threatened  to 
kill  him  when  your  term  of  penal 
servitude  should  have  expired?' 

Fuge  t  was  now  greatly  alarmed .  How 
did  these  exact  facts  come  to  be  known 
in  this  distant  community?  Here 
Pickens  alone  knew  them,  and  he  was 
dead.  He  saw  that  his  security  lay  in 
denying  that  he  was  Henry  Fuget. 

'No,  sir,'  he  said. 

'And  your  name's  not  Henry  Fu- 
get?' 

'No,  sir.' 

The  justice  turned  to  the  stranger. 

'This  man  denies  that  he  is  Henry 
Fuget,'  he  said. 

Then  it  was  that  the  words  were 
uttered  that  dispossessed  the  prisoner 
of  composure,  and  cast  him  into  panic. 

'  If  the  communication  which  I  have 
received  from  Samuel  Pickens  is  true,' 
said  the  stranger,  'Henry  Fuget  has 
the  scar  of  a  gunshot  wound  on  his 
right  arm  above  the  elbow.' 


AFTER  HE  WAS  DEAD 


471 


The  muscles  of  Fuget's  face  relaxed. 
His  mouth  fell  into  a  baggy  gaping. 
Then  he  faltered  the  query  that  pos- 
sessed him. 

'Did  you  hear  from  Sam  Pickens?' 

'Yes.' 

'After  he  was  dead  ?' 

The  stranger  reflected.  'Yes,'  he 
said.  'Pickens  was  dead  then.' 

Fuget's  mouth  remained  open.  A 
sense  of  disaster,  complete  and  utter, 
descended  on  him.  The  dead  man  had 
carried  out  his  terrible  threat.  He  be- 
gan to  stammer,  unconscious  that  he 
was  completing  his  ruin. 

'That's  what  he  said  —  that's  what 
he  said  when  I  shot  him  —  but  I  thought 
I  'd  hear,  —  I  did  n't  think  somebody 
else  would  hear.' 

He  caught  hold  of  the  table  with  his 
hand,  and  lowered  himself  into  a  chair. 
But  he  continued  to  regard  this  sin- 
ister stranger.  And  presently  he  spoke 
again. 

'How  did  he  tell  you?'  he  said. 

A  crowd  had  begun  to  gather  at  the 
door  and  at  the  windows,  —  a  rumor 
had  gone  out. 

The  stranger  put  his  hand  into  his 
pocket,  and  drew  from  it  a  folded  paper. 

'I  will  tell  you,'  he  said.  'I  am  an 
attorney  at  law;  my  name  is  Gordon, 
and  I  reside  in  Georgia.  On  the  third 
day  of  November,  I  received  this 
paper,  inclosed  in  an  envelope,  and 
addressed  to  me.  It  was  dated  in  Octo- 
ber, but  when  I  got  it,  Pickens  was 
dead.'  He  unfolded  the  paper  and  be- 
gan to  read  La  a  thin,  high-pitched 
voice:  — 

In  the  name  of  God,  Amen!  I, 
Samuel  Pickens,  do  make,  publish, 
and  declare  this  to  be  my  last  will  and 
testament.  I  hereby  appoint  Horatio 
Gordon  my  executor,  and  I  direct  and 
charge  him  as  follows,  to  wit:  Henry 
Fuget,  a  convict  about  to  be  discharged 
from  the  penitentiary  of  Georgia,  has 


repeatedly  threatened  my  life.  I  have 
come  here  to  avoid  him,  but  I  fear  that 
he  will  follow  and  kill  me.  Now,  there- 
fore, if  I  should  be  found  dead,  be  it 
known  that  Henry  Fuget  is  the  assas- 
sin, and  I  direct  my  executor  to  expend 
the  sum  of  one  thousand  dollars  in 
order  to  bring  him  to  the  gallows. 
Fuget  is  to  be  known  by  a  scar  on  the 
fleshy  part  of  his  right  arm  where  he 
was  shot  in  an  attempt  to  escape  from 
the  penitentiary.  The  residue  of  my 
estate,  both  real  and  personal,  I  be- 
queath to  my  beloved  daughter,  Selina 
Pickens,  now  Mrs.  Jonathan  Clayton, 
of  Jackson,  Miss. 

Given  under  my  hand  and  seal,  Oct. 
14,  1850. 

SAMUEL  PICKENS.  (Seal) 

The  stranger  looked  up  from  the 
paper, 

'When  I  heard  that  Pickens  was 
dead,'  he  said,  'I  came  here  immedi- 
ately. The  circuit  court  was  sitting 
when  I  arrived.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
the  assassin  might  be  present  in  this 
crowd  of  people.  To  determine  that,  I 
placed  myself  at  the  head  of  the  stair- 
way, and  as  the  crowd  was  going  out, 
I  called  the  name.  This  man  turned, 
and  I  knew  then  that  he  was  Henry 
Fuget.' 

Fuget  sat  with  his  hands  on  the  arms 
of  the  chair,  his  big  body  thrown  loose- 
ly forward,  his  eyes  on  the  stranger. 
Slowly  the  thing  came  to  him.  The 
atmosphere  of  ghostly  and  supernatur- 
al agencies  receded.  He  saw  that  he 
had  been  trapped  by  his  own  fancy. 
The  hand  that  had  choked  this  con- 
fession out  of  him  had  been  born  of 
his  own  flesh;  the  bones  of  it,  the  sin- 
ews of  it,  he  had  himself  provided. 

And  a  madness  seized  him.  He 
sprang  up,  and  rushed  out  of  the  door. 
The  crowd  gave  way  before  the  bulk 
of  this  infuriated  man.  But  the  cor- 
ridor was  narrow,  and  as  he  fought  his 


472 


FIDDLER'S  LURE 


way,  persons  began  to  seize  him.  He 
staggered  out  into  the  courtyard.  The 
crowd  of  people  wedged  him  in,  clung 
to  him,  and  bore  him  down.  He  rose. 
Under  the  mass  of  men  who  had 
thrown  themselves  upon  him,  the 


bones  of  his  legs  seemed  about  to  snap; 
his  muscles  to  burst;  his  vertebrae  to 
crumble.  For  a  dozen  steps  he  ad- 
vanced with  this  crushing  burden, 
but  every  moment  it  increased,  and 
finally  he  fell. 


FIDDLER'S  LURE 


BY  ROBERT  HAVEN   SCHAUFFLER 


OLD  KING  COLE  is  known  to  most  of 
us  as  a  mere  sybarite,  lolling  forever  in 
a  luxuriously  Parish  foreground  while 
others  fetched  and  fiddled  for  him. 

He  has  been  grossly  misrepresented. 
The  true  key  to  his  famous  Gemiith- 
lichkeit  lies  in  the  fact  that  he  played 
the  'cello.  For  what  more  could  any 
amateur  of  chamber-music  desire  than 
what  lay  at  his  beck  and  call?  In  one 
of  his  posthumous  poems  the  king  de- 
clares, — 

A  Stradivarius  underneath  the  bow, 
A  pipe,  a  stein,  to  give  the  music  'go/ 
My  fiddlers  three  and  opus  fifty-nine: 
This  is  the  merriest  paradise  I  know. 

What  I  most  admire  in  Cole  is  that 
he  was  not  carried  to  these  musical 
skies  'on  flow'ry  beds  of  ease,'  like 
Hermes,  who,  as  Jacob  Grimm  de- 
clares, 'was  born  early  in  the  morning, 
and  played  the  lute  at  mid-day.'  He 
idled  along  no  royal  road  to  opus  fifty- 
nine.  There  was  none.  In  his  day 
there  was  as  yet  no  telo-melo-'cello  to 
be  operated  by  an  electric  button.  In 
the  sweat  of  his  youthful  brow  he 
earned  his  merry  old  soul.  Alone,  with 
bow  in  hand,  it  was  his  to  do  battle 
with  those  giants  Griitzmacher  and 
Giese,  the  Czernys  of  the  'cello.  He 


waded  solo,  in  the  wake  of  his  hum- 
blest subjects,  through  the  'bloody 
seas'  of  Duport  and  Romberg.  For 
him  the  raw  finger-tip,  the  twice  fur- 
rowed thumb,  and  the  chronic  crick  in 
the  back  of  the  neck.  Not  only  this. 
He  was  actually  handicapped  in  the 
race.  For  corporate  expansion  had  al- 
ready passed  so  far  beyond  the  royal 
control  that  when  he  played,  his  arms 
stuck  straight  out  in  front  like  those  of 
the  huge  'cellist  in  the  Thomas  Orches- 
tra whom  we  used  to  call  'The  Frog.' 
Such  were  King  Cole's  difficulties, 
such  his  incentives  for  toil,  —  and  they 
were  the  most  dazzling  incentives  that 
any  learner  of  musical  lore  could  have. 
Before  his  eyes  hovered  fiddlers  three, 
with  the  Beethoven  parts  waiting  on 
the  racks,  and  merely  a  'cellist  lacking 
to  complete  the  magic  circle.  It  was 
a  goal  more  glamorous  than  any  vision 
of  initialed  sweaters  that  ever  lured 
the  sore,  disheartened  little  quarter- 
back to  let  himself  be  battered  about 
on  the  scrub  a  week  longer.  Only  there 
was  this  difference,  —  that  the  royal 
pilgrim  toward  Beethoven's  candy- 
kitchen  had  been  sustained,  almost 
from  the  first  step,  on  crumbs  of  the 
bulky  sweets  of  his  'aspiration, 


FIDDLER'S  LURE 


478 


And  how  luscious  and  satisfying 
such  crumbs  are !  How  far  more  indulg- 
ent is  'Papa'  Haydn  to  weak,  grop- 
ing fingers  and  stiff  wrists  than  is  the 
man  of  wrath  who  divided  all  Gaul  into 
'  three  halves,'  to  the  tender  victim  of 
'amo,  amas,  amat.'  As  for  me,  I  know 
that  when  I  began  the  'cello  I  never 
could  have  weathered  the  blasts  of 
Dotzhauer,  or  the  fogs  of  Franchomme, 
or  held  a  middle  course  between  the 
scales  of  Scylla  and  the  double-stops  of 
divine  Charybdis,  without  the  tender 
pilotage  of  those  makers  of  music,  great 
and  small,  whose  it  is  to  inspire  and 
guide  little  keels  through  the  troubled 
sounds  of  apprenticeship. 

I  was  not  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in 
my  mouth,  but  with  a  flute  at  my  lips; 
and,  until  the  age  of  fifteen,  tootled 
what  I  thought  the  divinest  of  instru- 
ments. Then,  one  morning,  I  chanced 
upon  an  old  'cello  in  the  attic,  and  an 
instruction-book  with  a  long  strip  of 
paper  which,  pasted  under  the  strings, 
promised  a  short-cut  to  virtuosity;  for 
it  pointed  out  exactly  where  to  put 
each  finger. 

A  week  of  furtive  practice  convinced 
me  that  I  could  play  the  'cello,  though 
I  now  remember  grasping  the  bow  like 
a  tennis-racket  and  the  fingerboard  like 
a  trolley-strap.  I  found  one  of  those 
jolly  trios  which  dear  old  Gurlitt  so 
obligingly  wrote  in  notes  of  one  sylla- 
ble, foregathered  with  a  couple  of 
schoolmates, — a  brother  and  sister 
who  played  the  violin  and  piano, — and 
leaped  like  a  flash  into  King  Cole's 
paradise. 

No  effect  of  the  concert  stage  has 
ever  enthralled  me  more  than  that  first 
chord  of  ours,  when  I  heard  the  'cello 
tone  mingle  deliciously  with  the  violin 
tone,  and  realized  that  my  bow  had 
made  such  blending  possible.  The  flute 
notes  had  never  really  mixed  with 
others,  but  had  stood  apart  by  them- 
selves, crystalline,  cold,  aloof;  and  per- 


haps my  nature  had  taken  its  cue  from 
the  flute.  But  that  first  trio  venture 
changed  everything.  There  first  I  tast- 
ed the  delights  of  real  harmony,  —  and 
sealed  eternal  friendship,  before  part- 
ing, with  the  little  girl  who  played  the 
piano.  Along  with  democracy  and 
puppy-love,  the  'cello  came  into  my  life. 
Heralded  so  impressively,  no  wonder 
it  tangled  its  strings  hopelessly  among 
those  of  my  young  heart. 

For  a  time  I  went  on  indulging  in 
Gurlitt  and  considering  myself  a  mas- 
ter. Then  I  went  to  live  with  a  Western 
cousin,  an  enthusiastic  amateur  violin- 
ist, —  and  experienced  a  severe  shock. 
For  I  learned  what  real  chamber-music 
was.  Gurlitt  fell  from  my  eyes  like 
scales,  and  the  conviction  came  that 
once  I  could  hold  a  part  in  the  trios  of 
Gade  or  the  quartettes  of  Rubinstein  I 
might  be  gathered  contentedly  to  my 
fathers;  I  should  have  warmed  both 
hands  before  the  fire  of  life,  and  could 
then  anticipate  nothing  but  carrying 
out  the  ashes. 

Spurred  thus,  I  found  a  teacher  and 
unlearned  the  empirical  method  with 
groanings  which  cannot  here  be  ut- 
tered; while  ambition  was  kept  in  vig- 
orous health  by  my  cousin's  nightly 
stances  of  chamber-music  with  more 
accomplished  players  than  I. 

Finally  the  dreamed-of  moment 
came.  I  was  permitted  to  try  my  hand. 
The  others  suffered  in  silence.  As  for 
me,  from  then  on  life  held  a  gluttonous 
measure  of  unalloyed  bliss.  The  de- 
lights of  that  performance  could  not 
have  been  more  thrilling  to  me  if,  with 
true  Orphic  cunning,  my  instrument 
had  caused  the  dining-table  to  rustle 
its  leaves  and  the  cat  to  perform  on  the 
hearth-rug  the  dance  of  the  seven  veils. 
I  could  play  the  notes  —  most  of  them 
—  loud  and  clear.  What  more  does  the 
hardened  amateur  demand  from  life? 
For  the  second  time  I  supposed  myself 
a  master,  and  was  ready  to  sing  my 


474 


FIDDLER'S  LURE 


Nunc  dimittis, — and  to  practice  cheer- 
fully three  hours  a  day. 

Then  I  heard  a  professional  quar- 
tette. The  flame  of  mere  sound  and 
fury  set  for  me.  Kneisel  and  Schroeder 
with  the  host  of  heaven  came.  And  lo ! 
creation  widened  in  my  view.  With 
amazement  I  began  to  realize  the 
subtle  potentialities  of  tone-color,  the 
fascinations  of  dynamics.  It  dawned 
on  me  that  to  most  young  amateurs 
pianissimo  was  an  almost  meaningless 
expression ;  and  I  began  to  count  that 
musical  self-assertiveness  almost  inde- 
cent which  fiddles  away  forever  with 
three /s.  My  heart  leaped  up  in  re- 
sponse to  that  complete  ensemble, — 
four  bows  with  but  a  single  thought, 
—  to  the  infinite  variety  of  the  tonal 
effects,  to  the  technic  so  taken  for 
granted  that  it  never  revealed  itself  or 
its  basal  sheep-gut,  horsehair,  and  resin. 
Here  at  last,  to  set  final  bounds  for 
aspiration,  was  the  authentic  oracle 
of  Apollo,  —  and  the  practice  hours 
aspired  accordingly  from  three  to  six. 

Since  those  first  callow  months  at 
my  cousin's,  his  musical  palate  and 
mine  have  grown  more  discriminating. 
It  takes  a  Brahms  to-day  to  brim  the 
cup  of  joy  which  a  Raff  then  sweetly 
overflowed.  As  for  those  garbled  sym- 
phonies and  operas,  —  the  transcrip- 
tions at  which  we  once  fiddled  away  so 
happily  and  in  such  good  faith,  —  we 
brand  them  now  as '  derangements '  and 
had  as  lief  perform  The  Messiah  on  a 
couple  of  Jew's-harps. 

Nevertheless,  as  I  look  back  through 
the  years  to  that  time,  three  significant 
facts  emerge.  In  the  first  place,  it  is 
clear  that  I  never  should  have  perse- 
vered in  all  that  painful  practice  with- 
out the  weekly  reward  of  'virtuosity* 
when,  every  Saturday  afternoon,  little 
Miss  Second  Violin  and  dear  big  Mr. 
Viola  came  from  town  and  were  rushed 
out  of  their  overcoats  and  had  their 
hands  warmed  with  jubilant  massage 


and  then  were  plumped  down  before 
the  G  major  Mozart  and  hardly  al- 
lowed time  for  preliminary  caterwaul- 
ings  before  my  cousin's  firm  command 
came,  'No  ante-mortems ! '  and  his 
'three-four'  detonated,  and  at  last  we 
were  outward  bound  for  fairy-land. 

Yet  even  that  Mozartian  reward  — 
joyous  as  it  was  —  would  scarcely  have 
kept  me  so  long  on  the  rack  of  the 
thumb-positions,  or  doubled  up  in  the 
chromatic  treadmill,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  'far-off,  divine  event'  symbol- 
ized by  the  opus  fifty-nine,  gleaming 
just  within  the  portals  of  King  Cole's 
paradise. 

Ah,  there  is  nothing  like  a  taste  of 
chamber-music  to  make  the  idle  appren- 
tice industrious.  It  is  the  real  fiddler's 
lure,  —  the  kindly  light  that  has  the 
power  to  lead  him  o'er  musical  moor 
and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till  the 
dusk  of  mere  technic  merges  into  the 
dawn  of  attainment.  I  sometimes  won- 
der why  American  parents  do  not  real- 
ize what  kind  of  love  it  is  that  makes 
the  musical  world  go  round.  German 
parents  do  —  and  that  leads  to  my 
secondly. 

German  parents  know,  also,  that 
there  is  nothing  better  for  the  unity  of 
the  home  than  the  sport  of  chamber- 
music.  To  associate  the  hearth  in  the 
children's  minds  with  the  intimate, 
exquisite  democracy  of  ensemble,  with 
the  rapture  of  perpetually  new  achieve- 
ment, with  the  spirit  of  beauty  and  an 
ever  growing  appreciation  of  that  spir- 
it, is  to  go  far  toward  insuring  the  suc- 
cess of  the  family,  and  even  the  solidar- 
ity of  the  neighborhood. 

Chamber-music  as  a  home  sport  can 
accomplish  more  yet.  Who  can  doubt, 
in  the  third  place,  that  fiddler's  lure 
helps  in  smoothing  the  child's  way 
through  life?  For  the  experienced 
amateur  of  chamber-music,  go  where 
he  will,  even  in  our  semi-musical  coun- 
try, is  sure  of  a  welcome.  His  bow  is 


FIDDLER'S  LURE 


475 


a  master  key  to  all  doors.  And  the  wel- 
come is  not  always  for  the  fiddle  alone, 
—  as  the  violinist  thought  who  de- 
clined an  invitation  to  dine  on  the 
ground  that  he  had  hurt  his  second 
finger.  For  the  democracy,  the  con- 
stant gi  ve-and-  take  of  the  quartette  and 
the  sonata  has  extracted  a  deal  of  the 
stiffness  and  conceit  and  dogmatism 
from  him  and  left  him  more  human 
and  more  diplomatic. 

Besides  all  these  advantages,  his 
talent  adds  a  perpetual  sparkle  of  ro- 
mance —  real  or  potential  —  to  what 
might  otherwise  have  turned  out  a 
hopelessly  dun  existence.  You  never 
can  tell  what  friend-ever-after  may  not 
come  rushing  up  to  you  after  a  concert 
with  glowing  face  and  outstretched 
hand,  to  announce  himself.  (I  under- 
stand that  my  father  first  beheld  my 
mother  as  he  was  ending  an  amateur 
flute  solo.)  A  certain  'cellist  was  once 
snowbound  for  three  hours  at  a  small 
railroad  station.  He  unpacked  his 
'cello  and  played  his  dozen  fellow  suf- 
ferers a  request  programme,  with  the 
result  that  one  of  them  took  him  to 
Europe  for  a  year.  You  never  can  tell 
as  you  bear  your  precious  fiddle-case 
through  the  streets,  what  magic  case- 
ment may  not  open  on  the  foam  (of 
steins),  and  what  faery  hand  may  not 
beckon  you  within  to  do  the  one  thing 
needful  to  opus  fifty-nine,  or  draw  a 
valiant  bow  in  the  battle  of  Schumann 
Quintette. 

True  amateurs  of  chamber-music  do 
not  often  have  to  be  formally  intro- 
duced. Theodore  Thomas  used  to  de- 
clare that  he  could  tell  a  violinist  from 
a  'cellist  on  the  street  by  the  swing  of 
his  arms.  By  kindred  signs  so  subtle 
as  to  escape  the  layman,  initiates  re- 
cognize each  other  everywhere.  And 
it  is  this  world-wide  confraternity  of 
fiddlers  that  makes  travel  for  the  true 
amateur  a  joyous  series  of  adventures. 

-It  is  particularly  joyous,  of  course, 


in  Germany,  where  every  third  house 
holds  a  devotee  ready  to  welcome  a 
brother  chamber-musician  with  open 
arms.  In  Dr.  Hale's  famous  story,  the 
belated  traveler  through  a  hostile  coun- 
tryside had  merely  to  murmur  '  In  His 
name,'  and  hospitable  hearths  blazed 
for  him  like  magic.  But  in  certain 
German  villages,  if  you  are  really  of 
the  elect,  you  need  not  say  a  word.  You 
have  merely  to  whistle  some  theme 
from  opus  fifty-nine. 

During  many  years  I  have  cherished 
an  alluring  plan  for  a  sort  of  musical 
Inland  Voyage.  The  outfit  would  com- 
prise fiddlers  three  who  would  have  to 
be  kindred  spirits  of  mine,  a  house-boat, 
a  complete  library  of  chamber-music, 
—  and  a  cook.  Then  we  would  float 
down  some  beautiful  German  river,  the 
Elbe,  say,  or  the  Neckar,  and  sit  play- 
ing quartettes  on  the  sunny  deck  until 
we  came  to  a  village  that  looked  un- 
mistakably chamber-musical.  There 
we  would  land  and  invite  all  the  local 
members  of  our  great  confraternity 
to  repair  to  us.  With  them  —  even  to 
the  limits  of  the  loathed  nonet  —  we 
would  perform  mightily  before  the  pop- 
ulace assembled  on  the  shore,  until  it 
pleased  us  to  cast  off  and  drift  down  to 
adventures  new. 

Our  craft  should  bear  two  inscrip- 
tions. Round  about  the  prow  we  would 
write,  — 

To-morrow's  tangle  to  the  winds  resign. 

The  Faerie  Queene  would  furnish  the 
motto  astern :  — 

Ne  care,  ne  feare  I,  how  the  wind  do  blow, 
Or  whether  swift  I  wend,  or  whether  slow. 

Perhaps  we  should  be  arrested  as  un- 
official vagrants  and  haled  on  shore  to 
pay  a  fine  of  twelve  cents  and  a  half. 
Perhaps,  even  more  delightful,  some 
mighty  composer  whom  we  had  all 
loved  from  afar  might  be  summering- at 
one  of  the  river  Dorfer,  and  might  board 
us  and  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  quest, 


476 


FIDDLER'S  LURE 


and,  with  his  revered  feet,  like  as  not, 
trailing  in  the  water  back  by  the  tiller, 
would  then  and  there  compose  and  de- 
dicate with  heartfeltest  representations 
of  his  imperishable  esteem  to  the  high- 
well-born  Fiddlers  four,  his  destined- 
to-be-world-famous  Vagabondia  Quar- 
tette. But  alas!  I  fear  me  that  the 
Musical  Inland  Voyage,  fraught  as  it  is 
with  rich  possibilities  in  the  way  of 
music  and  life, — and  magazine  articles, 
—  is  destined  to  be  the  booty  of  fatter 
purses  and  more  golden  pens  than 
mine. 

At  any  rate,  let  us  have  done  with 
the  utilitarian  side  of  fiddler's  lure,  — 
its  toil-persuading,  home-solidifying, 
friend-attracting,  romance-compelling 
attributes.  The  royal  sport  I  would 
sing  for  its  own  sake. 

Why  is  ensemble  music  the  sole  re- 
creation definitely  promised  us  in  the 
future  life?  Obviously  because  it  com- 
bines the  most  fun  with  the  fewest 
drawbacks.  Milton,  indeed,  goes  so 
far  as  to  give  the  angelic  musicians 
'  harps  ever  tuned,'  thereby  reducing 
the  drawbacks  to  zero.  True,  we  hear 
something  of  these  harps  being  played 
en  masse,  which  smacks  more  of  or- 
chestral than  of  chamber-music;  though 
I  cherish  a  hope  that  these  masses  are 
merely  proportioned  to  the  size  of  the 
chambers  in  the  upper  mansions.  How- 
ever this  may  be,  we  can  rest  assured 
that  there  wait  above,  the  nobler  de- 
lights of  the  string  quartette,  though 
reserved,  perhaps,  for  those  sainted 
capitalists,  those  plutocrats,  of  bliss  who 
have  on  earth  laid  up  the  fattest  divi- 
dends in  heaven  through  dynamic  self- 
abnegation  when  it  was  the  other  fel- 
low's turn  for  a  solo.  For  has  not 
Melozzo  da  Forli  immortalized  for  us 
on  the  walls  of  St.  Peter's  a  small  com- 
bination of  angelic  amateurs  who  are 
having  a  simply  heavenly  time  — 

Where  quartette-parties  ne'er  break  up 
And  evenings  never  end? 


By  referring  to  'the  nobler  delights 
of  the  string  quartette,'  I  mean  that 
chamber-music  has  a  number  of  ad- 
vantages over  orchestral.  There  is  the 
literature,  for  example.  The  majority 
of  the  classic  composers  have  been  more 
happily  inspired  when  writing  in  the 
smaller  forms  than  in  the  larger,  and  I 
know  of  three  quartettes  and  one  trio 
for  every  symphony  of  equal  musical 
worth.  Vivitur  parvo  bene  indeed  in  the 
musical  camera. 

The  string  quartette  possesses  another 
little  realized  advantage  over  the  or- 
chestra :  it  can  play  in  perfect  tune.  It 
can  follow  the  natural  law  decreeing, 
that  G  sharp  is  eternally  different  from 
A  flat.  It  does  not  have  to  'temper* 
the  wind  to  the  shorn  bassoon  like  the 
orchestra,  which  finds  its  tonal  life  by 
losing  it.  For  the  latter,  to  secure  con- 
cord among  those  baser  instruments 
worked  by  keys,  compromises  by  tak- 
ing a  nondescript,  hybrid  note  and  de- 
claring it  to  be  both  G  sharp  and  A  flat, 
that  is,  both  white  and  black,  though 
its  mongrel  gray  is  palpable. 

Besides  these  literary  and  scien- 
tific advantages,  —  the  boon  of  play- 
ing 'where  Art  and  Nature  sing  and 
smile,'  —  the  quartette  has  the  added 
advantage  of  democracy.  Now,  the  or- 
chestra is  a  monarchy,  if  not  a  tyranny, 
and  is  aristocratic  to  its  very  bow-tips; 
but  in  the  republic  of  the  string  quar- 
tette there  are  no  wretched  hewers  of 
wood  and  drawers  of  water.  All  men 
are  free  and  equal.  And  though  the 
first  violin  may  sparkle,  the  'cello  wear 
its  heart  on  its  sleeve,  and  the  viola  sigh 
out  its  mystic  soul  to  the  moon  with 
more  abandon,  perhaps,  than  the  fourth 
member,  yet  Secondo  knows  that  he  is 
quite  as  important  as  any  of  his  bro- 
thers. Liberte,  egalite,  fraternite.  These 
make  the  quartette  as  fertile  of  friend- 
ships as  the  rush-line.  There  is  a  con- 
stant give-and-take  among  the  mem- 
bers, a  constant  pocketing  of  one's 


FIDDLER'S  LURE 


4771 


personal  thunder  in  favor  of  the  man 
with  the  message  of  melody. 

And  then  the  humor  of  the  thing,  — 
the  infinite  varieties  of  incongruity 
that  are  always  popping  up.  There  are 
the  accidents,  for  instance;  as  when 
grave  and  reverend  signer  'cello  sits 
plump  into  a  musical  puddle;  or,  at  the 
uttermost  tension  of  his  fine,  careless 
rapture,  the  first  violin's  E  slips  slow- 
ly to  earth  with  a  most  unmusical, 
most  melancholy  yowl.  There  is  the 
endless  play  of  humor  in  the  music 
itself  (which,  by  the  way,  deserves  a 
separate  essay),  and  the  sudden  droll 
resemblances  of  the  players  to  non- 
musical  groups  of  the  philistine  world 
outside,  as  when  the  amateurs  in  Some- 
how Good  reminded  De  Morgan  of  a 
court  scene,  in  '  the  swift  pertinence  of 
the  repartees  of  the  first  violin  to  the 
second,  the  apt  resume  and  orderly  re- 
organization of  their  epigrammatic  in- 
terchanges by  the  'cello  and  the  double- 
bass,  the  steady  typewritten  report  and 
summary  of  the  whole  by  the  piano- 
forte, and  the  regretful  exception  to  so 
many  reports  taken  by  the  clarionet.' 

A  most  convincing  proof  of  the  joy- 
giving  qualities  of  chamber-music  is 
the  attitude  of  the  professional  musi- 
cian toward  it.  One  rarely  hears  of 
the  reporter  haunting  the  police  court 
during  off  hours,  or  of  the  mail-carrier 
indulging  in  a  holiday  walking-tour. 
But  many  a  jaded  teacher  and  slave  of 
the  orchestra  finds  his  real  raison  d'etre 
in  playing  chamber-music  'for  fun.' 

I  crossed  once  on  a  German  liner 
which  had  an  excellent  orchestra 
among  the  stewards.  This  was  kept  at 
a  surprisingly  high  standard,  though 
the  members  were  overwhelmed  with 
menial  occupations  as  hard  on  a  fid- 
dler's fingers  as  on  his  temperament;  I 
still  remember  the  pang  it  cost  to  see 
the  artist  who  had  just  been  leading 
the  Unfinished  Symphony  so  divinely, 
staggering  along  with  a  pail  of  slops. 


But  the  spirit  of  the  true  chamber-mu- 
sician is  Antsean.  I  found  that  the  men 
had  formed  a  quartette,  and  every  even- 
ing that  they  were  in  port  they  prac- 
ticed together  after  the  severe  toil  of 
the  day,  'just  for  fun.'  My  old  viola- 
playing  steward  touched  me  not  a  little 
when  he  inquired  if  I  had  ever  come 
across  'the  miracle-quartettes  of  Mo- 
zart.' With  the  flashing  eye  of  youth, 
he  told  how  he  and  his  comrades  had 
discovered  them  a  few  weeks  before. 
'  Und  now,'  he  cried  '  to  blay  dem  over 
eveninks  —  dat  iss  all  we  live  for!' 
When  it  comes  to  comparative  capac- 
ities for  pleasure,  however,  the  ama- 
teur, with  his  fresher,  keener  musical 
appetite  and  unimpaired  digestion,  can 
usually  give  odds  to  the  professional. 
In  my  opinion,  the  real  earthly  paradise 
is  the  amateur  quartette  party. 

I  have  a  perfect  memory  of  such  an 
experience  in  onetof  the  loveliest  parts 
of  Canada,  at  the  home  of  two  brothers, 
good  friends,  good  fiddlers,  and  good 
fellows.  As  second  violinist  we  had  the 
best  professional  in  that  part  of  the 
Dominion.  For  one  swift  fortnight  in 
that  old  mansion,  girt  with  lawns  and 
woods  and  waters,  surrounded  by  con- 
genial souls  and  the  rare  warmth  of  old- 
time  Canadian  hospitality,  I  tasted  an 
experience  that  now  seems  like  a  visit 
to  the  Avilion  of  some  former  existence. 
Quartettes  were  interwoven  with  la- 
crosse; eager  talk  with  forest  excur- 
sions and  trios  and  tennis ;  sonatas  with 
swims;  poetry  with  pantry-parties; 
canoeing  with  quintettes.  Though  our 
standards  were  not  quite  as  lofty  as 
those  of  professionals  —  such  as  they 
were,  we  were  actually  attaining  them; 
and  what  artist  ever  does  that? 

Never,  since  our  bows  trembled  on 
that  last,  lingering,  poignant  cadence 
of  opus  fifty-nine,  have  I  enjoyed  an- 
other such  musical  lark.  And  I  wonder 
sometimes  why  it  is  that  we  Americans 
are  so  long-faced,  so  academic,  over  our 


478 


music;  why  we  do  not  extract  more  fun 
from  it.  Certainly  we  possess  three  of 
the  prime  requisites  for  enjoying  the 
quartette:  love  of  adventure,  good 
nerve,  and  that  ready  sympathy  for  the 
other  fellow's  point  of  view,  which  is 
vulgarly  known  as  'sporting  blood.' 

One  of  the  chamber-musician's  chief 
delights  is  to  'read,'  —  to  spread  out 
on  the  racks  the  crisp  new  parts,  take  a 
deep  breath,  and  together  voyage  forth 
into  uncharted  waters,  tensely  strung 
as  a  captain  in  the  fog,  now  shaving  a 
sunken  rock,  now  becalmed  on  a  lan- 
guorous mirror,  now  in  the  grip  of  a 
hurricane  off  a  lee  shore.  Or,  if  the  ad- 
venture prove  not  so  desperate  as  this, 
at  least  one  feels  the  stimulus,  the  con- 
stant exciting  variety  as  in  a  close 
game  of  tennis,  where  —  no  matter 
what  the  emergency  —  one  can  exult- 
antly depend  upon  himself  to  take 
measures  not  wholly  inadequate  to  the 
occasion. 

And,  as  in  tennis  doubles,  there  is 
that  same  strange,  wireless,  telepathic 
something  shuttling  back  and  forth  be- 
tween the  comrades  in  the  venture,  — 
urging,  cautioning,  praising,  advising 
with  lightning  speed,  saving  the  other 
from  utter  disaster  by  a  hair,  adding, 
bar  for  bar,  the  ineffable  commentary 
of  the  subliminal,  —  a  thing  more  akin 
than  aught  else  I  can  imagine  to  the 
communion  of  disembodied  spirits. 

More  memorable  yet,  the  experience 
when  the  mysterious  waves  of  these 
soundless  words  break  beyond  the  little 
excited  circle  of  players,  seemingly  so 
intent  upon  the  notes  alone,  —  and 
compel  the  listeners;  bending  them  to 
the  music's  mood. 

Most  other-worldly  of  all  it  is  when, 
in  playing  with  those  near  and  dear, 
these  waves  go  forth  and  find  among 


the  hearers  such  capacious  spirits  that 
they  recoil  in  tenfold  volume  to  over- 
whelm the  players,  so  that  time  and 
space  and  the  feel  of  bow  and  finger- 
board go  utterly  lost  and  the  very  pre- 
sence of  the  instrument  passes,  and, 
rapt  out  of  touch  and  sight,  one's  self 
is  only  such  another  medium  for  the 
soul's  expression  as  are  the  throbbing 
strings  themselves.  Then  it  is  that 

In  ways  unlike  the  labored  ways  of  earth  — 

One  knows  not  how  — 

That  part  of  man  which  is  most  worth 

Comes  forth  at  call  of  this  old  sarabande 

And  lays  a  spirit  hand 

With  yours  upon  the  strings  that  understand. 

Your  painter-friend  over  yonder  in  the 
corner  with  closed  eyes,  —  how  he  is 
offering  all  the  tender,  sonorous,  melt- 
ing, glowing  resources  of  his  young 
palette  to  color  the  music  that  stirs  be- 
neath your  unconscious  fingers.  And 
there  in  the  doorway  leans  the  pale 
sculptor,  the  wonder-worker  who  can 
'  from  the  sterile  womb  of  stone,  raise 
children  unto  God.'  In  every  fibre  you 
feel  that  he  is  there, — 
To  make  that  sarabande  in  form  more  fair. 

See  in  the  far  window-seat  our  lady  of 
song.  How  the  string  voices  broaden, 
turn  canorous  under  her  silent  gaze! 
Brother,  can  you  not  feel  the  very 
heart  of  the  music  pulse  faster,  — 

As  our  dear  poet  with  the  glowing  eyes 

Brings  to  the  shrine  of  tone  his  evening  sacrifice? 

Ah!  lure  of  lures  indeed  —  the  mem- 
ory of  incomparable  hours  like  these 

When  our  sheer  souls,  in  the  immortal  way, 
Have  uttered  what  our  lips  might  never  say; 

—  the  hope  of  hours  yet  in  store  when 

—  as  in  no  other  way  earth  offers  — 
we  may  '  feel  that  we  are  greater  than 
we  know.' 


MYSELF  AND  I 


BY  FANNIE   STEARNS   DAVIS 


MYSELF  and  I  went  wandering  to-day. 
We  walked  the  long  white  webbed  roads  away, 
Saw  much  green  marsh-land,  much  blue  splendid  sea. 
The  wind  was  happy  with  Myself  and  me. 

• 

Now  we  had  read  a  book  whose  burden  blew 
With  a  brave  honest  air  of  being  true. 
It  said,  '  Express  Thyself,  Thyself  alway. 
True  to  Thyself,  thou  canst  not  go  astray. 
Ask  of  the  inner  Voice,  the  inner  Light, 
And  heaven-clear  shall  be  thine  outer  sight. 
Obey,  —  and  thou  shalt  always  seek  and  find 
God  in  the  clay,  the  Spirit  on  the  wind.' 

So  said  I,  'To  Myself  I  will  be  true. 

Speak  on,  Myself,  what  I  to-day  shall  do.' 

Myself,  thereat  rejoicing,  crowed  aloud. 

We  were  elate  as  angels  on  a  cloud! 

The  day  was  ours.   Myself  with  merry  mien 

Said,  'Thou  shalt  wear  thy  gown  of  shoal-sea  green: 

•Thy  curious  gown,  and  plaited  in  thy  hair 

Grasses  and  glistering  sea-weeds  dank  and  rare. 

To-day  thou  shalt  a  mermaid-creature  be, 

And  skip  along  the  surges  of  the  sea.' 

Then  must  I  labor  with  Myself.   '  Indeed 

I  love  the  green  gown  and  the  wreathed  weed. 

But  every  one  would  turn  and  stare  at  me 

As  I  ran  down  the  marshes  to  the  sea! 

And  if  beside  the  surf  alone  I  go 

What  strange  bad  folk  may  meet  me  there?  Dost  know? 

Oh,  dear  Myself,  such  joys  we  cannot  take, 

Qr  every  tongue  will  wag  and  head  will  shake  J' 


480  MYSELF  AND   I 

Myself,  demurring,  yet  did  give  consent. 
Discreetly  garbed,  on  sober  roads  we  went. 

The  wind  came  up  from  out  the  gleaming  west, 
And  shook  the  poplar  trees,  and  downward  pressed 
The  bright  gray-headed  grasses,  and  the  bay 
Bristled  its  blue  hair  like  a  hound.  Straightway 
Myself,  long  throbbing  in  my  throat,  cried  out, 
'Run  with  the  wind!  Oh  race  with  him  and  shout! 
Sing  to  the  sun!  be  merry  as  the  grass! 
Now  all  the  gladness  of  the  earth  doth  pass. 
Thou  wouldst  not  be  my  wild  green  mermaid-thing, 
But  oh,  I  prithee,  laugh,  and  fun,  and  sing!' 

Then  must  I  labor  with  Myself.   'But  lo, 
Along  the  road  much  people  pass  us.  No.  — 
If  I  should  sing  and  run,  to-morrow  we 
In  durance  with  the  Crazy  Folk  might  be. 
Wouldst  thou,  strait-jacketed,  be  fain  to  sing? 
Oh,  dear  Myself,  ask  not  so  mad  a  thing!' 

Upon  a  porch  with  scarlet  vines  o'errun 
A  darling  baby  tottered  to  the  sun. 
With  little  cooing  cries  he  greeted  us. 
'See!'  said  Myself,  'he  is  more  glorious 
Than  all  the  sun.   Go  up  and  kiss  him,  thou. 
He  is  more  sweet  than  bloom  on  any  bough.' 

Then  must  I  labor  with  Myself.   'But  stay! 
His  mother  by  the  lattice  hid  away 
Doth  watch  him.  She  will  hate  me  if  I  dare 
To  touch  him.  Look,  already  doth  she  stare 
Because  we  loiter  by  the  little  wall. 
Myself,  that  was  the  maddest  thing  of  all.' 

Myself  made  outcry.   'Shame!   Thou  hast  not  done 

Of  all  the  things  I  bid  a  single  one. 

If  to  Thyself  thou  art  not  ever  true, 

How  shall  the  eyes  of  God  come  piercing  through 

This  masked  world?' 


MYSELF  AND  I  481 

I  had  no  answer  pat. 

Myself  had  caught  me,  I  admitted  that:  — 
And  to  atone,  I  swore  by  wind  and  sky, 
To  do  Myself  s  next  bidding,  should  I  di«! 

Myself  triumphant,  I  not  too  content, 
Down  divers  white  and  sunny  ways  we  went. 

• 

All  suddenly  across  the  curving  road 
A  youth  as  tall  as  plumy  Hector  strode; 
As  tall,  as  brave  in  fashion.   Faith,  he  seemed 
A  hero-shape  some  epic  minstrel  dreamed ! 
With  proud  high  step  and  level  sea-blue  eyes, 
He  looked  a  god  on  gallant  enterprise. 

Up  leapt  Myself.  'Oh,  make  him  turn  thy  way! 
Stumble,  or  swoon!  oh,  somehow  make  him  stay! 
Thy  blood  and  his  are  kin,  thy  heart  doth  beat; 
Surely,  ah  surely,  he  would  find  thee  sweet. 
Let  him  not  pass,  he  is  so  brave  to  see!'  — 
He  passed.  I  know  not  if  he  glanced  at  me. 

Then  must  I  truly  labor  with  Myself. 

I  said,  'O  vain,  preposterous!   Thou  elf, 

Thou  wicked  witch,  thou  monstrous  mischief,  thou 

Consummate  little  mock  at  conscience,  how 

Dost  thou  expect  obedience  to  such 

Unseemly  promptings?  I  have  borne  too  much. 

Out  on  thee  (yet  I  love  thee) !    Now  be  still. 

God  help  me  if  I  work  thy  naughty  will.' 

At  eve  Myself  and  I  came  home.  That  book 
Down  from  its  high  and  portly  place  we  took, 
And  read,  '  Express  Thyself,  Thyself  alway. 
True  to  Thyself  thou  canst  not  go  astray.' 
—  I  looked  Myself  between  the  dancing  eyes: 
They  dazzled  me,  they  were  so  wild  and  wise. 
'Myself,'  I  said,  'art  thou  a  naughtier  one 
Than  any  other  self  beneath  the  sun? 
VOL.  107 -If  0.4 


482  MYSELF   AND    I 

Or  why,  why,  why,  —  could  I  not  once  obey 
Thine  innocent  glad  bidding,  all  this  day?' 

Myself's  bright  eyes  were  clouded  o'er  with  tears, 
Myself's  gay  voice  was  dim  as  dust  of  years. 
'Ah,'  said  Myself,  'the  book  is  true.  And  I 
Am  very  naughty  sometimes.  See,  I  cry 
Repentance.  Yet  so  mad  I  needs  must  be 

• 

Or  else  the  world  would  choke  and  smother  me. 

The  world  must  choke  me.  No  more  like  a  faun 

The  Spirit,  running  free,  takes  dusk  and  dawn 

With  earth-simplicity.  Thou  canst  not  do 

These  sudden  happy  things  I  call  thee  to.  — 

And  yet,  young  Puritan,  be  kind  to  me! 

I  am  more  precious  than  thy  treasury 

Of  maxims.   Yes,  deny  me  often.  Go 

The  sober  road.  Yet  always  deep  below 

Thy  silent  days,  remember  I  am  here 

Defiant,  singing,  shadowed  not  by  fear 

Of  Change  or  Death.   Remember  me,  although 

I  am  so  wild,  and  wanton  with  thee  so.  — 

For  I,  though  all  the  world  throw  stones  at  me, 

Am  Light,  am  Voice,  am  God's  own  spark  in  thee!' 

—  We  laid  the  great  book  back  upon  its  shelf. 
Between  two  tears  I  smiled  in  at  Myself. 


CHRIST  AMONG  THE  DOCTORS 


BY   GEORGE   HODGES 


WHEN  Holman  Hunt  painted  The 
Light  of  the  World,  his  clear  inten- 
tion was  to  make  a  symbolic  picture. 
Every  detail  was  designed  to  carry  a 
spiritual  meaning.  Hoffmann's  Christ 
among  the  Doctors  seems,  in  com- 
parison, a  piece  of  realism.  The  ideal 
figure  of  the  eager  Child  is  surrounded 
by  rabbis  attired  with  archaeological 
accuracy,  whose  faces  seem  to  repro- 
duce the  features  of  actual  Semitic  per- 
sons. But  this  picture  is  as  symbolic 
as  the  other.  It  is  a  portrayal  of  con- 
temporary intellectual  attitudes. 

The  difference  is  plain  between  the 
treatment  of  the  theme  by  Hoffmann 
and  its  treatment  by  any  mediaeval 
painter.  A  mediaeval  master  would 
have  made  the  Christ  the  centre  of 
adoration.  There  would  have  been 
kneeling  figures  in  the  lower  corners, 
and  angels  in  the  upper  ones.  Hoff- 
mann's men  are  both  hearing  Him  and 
asking  Him  questions,  but  the  ques- 
tioners are  in  majority.  The  context, 
'And  all  that  heard  Him  were  aston- 
ished at  his  understanding  and  an- 
swers,' enters  but  slightly  into  the 
picture.  The  doctors  are  for  the  most 
part  independent  persons,  superior  and 
critical.  Some  of  them  are  kindly  dis- 
posed and  sympathetic,  even  reverent; 
but  others  are  indifferent  or  hostile. 
There  is  little  indication  of  disciple- 
ship.  They  are  like  the  philosophers 
who  listened  to  St.  Paul  at  Athens,  in- 
tellectually interested,  but  remote  from 
any  probability  of  conversion. 

The  picture  might  have  been  used 
for  a  frontispiece  for  Schweitzer's 


Quest  of  the  Historical  Jesus,1  for  this 
review  of  the  endeavors  to  write  a  Life 
of  Christ  shows  a  series  of  questioning 
doctors  most  of  whom  are  antagonistic. 
'There  is  no  historical  task,'  says 
Schweitzer,  'which  so  reveals  a  man's 
true  self  as  the  writing  of  a  Life  of 
Jesus.  No  vital  force  comes  into  the 
figure  unless  a  man  breathes  into  it  all 
the  hate  and  all  the  love  of  which  he 
is  capable.  The  stronger  the  love,  or 
the  stronger  the  hate,  the  more  lifelike 
is  the  figure  which  is  produced.  For 
hate  as  well  as  love  can  write  a  Life  of 
Jesus,  and  the  greatest  of  them  are 
written  with  hate.' 

For  many  centuries  after  the  apo- 
stolic age,  neither  of  these  impulses 
directed  men  to  undertake  this  work. 
The  Apostles'  Creed  represented  the 
emphasis  of  interest.  Of  the  ministry 
of  Christ,  and  of  his  teaching,  the  creed 
says  nothing.  And  therein  it  reflects 
the  whole  New  Testament,  except  the 
Gospels.  When  St.  Paul  said  that  he 
had  no  great  desire  to  know  Christ  ac- 
cording to  the  flesh,  he  expressed  the 
common  feeling.  His  concern  was  in  the 
death  rather  than  in  the  life  of  Christ; 
in  the  death  of  Christ  as  related  to 
the  doctrine  of  the  Atonement,  and  in 
the  resurrection  of  Christ  as  an  assur- 
ance of  the  life  everlasting.  He  was 
interested  in  Christ  doctrinally,  not 
historically. 

The  same  emphasis  appears  in  the 
sermons  of  St.  Peter  in  the  Acts.  There 

1  The  Quest  of  the  Historical  Jesus.  By  ALBERT 
SCHWEITZER.  London:  Adam  and  Charles  Black. 
1910.  . 

483 


484 


CHRIST  AMONG  THE   DOCTORS 


is  hardly  a  reference  either  to  the  min- 
istry or  to  the  teaching  of  Jesus.  No 
endeavor  is  made  to  continue  his  char- 
acteristic messages.  Instead  of  trying 
to  teach  what  He  had  taught,  the 
whole  effort  is  to  set  forth  his  person- 
ality. The  emphasis  is  upon  his  per- 
son, not  upon  his  instruction.  Indeed, 
this  interest  is  so  strong  and  so  exclus- 
ive that  the  wonder  is,  not  that  the 
Gospels  tell  us  so  little  about  his  life, 
but  that  they  tell  us  anything  at  all. 
The  appearance  of  these  historical 
Gospels  in  an  age  intent  on  doctrine  is 
a  remarkable  phenomenon. 

This  feeling  about  the  facts  of  the 
ministry  of  Jesus  continued  until  re- 
cent times.  The  shrines  of  Italy  and 
Germany  represent  to  this  day  the 
general  mind:  in  Italy,  the  shrines 
show  the  Madonna;  in  Germany,  the 
crucifix.  Inside  the  churches,  the  lives 
of  the  saints  are  depicted  with  much 
more  detail  than  the  life  of  Jesus.  As 
for  the  construction  of  a  coherent  nar- 
rative, harmonizing  the  accounts  given 
in  the  different  Gospels,  Luther  said 
that  the  endeavor  was  not  worth  the 
effort.  'The  Gospels,'  he  said,  'follow 
no  order  in  recording  the  acts  and  mir- 
acles of  Jesus,  and  the  matter  is  not, 
after  all,  of  much  importance.  If  a 
difficulty  arises  in  regard  to  the  Holy 
Scripture,  and  we  cannot  solve  it,  we 
must  just  let  it  alone.'  This  is  the  method 
which  Mr.  Moody  advised  when  he 
compared  reading  the  Bible  to  eating 
fish.  'Don't  try,'  he  said,  'to  eat  the 
bones;  put  them  on  the  side  of  the 
plate.' 

The  study  of  the  Gospels  as  histor- 
ical documents  with  the  purpose  of  find- 
ing the  true  order  of  events,  and  of  in- 
terpreting the  life  of  Christ  in  the  light 
of  contemporary  literature  and  history, 
was  begun  only  about  a  hundred  years 
ago. 

Indeed,  as  is  pointed  out  by  Monte- 
iiore,  in  the  introduction  to  his  com- 


mentaries on  the  Synoptic  Gospels,1  it 
was  not  safe,  until  very  recent  times, 
for  one  to  set  about  the  free  study  of  the 
Gospels.  Suppose  that  he  were  to  come 
to  conclusions  counter  to  the  custom- 
ary beliefs;  suppose  that  his  studies 
were  to  contravene  the  conventional 
doctrine  of  the  inspiration  of  the  Scrip- 
tures: he  would  find  himself  in  a  posi- 
tion of  considerable  discomfort,  if  not 
of  immediate  peril.  As  for  the  central 
faith  of  all,  the  faith  in  the  divinity  of 
Christ,  any  hesitation  at  that  point 
would  have  exposed  him  to  the  stake 
or  to  the  sword;  at  the  least  and  gen- 
tlest, to  loss  of  place  and  opportunity, 
and  to  the  disesteem  of  his  neighbors. 
Thus  Strauss  said  of  his  Life  of  Jesus, 
'  I  might  well  bear  a  grudge  against  my 
book,  for  it  has  done  me  much  evil.' 

The  result  was  that  when  the  his- 
torical study  of  the  life  of  Christ  was 
actually  undertaken,  a  century  ago, 
the  men  who  engaged  in  it  did  so  in 
the  spirit  of  revolt.  They  reacted  from 
the  universal  and  oppressive  reign  of 
dogma.  Their  purpose  was  contro- 
versial. They  were  interested  in  the 
Gospels,  not  for  the  sake  of  their  own 
souls,  but  in  the  hope  that  by  means 
of  the  Gospels  they  might  be  able  to 
disprove  the  creeds.  They  brought 
forward  the  Christ  of  history  that  He 
might  dispossess  the  Christ  of  dogma. 
'They  were  eager  to  picture  Him  as 
truly  and  purely  human,  to  strip  from 
Him  the  robes  of  splendor  with  which 
He  had  been  appareled,  and  clothe  Him 
once  more  with  the  coarse  garments  in 
which  He  had  walked  in  Galilee.' 

The  effort  of  the  new  biographers  to 
commend  their  work  to  their  own  con- 
sciences was  pleasantly  satirized  by 
Semler  in  his  reply  to  Lessing.  Less- 
ing  had  begun  the  whole  movement 
by  his  publication  of  papers  found 
among  the  manuscripts  of  Reimarus. 

1  The  Synoptic   Gospels.    By  C.  G.  MONTE- 

FIORE.   MacmUlan  &  Co.    1900. 


CHRIST  AMONG  THE  DOCTORS 


485 


Disregarding  the  advice  of  his  friends, 
and  '  inwardly  trembling  for  that  which 
he  himself  held  sacred,  he  flung  the 
torch  with  his  own  hand.'  Semler 
said  that  he  was  like  the  man  who  was 
arrested  on  the  charge  of  burning  down 
a  house.  There  was  no  denial  of  the 
cardinal  fact.  He  admitted  that  he  had 
gone  into  the  house  and  put  a  bundle 
of  hay  over  a  burning  candle.  But  he 
defended  himself  stoutly.  '  Yesterday,' 
he  said,  'about  four  o'clock,  I  went  in- 
to my  neighbor's  store-room,  and  saw 
there  a  burning  candle  which  the  serv- 
ants had  carelessly  forgotten.  In  the 
course  of  the  night,  it  would  have 
burned  down,  and  set  fire  to  the  stairs. 
To  make  sure  that  the  fire  should  break 
out  in  the  daytime,  I  threw  some  straw 
upon  it.  The  flames  burst  out  at  the 
sky-light,  the  fire-engines  came  hurry- 
ing up,  and  the  fire,  which  in  the  night 
might  have  been  dangerous,  was 
promptly  put  out.'  'But  why,'  asked 
the  judge,  'did  you  not  pick  up  the 
candle  yourself,  and  put  it  out?'  'Be- 
cause, your  honor,  had  I  put  the  candle 
out,  the  servants  would  not  have 
learned  to  be  more  careful ! '  The  judge 
committed  the  defendant  to  an  asylum 
for  persons  of  disordered  mind,  and 
this  seemed  to  Semler  a  proper  dis- 
posal of  Lessing  and  all  the  others  who 
were  trying  to  preserve  the  Gospels  by 
destroying  them. 

Anyhow,  the  fire  was  kindled,  and 
the  straw  at  least  was  burning  briskly; 
it  remained  to  be  seen  whether  the 
fire  companies  could  save  the  house,  or 
not. 

In  the  opinion  of  Reimarus,  the  story 
of  Jesus  was  founded  upon  a  deliberate 
imposture  on  the  part  of  the  disciples. 
Jesus,  indeed,  really  lived,  and  the 
Gospels  are  right  in  the  main  features 
of  their  account  of  Him;  for  the  re- 
cords show  a  career  of  failure,  ending 
on  the  cross.  But  the  apostles  invented 
the  resurrection,  and  all  the  super- 


natural elements  of  the  narrative  came 
with  it.  Strauss  found  the  basis  of  the 
Gospels,  not  in  imposture,  but  in  myth. 
He  attributed  the  supernatural  events 
to  what  he  gently  called '  creative  remin- 
iscence.' For  example,  the  transfigur- 
ation which  Paulus  had  explained  as 
the  impression  made  on  the  half-awake 
disciples  by  the  sight  of  the  Master 
coming  down  the  hill  in  the  first  bright- 
ness of  the  rising  sun,  was  ascribed  by 
Strauss  to  a  bringing  over  of  the  old 
story  of  the  shining  face  of  Moses. 
Bauer's  theory  was  that  of  literary 
invention:  some  imaginative  person 
wrote  a  Life  of  Jesus,  and  the  evangel- 
ists copied  it. 

The  honest  purpose  of  these  students 
of  the  Gospels  was  to  cut  away  the 
ground  beneath  the  feet  of  dogma. 
Their  motive  was  frank  hostility  to 
the  current  faith  in  the  supernatural. 
They  were  followed  by  a  considerable 
company  of  ingenious  writers  who 
were  impelled  not  so  much  by  hostil- 
ity as  by  the  interest  of  novelty.  The 
earlier  critics,  after  some  experiences 
of  martyrdom,  had  demonstrated  the 
fact  that  the  time  had  come  when  one 
might  say  whatever  one  pleased,  even 
hi  contradiction  of  the  central  posi- 
tions of  orthodoxy,  and  suffer  no  great 
harm.  And  this  gave  access  to  a  new 
field.  It  disclosed  a  new  liberty.  It  was 
like  opening  to  occupation  a  new  terri- 
tory, and  settlers  swarmed  in  by  hun- 
dreds, some  for  purposes  of  settlement, 
some  for  purposes  of  speculation. 

Many  clever  students  were  desirous 
to  contribute  to  a  better  knowledge  of 
the  Bible,  and  had,  at  the  beginning, 
no  other  intention.  But  a  contribu- 
tion consists  of  that  which  we  did  not 
possess  before.  The  aim  of  the  am- 
bitious student  was  to  make  discover- 
ies, to  propose  a  theory  which  nobody 
had  thought  of,  to  tell  us  something 
positively  new.  This  process  materi- 
ally depreciates  the  old.  Between  two 


486 


CHRIST  AMONG  THE   DOCTORS 


possible  interpretations,  one  of  them 
supported  by  councils  and  commenta- 
ries, and  the  other  appearing  at  that 
moment  at  the  open  door  of  the  stu- 
dent's mind,  the  novel  interpretation 
was  given  the  '  glad  hand '  of  hospital- 
ity. The  privilege  of  difference  had  been 
so  long  denied,  that  men  now  made  the 
most  of  it.  Propositions  had  been  prized 
in  proportion  to  their  age.  So  they  were 
still,  but  the  advantage  now  was  on  the 
side  of  youth.  It  was  perceived  that 
it  was  no  longer  possible  to  make  an 
interesting  book  by  quoting  from  the 
fathers.  Then  Bahrdt  and  Venturi  sug- 
gested that  the  true  hero  of  the  gospel 
story  was  Nicodemus,  the  head  of  a  se- 
cret order  of  Essenes-  who  made  Jesus 
their  instrument.  And  Noach  proposed 
the  theory  that  the  Fourth  Gospel 
was  written  by  the  beloved  disciple  — 
Judas! 

It  can  hardly  be  said  that  this  de- 
structive work  went  on  under  the  pro- 
tection of  any  policy  of  toleration.  The 
conservatives  would  gladly  have  si- 
lenced these  defiant  persons,  by  the  old 
methods.  But  the  times  had  changed. 
It  was  possible  to  fling  the  stones  of 
controversy,  but  the  use  of  actual 
paving  material  was  discredited.  Some- 
how, by  common  consent,  the  final 
argument  of  Saul  in  his  debate  with 
Stephen  was  no  longer  held  to  be  a 
fair  resort.  It  therefore  became  pos- 
sible at  last  to  test  the  effect  of  free 
speech  by  experience.  The  main  value 
to-day  of  the  long  series  of  lives  of 
Christ  is  in  -the  opportunity  thus  af- 
forded to  see  how  so  perilous  a  liberty 
really  works. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  at  the  be- 
ginning it  seemed  like  the  opening  of 
the  bags  of  contrary  winds  by  the  sail- 
ors of  Ulysses.  There  was  an  immediate 
storm.  Under  the  impulse  of  hostility 
and  of  novelty,  men  attacked  every- 
thing in  sight.  The  conclusions  of  the 
past  became  points  of  departure.  Find- 


ing themselves  free  to  disagree  with 
the  Bible,  the  critics  disagreed  jubi- 
lantly. They  had  a  certain  joy  in  con- 
tradicting the  prophets  and  apostles. 
As  for  the  fathers  and  the  councils, 
what  they  believed  was  discredited  by 
the  fact  that  they  believed  it.  If  they 
ascribed  the  Gospels  to  Matthew, 
Mark,  Luke,  and  John,  the  presump- 
tion was  that  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke, 
and  John  had  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  them.  Conservative  people  were 
grievously  alarmed.  Even  the  stoutest 
maintainers  of  the  doctrine  of  the  in- 
errancy of  Scripture  felt  that  there  was 
something  amiss  in  the  proposal  to  give 
the  tares  a  chance.  They  could  not  be- 
lieve that  it  was  good  gardening. 

But  gradually  the  situation  changed. 
It  appeared  that  the  early  freedom  was 
for  the  sake  of  freedom.  It  was  like 
the  irresponsible  independence  of  youth . 
It  was  the  audacity  of  adolescence.  It 
seemed  menacing  enough,  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  was  distressingly  destruc- 
tive, but  it  had  its  place  in  those  pa- 
tient processes  according  to  whose 
wise  providence  destruction  is  one  of 
the  natural  exercises  of  new  strength. 
All  proper  children  are  destructive. 
That  is  their  way  of  finding  out  what 
things  are  made  of.  But  they  get  over 
it.  It  is  not  well  to  take  their  incon- 
venient activities  too  seriously.  The 
critics,  too,  get  over  it. 

At  first,  in  the  season  of  revolt,  they 
only  were  accounted  'liberal'  whose 
minds  were  open  to  the  new  ideas.  It 
was  presently  perceived,  however,  that 
genuine  liberalism  is  an  attitude,  not 
toward  novelty,  but  toward  truth. 
He  alone  is  liberal  who  welcomes  truth 
under  all  conditions,  and  is  as  ready 
to  recognize  it  in  the  formularies  of 
the  past  as  in  the  theories  of  the  pre- 
sent. And  he  is  the  best '  conservative ' 
who  is  so  sure  of  the  truth  that  he  is 
not  nervous  about  it.  He  watches  the 
critic  digging  at  the  Bible,  as  he  watches 


CHRIST  AMONG  THE  DOCTORS 


487 


the  geologist  digging  at  the  hill.  He 
has  no  fear  that  either  of  these  monu- 
ments will  fall  down. 

The  critics  dug  away  with  great 
fierceness,  and  reinforced  their  picks 
and  spades  with  occasional  charges  of 
dynamite,  and  for  a  good  while  the 
conservatives  stood  by,  holding  their 
breath.  But,  after  all,  nothing  hap- 
pened. And  at  last  it  became  pretty 
plain  that  nothing  was  likely  to  happen. 

Of  course,  there  were  times  when  the 
violence  of  the  explosions  seemed  to 
signify  tremendous  destruction.  Be- 
fore the  smoke  had  cleared  away,  men 
felt  that  the  very  foundations  of  the 
faith  had  been  blown  up.  But,  on  ex- 
amination, there  they  were  as  ever. 
The  critics  who  had  contracted  to  re- 
move the  mountain  made  enthusiastic 
reports  of  progress.  Now  they  had 
taken  away  the  Gospel  of  St.  John, 
now  they  had  reduced  the  other  three 
to  two  chief  sources,  an  account  main- 
ly of  the  life  of  Christ  in  Mark,  and 
an  account  mainly  of  the  teachings 
of  Christ  in  Matthew;  now  Schmiedel 
had  cleared  everything  away  except 
nine  texts,  the  'foundation-pillars,'  as 
he  said,  'of  a  really  scientific  Life  of 
Jesus,'  authenticated  by  the  fact  that 
they  'could  not  have  been  invented.' 
But  readers  of  these  reports  who  went 
out  expecting  to  find  in  the  place  of 
the  everlasting  hill  only  these  nine  flat 
stones,  discovered  to  their  surprise  that 
no  serious  alterations  had  taken  place 
in  the  landscape. 

Thus,  after  all  the  activities  of  hos- 
tile criticism,  Dr.  Hastings  issues  his 
Dictionary  of  Christ  and  the  Gospels,1 
Dr.  Fairbairn  publishes  his  Studies  in 
Religion  and  Theology,2  and  the  fellows 
and  scholars  of  the  Hartford  Seminary 

1  A  Dictionary  of  Christ  and  the  Gospels.  By 
JAMES  HASTINGS.  New  York:  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons.  1909. 

1  Studies  in  Religion  and  Theology.  By  A.  M. 
FAIKBAIRN.  New  York:  The  Macmillan  Co.  1910. 


complete  their  translation  of  Zahn's 
Introduction  to  the  New  Testament.3  The 
writers  are  men  the  competency  of 
whose  scholarship  is  unquestioned. 
They  are  fully  acquainted  with  all 
the  operations  of  destructive  criticism. 
They  are  honest  men,  who  may  not 
be  suspected  of  thinking  one  thing  and 
saying  another.  And  their  minds  are 
undisturbed.  They  perceive,  indeed, 
that  there  are  difficulties  which  were 
not  so  evident  before.  Some  of  them 
they  solve,  some  they  do  not  solve. 
It  appears,  even  in  these  conservative 
pages,  that  the  critics  have  demolished 
the  old  doctrine  of  the  inerrancy  of 
Scripture.  But  that  was  only  a  wooden 
fence  which  cautious  persons  had  built 
around  the  hill.  The  hill  itself  remains, 
from  whose  heights,  as  of  old,  men  see 
God. 

That  is,  after  a  hundred  years  of  free 
criticism,  much  of  it  hostile,  the  changes 
in  the  old  positions  are  mostly  in  de- 
tail. It  has  been  proved  by  long  ex- 
perience that  even  the  life  of  Christ 
may  be  subjected  to  rigorous  analysis, 
not  only  with  impunity,  but  with  pro- 
fit. The  critics  disclosed  new  aspects 
of  the  work  of  Christ.  Moreover,  as 
the  early  antagonists  lost  their  bitter- 
ness, and  criticism  ceased  to  be  a  part- 
isan contention  with  orthodoxy,  the 
critics  reexamined  the  conservative  and 
traditional  positions  with  anew  respect. 
Gradually,  the  dates  given  to  the  Gos- 
pels were  set  further  back.  Harnack's 
return  to  the  Lukan  theory  of  the  au- 
thorship of  the  Third  Gospel  is  signi- 
ficant and  representative. 

Thus  the  progress  of  criticism  vin- 
dicates the  free  study  of  religion.  The 
students  of  the  Gospels  grow  continually 
more  patient,  more  appreciative,  more 
conservative,  and  more  religious.  They 
are  less  inclined  to  dogmatic  negation. 

1  Introduction  to  the  New  Testament.  By 
THBODOR  ZAHN.  New  York:  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons.  1909. 


488 


CHRIST  AMONG  THE  DOCTORS 


In  fact,  almost  everything  has  now  been 
said  which  even  the  most  radical  or 
the  most  hostile  critic  can  find  it  in  his 
heart  to  say.  How  much  better  to  have 
it  frankly  said!  How  much  wiser  the 
policy  of  free  speech  than  the  policy  of 
prudent  repression !  For  the  conserva- 
tion which  grows  in  the  field  of  free- 
dom strikes  its  roots  deep  into  the  soil, 
and  is  a  part  of  the  abiding  nature 
of  things.  The  conservation  which  is 
maintained  by  authority  is  a  tender 
plant,  which  needs  constant  and  anx- 
ious care,  and  even  then  may  perish  in 
a  night.  Free  conservatism  is  a  slow 
growth,  but  it  is  worth  the  expendi- 
ture of  any  amount  of  pain  and  pa- 
tience. 

When  Johannes  Weiss,  in  1892,  pub- 
lished his  work  on  The  Preaching  of 
Jesus  concerning  the  Kingdom  of  God, 
his  readers  were  amazed  to  find  that  it 
was  all  contained  in  seventy-six  pages. 
They  were  at  first  disposed  to  doubt 
the  value  of  so  brief  a  writing.  Who- 
ever, they  argued,  has  a  message  of  im- 
portance, will  intrust  it  to  the  hands  of 
a  grown  man.  The  small  book  seemed 
informal  and  undignified,  like  a  small 
boy.  But  Weiss's  brevity  was  highly 
significant.  It  meant  that  criticism  was 
passing  from  the  study  of  the  docu- 
ments to  the  study  of  the  essential 
mission  of  Jesus. 

Schweitzer  specifies  three  alterna- 
tives in  this  discussion.  There  is,  first, 
the  debate  between  those  who  hold 
that  the  central  Person  of  the  Gospels 
was  purely  historical,  and  those  who 
hold  that  He  was  purely  supernatural. 
This  discussion  is  fairly  represented  by 
the  papers  reprinted  from  the  Hibbert 
Journal  under  the  title  "Jesus  or 
Christ?  "  *  One  phase  of  it  appears  in 
such  books  as  Meyer's  Jesus  or  Paul,2 

1  Jesus  or  Christ.  Boston:  Sherman,  French 
&Co.  1910. 

*  Jesus  or  Paul.  By  ARNOLD  MEYER.  New 
York:  Harper  &  Brothers.  1909. 


and  Weiss's  Paul  and  Jesus.3  The 
second  alternative  is  the  choice  between 
the  first  three  Gospels  and  the  fourth  as 
the  ultimate  source  of  knowledge  con- 
cerning the  meaning  and  mission  of 
Jesus.  This  is  represented  by  Scott's 
Historical  and  Religious  Value  of  the 
Fourth  Gospel,*  and  Bacon's  Fourth  Gos- 
pel in  Research  and  Debate.5  The  third 
question  is  as  to  the  definition  of  the 
Kingdom  of  God.  Did  Jesus  proclaim 
a  Kingdom  to  be  realized  gradually 
by  increasing  obedience  to  the  will  of 
God,  or  to  be  realized  suddenly  by  the 
appearance  of  the  Son  of  Man,  and 
the  ending  of  all  terrestrial  things? 

It  is  contended  by  some  German  the- 
ologians that  between  these  alterna- 
tives one  must  be  taken  and  the  others 
left.  But  this  is  not  acceptable  to 
most  thoughtful  persons  in  this  coun- 
try or  in  England.  The  Germans,  who 
make  fun  of  a  '  qualifying-clause '  theo- 
logy, and  deride  such  saving  phrases 
as  'yes,  but,'  and  'on  the  other  hand,' 
and  'notwithstanding,'  do  not  com- 
mend their  thorough-going  assertions 
to  our  minds.  Such  positiveness  seems 
to  us  an  academic  fallacy,  made  pos- 
sible by  residing  altogether  in  a  library 
and  a  lecture-room,  without  much  ac- 
quaintance with  the  larger  course  of 
human  life.  We  like  better  the  saying 
of  Frederick  Robertson  that  truth  is  to 
be  found  not  by  choosing  one  extreme 
to  the  denial  of  the  other,  still  less 
by  a  compromise  whereby  neither  ex- 
treme shall  retain  its  original  meaning, 
but  by  a  holding  of  the  two  extremes 
together.  Why  must  the  Person  of 
Christ  be  either  historical  or  super- 

8  Paul  and  Jesus.  By  JOHANNES  WEISS.  New 
York:  Harper  &  Brothers.   1909. 

4  The  Historical  and  Religious  Value  of  the 
Fourth  Gospel.    By  ERNEST  F.  SCOTT.    Boston 
and  New  York:  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 
1909. 

5  The  Fourth  Gospel  in  Research  and  Debate. 
By  BENJAMIN  W.  BACON.   New  York:  Moffat, 
Yard  &  Co.  1910. 


CHRIST  AMONG  THE  DOCTORS 


489 


natural?  Why  not  historical  and  super- 
natural at  the  same  time?  Why,  if  we 
take  the  first  three  Gospels,  must  we 
reject  the  fourth?  Why  must  the  two 
theories  of  the  mission  of  Christ  be 
mutually  exclusive? 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  great  debates 
go  on  because  both  sides  are*  right. 
Each  contributes  to  the  fuller  know- 
ledge of  the  truth.  The  formula 
'  either — or'  is  for  lawyers,  whose  busi- 
ness is  to  leave  the  other  side  out  of 
account,  not  for  scholars  who  desire 
the  truth.  We  approach  to-day  a  bet- 
ter understanding  and  a  better  theo- 
logy by  its  formula  'yes,  but':  'yes' 
being  an  acceptance  of  the  truth  which 
is  newly  brought  to  our  attention  by 
those  who  differ  from  us;  and  'but' 
being  a  maintenance  still  of  our  own 
previous  truth  which  the  new  truth 
does  but  enrich  and  illuminate.  The 
fathers  at  Nica?a  very  likely  knew  their 
own  business  better  than  we  do,  but 
they  appear  to  have  acted  as  politi- 
cians rather  than  as  statesmen  when 
they  deliberately  searched  for  a  creed- 
word  which  Arius  could  not  possibly 
accept.  What  we  need  for  our  better 
unity  in  faith  and  order  is  a  compre- 
hensive statement  which  shall  have 
room  for  varying  emphases  and  tem- 
peraments, and  differences  of  opinion. 
The  note  is  set  by  the  doctrine  of  the 
Incarnation,  that  Jesus  Christ  is  at 
the  same  time  God  and  Man. 

The  heart  of  the  whole  matter  is  a 
certain  spiritual  attitude.  The  Gos- 
pels were  not  composed  by  individual 
authors,  but  by  companies  of  Christian 
believers.  They  represent  the  impres- 
sion which  Jesus  made  upon  his  dis- 
ciples. There  is  a  social  element  in 
them  which  of  necessity  produces  dif- 
ferences, because  differences  existed 
in  the  human  nature  of  the  believers. 
They  reported  what  they  saw  and  heard, 
some  more,  some  less.  The  accounts 
of  the  discourses  of  Christ  in  the  Fourth 


Gospel  differ  much  from  the  accounts 
in  the  First  and  Third,  but  the  differ- 
ence is  scarcely  greater  than  that  which 
appears  between  the  preaching  of  St. 
Paul  as  it  is  reported  in  the  Acts  and 
as  it  is  given  in  his  own  words  in  the 
Epistles.  Such  variations  do  not  pre- 
sent serious  difficulties  to  persons  who 
are  living  under  the  social  conditions 
out  of  which  the  Gospels  proceeded. 
The  books  are  alive,  and  the  mystery 
which  pervades  them  is  the  elusive  and 
indefinable  mystery  of  life.  The  trouble 
with  many  of  the  German  scholars  is 
that  they  live  in  closets.  They  are  pro- 
fessional persons  who  do  not  come  into 
close  contact  with  people.  They  were 
first  pupils  and  then  teachers,  with- 
out the  instructive  intervention  of 
any  parochial  experience.  They  have 
preached  no  sermons,  and  ministered 
to  no  souls.  Thus  they  come  to  the 
study  of  these  documents,  and  of  Him 
concerning  whom  the  documents  were 
written,  somewhat  as  Sir  Christopher 
Wren  might  have  undertaken  a  com- 
mentary on  Shakespeare's  Sonnets. 
Wren  was  an  architect  and  thought  in 
terms  of  length  and  height;  Shake- 
speare thought  in  terms  of  passion  and 
emotion. 

The  most  reassuring  recent  book  for 
those  who  are  perplexed  between  the 
alternatives  of  criticism  is  Dr.  Den- 
ney's  Jesus  and  the  Gospel. l  He  under- 
takes to  answer  two  vital  questions: 
'Has  Christianity  existed  from  the 
beginning  only  in  the  form  of  a  faith 
which  has  Jesus  as  its  object,  and  not 
at  all  in  the  form  of  a  faith  which  has 
had  Jesus  simply  as  its  living  pattern  ? ' 
and  'Can  Christianity,  as  even  the 
New  Testament  exhibits  it,  justify  it- 
self by  appeal  to  Christ?'  Thus  he  en- 
counters two  ideas  which  are  present, 
more  or  less  consciously,  in  many 
minds :  the  idea  that  the  early  disciples 

1  Jesus  and  the  Gospel.  By  JAMES  DENNEY. 
New  York:  A.  C.  Armstrong  &  Son.  1910. 


490 


TOLSTOI  AND  YOUNG  RUSSIA 


in  their  enthusiasm  for  a  noble  teacher 
exalted  their  admiration  into  adora- 
tion; and  the  idea  that  such  adoration 
is  remote  from  Christ's  own  conception 
of  Himself.  These  are  at  the  centre 
of  negative  criticism.  The  critic  who 
arrays  the  Christ  of  History  against 
the  Christ  of  Dogma  honestly  believes 
that  a  Galilean  saint,  against  his  own 
will  and  in  disregard  of  his  own  teach- 
ings, was  lifted  by  his  disciples  into 
the  clouds.  Dr.  Denney  finds  no  basis 
for  this  supposition,  either  in  history 
or  in  psychology. 

At  the  same  time,  he  insists  upon 
the  difference  between  faith  and  doc- 
trine, between  a  certain  spiritual  re- 
lation to  Christ  and  the  expression  of 
it  in  the  changing  phrases  of  contem- 
porary thought.  He  would  substitute 


for  all  clerical  subscriptions  the  form 
which  was  used  by  the  assembly  which 
made  the  Westminster  Confession:  — 
'I  will  maintain  nothing  in  point  of 
doctrine  but  what  I  believe  to  be  most 
agreeable  to  the  word  of  God:  nor  in 
point  of  discipline  but  what  may  make 
most  for  God's  glory,  and  the  peace 
and  good  of  this  Church.'  And  for  all 
creeds,  this  comprehensive  statement: 
'  I  believe  in  God  through  Jesus  Christ 
His  only  son,  our  Lord  and  Saviour.' 
For  creeds  and  subscriptions  are  in- 
tended mainly  for  defense,  and  to  put 
an  end  to  the  assaults  of  debate.  But 
the  best  approach  to  truth  and  peace 
and  unity  is  to  follow  Wesley's  maxim : 
'Think  and  let  think.'  It  seems  a  fair 
conclusion  from  the  actual  results  of 
the  free  criticism  of  the  life  of  Christ. 


TOLSTOI  AND  YOUNG  RUSSIA 


BY  ROSE  STRUNSKY 


To  Russia  there  are  now  two  Tol- 
stois —  the  Tolstoi  who  was  alive  and 
the  Tolstoi  who  is  dead. 

The  Tolstoi  alive  was  looked  upon 
with  bitterness  and  pain,  as  a  father 
who  denied  his  love.  Tolstoi  sat  with- 
in reach  of  all  Russia  on  his  estate  in 
Yasnaya  Polyana,  looking  out  upon 
the  infinite, '  applying  his  soul  and  med- 
itating on  the  law  of  the  Most  High,' 
and  the  youth  would  come  to  him 
with  questions  and  demands.  'Leo 
Nicholaievitch,'  they  would  say,  'they 
are  hanging  us  on  every  cross-road, 
they  are  starving  and  flogging  the 
peasants  to  death,  they  are  massacring 
the  Jews,  and  all  Russia  is  red  with 


blood.  What  are  you  going  to  say? 
What  are  you  going  to  do?' 

And  Leo  Nicholaievitch  would  an- 
swer, 'I  do  not  like  to  speak  on  such 
matters,  for  I  am  a  religious  thinker 
and  not  a  politician,  but  in  so  far  as 
Russia  disrupts  union  and  harmony, 
she  is  in  error,  and  in  so  far  as  you  do 
so,  you,  too,  are  in  error.  We  must  all 
live  in  union  and  harmony  —  that  is 
the  reason  of  life.' 

Then  the  youth  would  go  away  and 
look  upon  that  wolf  he  was  asked  to  lie 
down  with,  and  anger  and  even  distrust 
against  Tolsto'i  —  that  great  lover  of 
mankind  —  would  fill  his  heart. 

But  it  is  different  with  the  dead  Tol- 


TOLSTOI  AND   YOUNG   RUSSIA 


491 


stoi.  There  is  no  rushing  to  him  now 
to  get  his  help  or  advice  at  each  re- 
petition of  iniquity  and  calamity.  He 
is  no  longer  a  figure  living  in  Yasnaya 
Polyana  in  the  nineteenth  century,  but 
a  wise  man,  one  of  the  great  sons  of 
Wisdom  whom  she  has  exalted.  It 
took  but  the  first  footfall  of  Death  for 
all  Russia  to  realize  this.  A  sob  broke 
from  them.  They  were  bereft.  Their 
glory  had  departed. 

Yet  because  he  lived  on  this  earth 
on  ly  eighty-two  years  and  three  months, 
while  as  dead  he  may  live  many  hun- 
dreds of  years  as  one  of  the  world's 
great  men,  it  is  interesting  from  an  his- 
torical standpoint  to  see  what  were  his 
thoughts  and  Russia's  at  the  various 
periods  of  the  eighty-two  years  they 
lived  together. 


The  nineteenth  century  in  Russia 
is  characterized  by  periods  of  revolu- 
tionary outburst,  —  the  aftermaths  of 
the  French  Revolution,  of  the  Euro- 
pean unrest  of  1848  and  1870  which 
found  their  way  into  that  far  country, 
—  coupled  with  causes  native  to  Russia 
itself;  and  by  periods  of  reaction,  of 
ebb-tides  as  it  were,  when  the  ardent 
youth,  no  longer  ardent  and  no  longer 
young,  sat  down  passive  and  hopeless 
with  folded  arms.  It  was  in  such  an 
ebb-tide  that  Tolstoi  was  born  and 
reared. 

The  Decembrists  of  1825  had  fought 
and  lost;  the  cynical  cloak  of  Byronism, 
though  rather  threadbare,  was  still 
much  in  use  even  up  to  the  forties.  The 
result  was  that  Tolstoi's  detached,  in- 
dividualistic nature  was  not  diverted 
from  its  natural  groove  as  it  might  have 
been  had  he  been  born  twenty  years 
later,  when  the  sense  of  social  solidar- 
ity was  developed  and  the  energies  and 
passions  of  the  youth  found  their  out- 
let through  political  and  propagandist 
groups. 


How  different  from  the  youth  of  the 
sixties  was  Tolstoi's  own  youth  as  he 
described  it  in  the  book  of  that  name! 
Prince  Nekludoff  and  the  hero,  who  is 
Tolstoi,  make  a  compact  while  at  the 
university  to  tell  each  other  every  ex- 
perience and  emotion.  The  result  was 
extreme  self-analysis  and  introspection. 
Here  we  can  almost  see  the  foundation 
for  that  insulation  of  mind  which  was 
his  increasingly  to  the  very  end.  But 
it  can  only  be  fully  understood  through 
a  definite  picture  of  that  cauldron  of 
dreaming,  thinking,  fighting  Russia 
into  which  he  threw  his  writings,  and 
which  he  did  not  seem  to  see  or  feel. 

The  Crimean  War  had  destroyed  the 
last  shreds  of  Byronism,  and  the  demo- 
cratic movement  of  1848  had  rolled  its 
waves  into  Russia.  The  country  in  the 
middle  fifties  was  fired  with  the  spirit 
of  educational  and  political  reform. 
The  women  broke  away  from  their 
homes  and  demanded  education;  the 
young  men  rose  to  help  spread  educa- 
tion and  encourage  the  women.  The 
country  was  bent  on  freeing  the  serfs. 
Emancipation  commissions  were  sit- 
ting, and  there  were  rumors  of  great 
political  changes.  Not  only  was  the 
serf  to  be  free,  but  the  landlord  was  to 
be  divested  of  land,  and  Russia  was 
to  be  turned  into  one  glorious  common- 
wealth ! 

But  Tolstoi  was  already  thirty  and 
immune  from  contagion.  He  was  in  St. 
Petersburg  leading  the  frivolous  life  of 
a  nobleman,  made  more  frivolous  still 
by  the  fact  that  he  was  a  feted  hero 
returned  from  the  war  and  already  a 
writer  of  good  reputation.  He  makes 
no  mention  of  this  great  political  and 
educational  movement,  nor  did  he 
make  friends  with  any  of  its  leaders, 
not  even  with  the  editors  of  the  Con- 
temporary for  which  he  wrote,  Dabrolu- 
beff,  Michailloff  and  Tchernyshefsky, 
who  kept  up  the  fire  of  the  agrarian 
reform  and  practically  forced  the  issue 


492 


TOLSTOI  AND   YOUNG   RUSSIA 


upon  Alexander  II.  Even  Turgenieff 
left  him  cold.  He  'despised  him/  he 
said,  and  it  was  only  a  few  years  later 
that  he  even  sent  him  a  pair  of  pistols 
and  a  challenge  because  of  a  petty 
quarrel  over  the  education  of  Turgen- 
ieff's  daughter.  As  for  the  revolution- 
ary sheet,  The  Bell,  which  Turgenieff 
edited  with  Herzen  for  the  purpose  of 
hammering  away  at  the  system  of  serf- 
dom, Tolstoi  ignored  it  entirely. 

No  matter  what  his  inner  struggles 
were,  —  and  his  writings  show  that 
they  were  many,  —  he  did  not  openly 
deny  the  class  to  which  he  belonged,  an 
almost  conventional  thing  to  do  at  this 
time.  This  utter  lack  of  sympathy 
with  the  movement  of  'Fathers  and 
Sons,'  as  this  period  is  called  in  Russian 
history,  had  its  effect  upon  his  writ- 
ings. His  books  dealt  with  situations 
and  emotions  already  outgrown,  and 
appeared  like  anachronisms  to  the 
Russia  which  read  them. 

His  Morning  of  a  Landed  Proprietor 
deals  with  attempts  at  improving  the 
condition  of  the  serfs,  and  speaks  of 
their  intelligence.  No  doubt  Tolstoi 
was  telling  of  his  experiences  and  feel- 
ings when  he  went  down  to  Yasnaya 
Polyana  as  a  lad  of  nineteen;  but  the 
story  appeared  at  a  time  when  almost 
all  were  agitating,  not  for  the  improve- 
ment of  the  condition  of  the  serfs,  but 
for  the  absolute  abolition  of  serfdom, 
and  were  already  beginning  to  recog- 
nize the  peasant  as  an  important  factor 
in  Russian  progress  as  well  as  an  intel- 
ligent  being.  The  only  question  then 
raging  was,  how  was  this  abolition  to 
be  accomplished,  and  in  what  form 
should  the  land  be  held  —  in  communal 
or  in  private  ownership? 

His  novel  Youth,  mentioned  above, 
also  created  an  unfavorable  impression, 
because,  although  Tolstoi  described 
faithfully  in  minute  detail  the  ill  ef- 
fects of  introspection  and  self-analysis, 
he  nevertheless  seemed  to  hold  them 


up  as  an  ideal  to  be  attained.  The 
youth  of  this  time  were  abandoning 
themselves  to  a  great  cause,  and  Tol- 
stoi's ideal  appeared  egotistical  and 
useless. 

But  the  book  which  created  the 
most  violent  discussion  was  the  Cos- 
sacks, which  appeared  in  1860.  It  was 
begun  eight  years  earlier,  but  it  came 
out  just  when  the  country  was  strug- 
gling to  get  the  last  word  of  civiliza- 
tion and  at  great  personal  sacrifice  was 
passing  it  on  to  the  people.  The  book, 
showing  as  it  did  in  strong  colors  the 
vital,  virile,  primitive  life  of  the  Cos- 
sacks as  compared  to  the  young  effete 
hero  who  goes  down  among  them,  was 
misunderstood  and  thought  to  be  a  call 
to  the  primitive  on  the  part  of  Tolstoi. 
It  sounded  reactionary.  To  overthrow 
serfdom  meant  to  let  the  winds  of 
western  civilization  sweep  into  Russia; 
it  was  obvious  to  all  that  it  could  not 
be  done  by  a  return  to  the  primitive. 

The  misunderstanding  took  place  in 
thinking  that  Tolstoi  was  writing  to 
prove  a  point.  He  was  writing  of 
things  which  had  made  the  greatest 
impression  on  him.  But  the  difficulty 
for  the  Russian  mind  was  to  under- 
stand that  the  things  which  had  made 
the  greatest  impression  on  him  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  social  whole  at 
all,  but  with  himself. 

This  accounts  for  the  fact  that  at 
the  time  when  emancipation  was  final- 
ly accomplished  in  1861,  he  was  away 
altogether  from  Russia  and  was  busy 
writing  that  masterpiece,  War  and 
Peace,  which  was  an  epic  poem  of  the 
year  1812. 

Yet  this  individualistic  type  of  mind 
did  not  mean  callousness  to  the  world 
at  large,  it  only  meant  an  inverted 
reaching  out  to  it.  Great  as  his  mind 
and  heart  were,  they  were  isolated. 
Reach  out  to  the  world  as  he  would,  he 
could  not  overtake  the  last  thought  of 
that  most  advanced  country,  Russia. 


TOLSTOI  AND  YOUNG  RUSSIA 


493 


The  task  was  beyond  this  greatest  hu- 
man soul,  and  all  his  life  he  gave  the 
appearance  of  lagging  after  the  current 
thought. 

n 

Thus  we  see  Russia  in  1863  —  disap- 
pointed and  angered;  the  serf  freed, 
but  with  a  burden  of  sixty  years'  taxes 
for  arid,  worthless  patches  of  land.  The 
need  of  organization  for  the  purpose  of 
gaining  that  for  which  one  is  educated 
became  apparent.  Unorganized  peas- 
ant uprisings  were  general,  and  the  au- 
thorities were  quenching  them  with  fire 
and  sword.  Back  into  this  cauldron 
came  Tolstoi,  and  began  where  Russia 
had  left  off  five  years  before,  with  edu- 
cational reform.  He  opened  a  school  in 
Yasnaya  Polyana,  and  his  ideas  were 
brilliant  and  valuable  and  made  a  sen- 
sation. But  the  police  came  and  de- 
stroyed his  school  and  took  his  notes. 

It  did  not  throw  him  into  the  revolu- 
tionary camp.  He  took  the  post  of 
arbiter  between  peasant  and  landlord, 
and  tried  to  enforce  some  justice  even 
under  the  iniquitous  standards.  He 
listened  to  the  complaints  and  arbi- 
trated. But  when  his  decisions  were  in 
favor  of  the  peasants,  the  decisions  were 
reversed  from  above.  Nor  did  this 
throw  him  with  the  more  advanced 
thought.  Instead,  we  find  him  writing 
to  the  Grand  Duke  Constantine,  urging 
him  to  grant  land  reforms  and  pointing 
out  that  such  reforms  would  safeguard 
the  autocracy  against  the  revolution! 

And  for  fifteen  years  he  went  on, 
struggling  within,  but  outwardly  at 
peace.  He  stayed  on  in  Yasnaya  Polya- 
na, seeing  that  the  carp  did  not  escape 
from  the  lake,  or  sending  horses  for 
sale  to  Samara.  Around  him  the  strug- 
gle of  'Fathers  and  Sons'  had  begun. 
Russia  was  uttering  that  great  cry,  'To 
the  people ! '  '  It  is  the  movement  of  the 
Will  of  the  People!  A  hundred  million 
souls  were  given  glorious  hopes  and 


then  mocked,  a  hundred  million  souls 
were  robbed  and  beaten  and  oppressed. 
If  you  love  one  another,  go  to  one  an- 
other, join  hands  with  the  hundred 
million,  teach  them  all  you  know,  fight 
with  them.'  It  is  hard  to  believe  that 
Tolstoi  did  not  know  of  this  move- 
ment going  on  about  him.  The  trials 
of  the  Netchaeff  groups,  the  Dolgushin 
groups,  the  'Moscow  Fifty,'  the  'Trial 
of  the  Hundred  and  Ninety  Three,'  had 
full  reports  in  the  papers.  The  spirit 
that  lay  behind  them  could  be  told  by 
the  speeches  of  the  men  and  women 
tried,  it  could  be  told  by  TurgeniefTs 
Virgin  Soil.  And  yet  Tolstoi  remained 
untouched.  But  all  this  time  he  was 
struggling  with  the  question  of  how  to 
live  in  harmony  with  the  world.  He 
was  like  a  colossus  walking  blindfold 
through  the  jungle  of  life,  and  he  had  to 
grope  solitary  and  unaided,  to  come 
to  the  same  position  in  1883  which  the 
Russian  youth  had  held  in  the  seventies. 
But  before  this  great  thing  happened 
to  him,  before  his  'crisis,'  as  it  is  called, 
his  novel  Anna  Karenina  appeared.  It 
was  received  with  open  arms  abroad, 
but  again  it  was  looked  on  with  dis- 
favor by  the  majority  at  home.  Al- 
ready in  1863  the  question  of  love  and 
marriage,  and  of  separation  after  mar- 
riage, had  been  discussed  in  all  circles 
of  Russia.  Tchernyshefsky,  in  his  novel 
of  that  year,  What  Is  To  Be  Done,  had 
discussed  this  question  with  the  ut- 
most frankness,  and  had  come  to  the 
conclusions  which  were  accepted  by  all 
Russia,  namely,  that  there  were  times 
when  separation  after  marriage  is  in- 
evitable, and  that  there  are  instances 
when  a  real  love  for  a  third  person 
conies  after  marriage  and  that  this 
love  should  be  followed.  Now  in  1875 
Tolstoi  issued  this  masterpiece  Anna 
Karenina,  with  the  inscription, '  Venge- 
ance is  Mine.  I  Will  Repay.'  Russia 
felt  that  Anna  Karenina's  tragedy  was 
due  to  man-made  conditions  and  her 


494 


TOLSTOI  AND   YOUNG   RUSSIA 


own  nature,  and  not,  as  the  inscription 
suggests,  to  a  supernatural  law  which 
could  not  be  avoided.  Thus  it  was  re- 
ceived with  great  displeasure  by  nearly 
all  Russia,  and  hailed  by  the  conserva- 
tives as  the  work  of  a  Daniel  come  to 
Judgment. 

in 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  great 
crisis  in  his  life  took  place,  a  crisis  that 
had  been  foretold  by  several  Russian 
critics.  All  these  years  he  had  searched 
for  the  answer  to  the  problem  of  life, 
and  when  it  came  it  was  the  same  as 
the  youth  had  found  for  themselves 
more  than  ten  years  before,  —  To  the 
People!  Love  the  People! 

"The  only  reason  for  life,'  said  Tol- 
stoi, '  is  the  universal  desire  for  welfare 
which,  in  reasoning  man,  becomes  ex- 
panded to  a  desire  for  universal  welfare 

—  in  other  words,  to  love.    It  (this 
universal  desire  for  welfare)  expands 
its  limits  naturally  by  love,  first  for 
one's  family,  —  one's  wife  and  children, 

—  then  for  friends,  then  for  one's  fel- 
low countrymen;  but  Love  is  not  satis- 
fied with  this,  and  tends  to  embrace 
all!' 

The  youth  of  the  eighties  had  not 
repudiated  this  doctrine  of  love  for  all, 
for  the  people,  but  by  this  time  they 
had  reached  different  territory.  By 
the  continued  oppressions  and  perse- 
cutions of  the  government,  this  love 
for  the  people  drove  them  in  the  name 
of  the  people  into  a  militant  attitude 
toward  the  government.  It  drove 
them  to  Terrorism.  For  Tolsto'i  it  led, 
for  the  first  few  years,  to  the  philosoph- 
ical position  of  absolute  non-resistance 
to  evil.  '  I  know  that  the  enemy  and 
the  so-called  malefactors  are  all  men 
like  myself,  they  love  good  and  they 
hate  evil,  and  if  they  do  an  apparently 
evil  thing,  it  has  to  be  corrected  by 
good;  and  in  this  way  the  immediate 
work  of  the  world,  which  is  the  substi- 


tution of  union  and  harmony  for  divi- 
sion and  discord,  can  be  carried  on.' 

But  he  could  not  long  continue  his 
absolute  non-resistance  to  evil.  He 
found  that  when  he  said  that  govern- 
ment, which  is  coercion  and  force,  is 
evil,  and  that  resistance  is  evil,  both 
tending  to  disrupt  the  union  and  har- 
mony which  is  the  universal  desire,  he 
was  nevertheless  himself  abetting  this 
evil,  which  was  the  government.  It  was 
not  to  the  non-resistance  to  evil  that 
the  government  took  exception.  That 
doctrine  sounded  almost  as  good  as  a 
ukase  from  the  Czar.  It  was  only  when 
he  modified  his  theory, '  Resist  not  evil,' 
to  'Resist  not  evil  by  violence,'  that  the 
government  grew  uneasy  about  him. 
For  a  while  his  passive  resistance 
sounded  threatening.  'Take  no  part  in 
violence,' he  reiterated.  'The  govern- 
ment is  violent,  therefore  it  is  evil. 
Take  no  part  in  it.  Pay  no  taxes,  re- 
fuse to  serve  in  the  army.'  But  even 
these  treasonable  words  were  more  than 
mitigated  by  their  corollary.  To  take 
no  part  in  violence  at  all  meant  that 
when  the  authorities  sent  down  Cos- 
sacks to  beat  the  peasants  and  raze 
the  villages  for  not  paying  taxes,  or  for 
refusing  to  send  recruits,  the  peas- 
ants should  not  resist,  but  receive  this 
scourging  with  humility  and  patience 
and  thus  carry  on  the  'universal  desire 
of  union  and  harmony.'  No  wonder 
Tolstoi  was  left  alone  in  Yasnaya  Pol- 
yana,  no  wonder  there  was  misunder- 
standing between  him  and  the  ardent 
youth  whose  whole  life  was  dedicated 
vigilantly  and  zealously  to  the  task  of 
resisting  evil. 

IV 

But  Tolstoi's  position  was  anomal- 
ous even  to  himself,  and  he  could  not 
carry  it  out  to  its  full  logical  sequence. 
Every  now  and  then  he  stopped  his  'ap- 
plying his  soul  and  his  meditating  on 
the  law  of  the  Most  High,'  to  burst 


TOLSTOI  AND  YOUNG  RUSSIA 


495 


forth  in  protest  against  the  conditions 
around  him.  In  fact  his  last  years  were 
spent  in  vigorous  protest  against  evil, 
though  always  with  a  half  apology. 
Thus  his  letter  on  the  Kishineff  massa- 
cre of  the  Jews  begins,  that  although 
purely  a  religious  thinker  and  a  philo- 
sopher and  unwilling  to  speak  on  tem- 
poral things,  yet  he  cannot  help  raising 
his  voice  at  this  moment  to  cry  out 
against  this  great  iniquity  which  has 
been  committed.  His  letter,  'I  cannot 
be  silent,'  has  the  same  ring  to  it.  He 
does  not  justify  the  revolutionists  for 
their  acts  of  violence,  but  he  condones 
their  acts  because  of  their  youth,  their 
passions,  and  the  extreme  provocations 
by  the  government,  composed  of  older 
and  more  experienced  men  with  infin- 
itely more  power  to  do  both  evil  and 
good  than  the  youth.  And  with  this 
power  the  government  is  bestializing 
its  people  —  making  hangmen  where 
there  were  no  hangmen  before,  and  set- 
ting up  gallows  for  the  youth  on  all  the 
cross-roads  in  the  land.  Would  that 
he,  too,  were  considered  one  with  the 
youth  and  could  suffer  the  penalty 
with  them,  rather  than  live  unharmed 
on  his  estate  and  protected  by  the  gov- 
ernment! 

It  was  a  reaching  out  of  his  hand  to 
the  youth,  an  almost  forced  acknow- 
ledgment that  there  is  no  neutral  ground 
in  Russia  —  nor  in  all  life,  for  that 
matter.  This  great  universal  thinker 
had  to  think  and  feel  and  act  in  a  lim- 
ited, temporal  period.  His  heart  kept 
on  bleeding  for  the  present,  while  his 
philosophy  pulled  him  into  the  infinite. 
This  is  the  reason  for  his  seeming  in- 
consistency: in  his  continuous  reitera- 
tion, on  the  one  hand,  of  his  moral 
truths  which  take  no  cognizance  of 
their  practical  relation  to  everyday 
conditions,  and  which  say  that  each 
individual  can  make  his  own  world, 
and  his  ever-ready  outbursts  of  in- 
dignation and  protest  against  wrongs 


which  were  being  committed  about 
him,  and  which  he  saw  were  beyond  the 
control  of  the  individual. 

And  herein  lies  the  pathos  and  the 
tragedy  of  Tolstoi  —  that  he  was 
great  in  a  great  time,  but  that  the  time 
and  the  man  did  not  fit.  Herein  lies 
the  glory  of  death,  that  he  can  now  be 
measured  by  the  scope  and  the  striv- 
ings of  his  soul. 

At  one  moment  he  did  fit  into  the 
thought  of  his  own  country,  and  that 
was  when  he  issued  What  is  Art  ?  But 
here,  too,  —  as  with  his  educational 
reform,  his  going  to  the  people,  his 
ideas  of  simplicity,  his  conceptions  of 
property  and  labor,  —  the  ideas  he  set 
forth  were  already  part  and  parcel  of 
current  Russian  thought.  The  differ- 
ence in  this  case  was  that  Russia  since 
the  later  twenties  had  never  changed 
its  position  in  regard  to  art,  but  had 
always  held  that  the  one  purpose  of  art 
was  the  service  of  humanity.  Tolsto'i's 
confirmation  of  that  principle  was 
gratifying  to  Russian  critics,  for  here- 
tofore their  opponents  had  considered 
Tolstoi  as  belonging  to  them.  The 
real  field  of  battle  into  which  Tolstoi's 
What  is  Art?  was  cast  was  abroad, 
where  German  metaphysical  aesthetics 
held  sway.  Abroad  his  What  is  Art? 
was  iconoclastic,  in  Russia  its  signi- 
ficance was  historical,  and  this  differ- 
entiation is  true  of  almost  all  his  life 
and  work. 

As  to  Tolstoi  himself,  there  was  no 
dualism  in  his  nature  at  all.  He  was 
not  a  hedonist  one  year  and  an  ascetic 
the  next.  The  problems  of  the  boy  of 
twelve  were  the  same  as  those  of  the 
man  of  seventy.  The  years  only 
brought  their  answers  to  him;  and  the 
answers  came  from  within  himself  and 
not  from  life.  Alone  he  took  up  the 
god-like  task  of  creating  man  and  life 
anew.  That  he  should  seemingly  have 
left  no  impress  on  his  family  and  his 


496 


TOLSTOI  AND  YOUNG  RUSSIA 


fatherland  is  but  natural.  They  did  not 
belong  to  him,  he  belonged  to  himself, 
worked  upon  himself;  he  was  his  own 
material. 


As  one  who  had  been  in  relation  with 
his  country  for  eighty-two  years,  Tol- 
stoi was  a  failure.  A  scene  in  his  own 
garden  with  his  family,  as  the  writer 
remembers  it,  is  symbolic  of  the  larger 
picture  of  himself  and  the  Russia  of 
his  day. 

It  is  May.  A  long  table  stands  under 
a  tree  in  an  old  garden  surrounding 
a  large  country-house  painted  white. 
The  place  is  suggestive  of  a  nobleman's 
estate.  About  the  table  are  seated 
Tolstoi,  his  eldest  daughter,  Tatyana, 
his  son,  Sergei,  and  his  son's  wife  (a 
Swedish  noblewoman),  their  two  small 
sons  dressed  in  white  costumes  with 
large  sailor  collars,  and  Tolstoi's 
youngest  son,  a  rather  portly  young 
fellow  in  a  silk  pongee  costume.  Our 
little  party  of  three  completes  the 
group. 

A  samovar  is  singing  on  the  table. 
Tatyana  is  pouring  tea  at  the  head,  and 
there  is  a  bowl  of  Metchnicoff's  curds 
on  the  table.  Tolsto'i  sits  on  the  right 
near  the  foot,  eating  curds.  His  first 
appearance  is  of  one  very  old.  He  is 
slight  and  emaciated.  His  cheek-bones 
protrude,  his  chin  is  sunken,  his  eye- 
brows are  thick  and  shaggy,  and  he  lisps 
from  toothlessness.  One  feels  that  he 
is  but  bones  under  that  long  peasant 
blouse.  But  the  impression  of  age 
vanishes  after  a  few  minutes.  He  is 
sprightly  in  his  movements,  and  his 
eyes  are  piercing  under  his  shaggy 
brows.  He  talks  animatedly,  and  seems 
conscious  in  a  simple  dignified  way 
that  it  is  he  whom  we  have  come  to  see, 
and  that  it  is  he  who  is  the  centre  of 
interest.  His  children,  too,  know  that 
he  is  of  great  importance,  and  their 
conversation  centres  around  his  home, 


his  house,  his  family,  his  tenets,  his 
thoughts. 

Sergei  (rather  slight,  with  a  small 
beard,  exquisitely  groomed,  sitting  on 
my  left) .  — Yes,  Gorky  got  what  he  de- 
served in  America.  Why,  the  man  does 
not  even  believe  in  private  property! 

Tolstoi  (at  the  foot). — Of  course 
I  do  not  like  to  talk  about  politics;  I 
am  a  religious  thinker,  but  if  you  want 
to  know  what  I  think  of  the  revolu- 
tion and  the  Duma,  I'll  tell  you:  —  it 
is  a  five-act  drama,  and  you  '11  have  to 
stay  fifty  years  to  see  it  through,  and 
the  Duma  is  the  first  scene  of  the  first 
act  and  is  high  comedy. 

Tatyana.  —  You  know  my  husband 
is  a  deputy  to  the  Duma.  He  is  a  Con- 
stitutional Democrat.  You  see,  though, 
I  don't  always  agree  with  my  father. 
I  am  more  in  sympathy  with  him  than 
these  two  here.  Now,  my  brother 
[points  to  the  youngest]  says  he  is  a 
monarchist. 

The  Young  Man  (looking  up  from 
his  glass  of  tea).  — Of  course  I  am 
a  monarchist.  If  we  would  all  stand 
loyal  by  the  Czar  and  not  pull  this  way 
and  that,  and  be  good  to  the  peasants, 
there  would  be  no  trouble  at  all.  [Sips 
his  tea  again.] 

Tolstoi  (passing  me  a  bowl  of  curds) . 
— That 's  to  live  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years. 

Sergei.  —  I  think  I  '11  go  to  America 
and  give  a  course  of  lectures  on  my 
father.  I'll  wager  I'll  be  received  dif- 
ferently from  Gorky. 

Tolstoi  (to  my  brother-in-law).  —  I 
said  to  the  Duma  leader,  if  you  have 
any  better  solution  than  that  of  Henry 
George,  stand  for  it.  But  those  labor 
people  are  n't  really  representative. 
Look  at  their  hands. 

My  Brother-in-law.  —  But  there  are 
several  good  ones.  Anikine,  for  ex- 
ample. 

Tolstoi.  —  Yes;  so  I  am  told;  my 
son-in-law  said  so. 


TOLSTOI  AND  YOUNG  RUSSIA 


497 


Tatyana.  —  My  husband  was  a  wid- 
ower with  six  children  when  I  married 
him.  You  know  my  father  believes  in 
large  families,  we  were  thirteen  our- 
selves. 

Tolstoi.  —  The  land  question  in 
Russia  is  the  economic  side  of  the 
problem,  but  it  all  goes  back  to  the 
government  question,  to  violence  and 
the  tax-gatherer.  The  agrarian  pro- 
gramme of  the  labor  group  is  socialistic, 
and  I  have  no  objection  to  Socialism 
if  you  take  it  broadly  like  the  judge, 
who,  when  the  witness  said  Socialism 
was  the  working  together  for  the  wel- 
fare of  mankind,  said  he,  too,  was  a 
Socialist. 

Some  One.  —  What  about  anarch- 
ism? 

Tolstoi.  —  That  too  is  all  right,  but 
the  building-up  afterwards,  that  is  the 
trouble.  And  now  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  something  you  may  not  under- 
stand. I  don't  know  whether  I  can 
make  myself  clear.  The  organization 
of  the  work  of  the  world,  that  is  the 
problem  —  it  is  difficult  in  the  country, 
but  much  worse  in  towns. 

My  Sister. — And  the  solution  of  the 
problem  is  — 

Tolstoi  (shrugs  his  shoulders).  — At 
present  I  am  writing  tracts  on  religion. 
Come  to  my  room  and  I  will  give  you 
some.  Did  you  know  that  Garrison 
was  a  passive-resistance  man?  And 
also  Thoreau?  I  '11  wager  you  have  n't 
read  — 

7.  —  His  Civic  Disobedience ;  yes,  we 
have. 

Tolstoi.  —  The  first  Americans  I 
have  met  who  have. 

[We  all  rise  and  go  to  his  room.] 

Tolstoi  (walking  with  arms  folded 
over  his  chest).  — No;  I  can't  say  I  see 

VOL.  107  -  NO.  4 


my  way  to  the  solution  of  the  pro- 
blem, but  the  solutions  given  by  others 
are  absurd.  But  yet  if  you  stay  long 
enough  you  will  even  see  it  —  the 
revolution.  It  will  come.  But  I  do  not 
speak  of  it.  It  will  not  bring  with  it 
that  which  I  want. 

Tatyana  (to  me) .  —  Let  me  go  with 
you.  I  can  show  you  the  whole  house. 
There  are  wonderful  busts  and  por- 
traits of  my  father  in  the  drawing- 
room,  done  by  the  greatest  artists.  And 
when  we  come  back  I'll  show  you  the 
kitchen. 

[We  see  the  kitchen  with  the  tile- 
oven  large  enough  'to  cook  banquets 
on,'  and  the  chef  in  his  white  cap  and 
coat  as  befits  the  household  of  a  count. 
We  leave  the  family  smiling  and  bow- 
ing to  us  from  the  veranda  steps.] 

How  absolutely  detached  he  was 
from  all,  this  great  master  of  Nega- 
tion! 

He  had  risen  in  his  negations  from 
pinnacle  to  pinnacle,  negator  of  his 
class,  negator  of  his  art,  negator  of  his 
teaching,  lover  of  all  yet  never  one  with 
all,  until  this  arch-individualist  wan- 
dered off  on  that  memorable  pilgrim- 
age which  ended  at  Astopova,  to  merge 
himself  into  the  common  whole  and 
make  the  greatest  sacrifice  of  all,  the 
negation  of  his  very  self. 

Like  a  mediaeval  Christian,  like  a 
follower  of  Buddha,  Tolstoi  found 
himself  by  his  last  act  of  Negation. 
He  who  had  been  detached  from  man 
in  spirit  was  brought  back  to  men  by 
the  hand  of  Death.  Through  Death  he 
became  himself,  through  Death  was 
he  made  visible  to  those  nearest  him. 
Death  took  him  and  returned  him  to 
the  world. 


EDUCATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


BY   HENRY   DAVIS   BUSHNELL 


To  minds  open  and  progressively  in- 
clined, the  general  topic  of  improve- 
ment and  advance  in  educational 
methods  is  received  with  an  interest 
measured  only  by  the  vast  importance 
and  far-reaching  influence  of  the  sub- 
ject. It  is,  then,  before  broad-minded 
judges  and  to  a  prepared  audience  that 
Bulletin  Number  Five  of  the  Carnegie 
Foundation  makes  its  case  for  methods 
and  means  intended  to  increase  effi- 
ciency in  higher  education.  The  sug- 
gestions of  this  publication,  presented 
with  persuasiveness  and  worked  out 
with  infinite  and  painstaking  detail, 
may  briefly  be  summed  up  (without 
intending  to  belittle  the  vast  labor  of 
the  research)  as  an  attempted  appli- 
cation of  the  most  modern,  advanced, 
and  best  methods  of  industrial  activity 
to  the  problems  of  education,  to  the 
end  that  less  'moss'  shall  exist  upon 
the  portals  of  our  places  of  higher  edu- 
cation. In  other  words,  the  business 
test  of  accounting  is  to  be  applied  for 
the  purpose  of  ascertaining  with  some 
degree  of  certainty  whether  each  dol- 
lar expended  in  the  cause  of  learning 
is  reaping  its  dollar's  worth  of  return 
on  the  investment.  Taking  all  things 
into  consideration,  it  is  believed  that 
this  is  a  fair  statement  of  the  purpose 
and  scope  of  the  publication  to  which 
we  have  referred. 

Now,  it  is  obvious  to  all  alumni  who 
are  worthy  of  the  educational  advan- 
tages that  they  enjoyed,  that  the  cause 
of  learning,  training,  culture  —  what- 
ever name  it  may  be  desirable  to  use  — 
must  not  lag  behind  the  general  march 

498 


forward  of  civilization  in  the  generic 
sense.  On  the  contrary,  those  entrust- 
ed with  the  problems  of  teaching  must, 
to  be  entitled  to  consideration,  be  in 
the  forefront  of  the  advance,  leading 
the  advance,  and  more  than  that,  will- 
ing to  be  led  whenever  and  wherever 
light  from  any  source  shows  clearly 
the  way  of  advance  to  be. 

No  graduate  of  our  universities,  if 
he  has  obtained  at  the  knee  of  his 
Alma  Mater  the  best  she  has  to  give,  — 
an  open  mind,  a  judgment  in  suspen- 
sion, an  abhorrence  of  the  attitude  of 
fixed  and  definitive  opinion, — but  will 
readily  concede  that  there  are  serious 
shortcomings  and  wants  in  his  own 
university,  and,  therefore,  probably  in 
all  others;  although  when  he  is  honest 
with  himself,  as  he  reviews  his  own 
personal  experience  and  that  of  his  in- 
timates, he  will  be  compelled  to  admit 
that  many  of  the  points  he  regrets  are 
chargeable  to  his  own  indifference  or 
indolence  rather  than  to  inefficient 
management. 

But  the  faults  of  higher  education 
in  this  country,  which  may  be  granted 
by  all  who  know  the  facts,  are  present; 
and  the  problem  is,  how  to  correct 
them. 

The  author  of  Bulletin  Number 
Five,  approaching  the  subject  from  the 
point  of  view  of  business  management, 
must  necessarily  see  even  at  first  sight 
much  that  distresses  an  orderly,  sys- 
tematic mind.  He  cites  such  instances 
as  gardeners  refraining  from  work 
about  college  grounds  until  professors' 
hours  in  class  or  lecture-rooms  begin, 


EDUCATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


499 


and  on  afternoons  of  intercollegiate 
games ;  he  points  out  that  some  lecture- 
rooms  are  never  fully  in  use  or  used 
fully  only  part  of  the  time,  causing  a 
waste  measured  by  a  'student-per- 
foot-per-hour'  standard;  he  objects  to 
professors  writing  by  hand  what 
should  be  dictated;  he  observes  stud- 
ents loitering  on  the  way  to  lectures, 
and  so  on.  Granted  the  premises, 
there  is  inexorable  logic  and  there  are 
true  conclusions  in  the  argument,  set 
forth  so  exhaustively  and  ably.  But  in 
spite  of  broad-mindedness,  or  rather, 
let  us  be  not  afraid  to  say,  because  of 
it,  many  of  the  graduates  of  American 
colleges  and  universities,  men  promin- 
ent in  every  department  of  enterprise, 
searching  for  the  most  up-to-date 
methods  of  doing  business,  — '  scrap- 
ping' machinery,  men,  or  processes  the 
instant  that  their  efficiency  is  impair- 
ed below  a  standard,  —  will  pause  in 
their  analysis  of  the  proposed  inva- 
sion of  academic  fields,  and  firmly 
if  courteously  deny  the  truth  of  the 
premises. 

To  apply  the  rule  of  false  analogy  to 
the  argument  in  behalf  of  the  innova- 
tion, will  satisfy  and  convince  many 
minds  of  the  fallacy  hi  the  reasoning. 
We  of  this  complexion  of  thought  will 
gladly  see  gardeners  and  janitors, 
bookkeepers  and  others,  who  carry  on 
the  true  business  machinery  of  the 
university,  caused  to  labor  under  con- 
ditions of  the  least  waste  and  greatest 
efficiency;  let  supplies  be  standardized 
(if  that  be  possible  in  the  face  of  such 
diverse  activities  as  experimental  chem- 
istry and  the  study  of  Chaucer  in  the 
original),  but  never  with  equanimity 
can  we  grant  that  there  exists  a  par- 
allel, an  analogy  between  the  processes 
of  turning  out  steel  rails  and  those  of 
turning  out  men  of  the  widely  divers- 
ified capacities  of  our  A.B.  degree- 
holders  —  scholars,  thinkers,  leaders 
of  men,  mere  gentlemen  of  cultured 


tastes,  the  vast  body  of  alumni  who 
perhaps  are  distinguished  by  nothing 
more  than  that  they  have  learned  their 
own  limitations  and  have  found  out 
how  best  to  apply  their  individual 
capabilities. 

In  this  body  the  ablest  business 
man  himself  is  not  attracted  by  the 
idea  of  impressing  upon  the  under- 
graduate the  thought,  baldly  stated, 
that  every  hour  that  he  occupies  two 
square  feet  of  lecture-room  space  he 
must  be  expected  to  produce  so  many 
dollars'  worth  of  lecture-room-profess- 
or-student-hours' worth  of  education 
in  money  value.  'Produce?'  That  is 
not  what  he  is  there  for,  and  that  is 
what  makes  the  fallacy  in  the  argu- 
ment apparent;  industrial  methods  of 
efficiency  look  to  the  production  of  a 
commodity  at  the  least  expense  for  the 
greatest  profit;  all  is  subordinated  to 
that  theory. 

Not  so,  however,  do  the  results  of 
higher  education  evolve.  As  the  New 
York  Evening  Post  suggested,  the  pers- 
onality of  instructors  cannot  be  stand- 
ardized,' and  it  is  largely  that  which 
leads  fathers  to  send  their  sons  to  this 
or  that  college  —  not  in  the  hope  of 
acquiring  for  each  student-hour  of  in- 
struction a  tangible  equal  standardiz- 
ed block  of  learning.  Human  hands 
may  be  compelled  to  dig  so  many  feet 
of  ditch  per  hour,  but  human  minds, 
to  say  the  least,  may  be  affected  to- 
day by  some  loss  of  sleep  last  night, 
spent  in  the  pursuit  of  some  innocent 
but  valuable  aspect  of  life,  better  learn- 
ed in  the  epitome  of  college  days 
than  in  the  shelved  volume  of  later 
years. 

More  pernicious  even  is  this  invasion 
of  material,  monetary  standards  likely 
to  be  in  the  work  of  professor  or  in- 
structor. Are  the  free  play  of  his  in- 
dividuality, his  painstaking  research 
work, — often  necessarily  barren  of  re- 
sults but  no  less  valuable  to  learning, 


500 


EDUCATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


—  his  maturing  judgment  and  opinion, 
to  be  cramped  and  shriveled  by  the 
thought  of  profit-and-loss  on  the  page 
of  the  ledger  which  bears  his  record? 

It  ever  seems  an  ungracious  task  to 
criticize  and  tear  down  with  no  offer 
of  a  substitute  for  that  which  is  at- 
tacked, yet  that  is  the  situation  in 
which  the  present  writer  finds  himself, 
and  he  must  perforce  cry  peccavi.  The 
subject  of  economical  administration 
is,  and  has  been  too  long,  the  burden 
of  able  and  experienced  men,  for  a 
layman  to  attempt  suggestions  of 
any  value.  But  if  the  above  outlined 
argument  is  valid,  then  the  proposed 
adaptation  of  industrial  methods,  the 
plan  of  systematization,  is  wholly  in- 
applicable, and  we  are  left  where  we 
were  at  the  beginning,  or  nearly  so,  al- 
though there  are  many  excellent  ideas 
brought  to  light  in  the  pages  of  the  Re- 
port. 

In  the  last  analysis,  the  efficiency 
of  an  institution  of  education  depends 
upon  the  ability  of  its  teachers,  and 
that  this  is  not  and  never  can  be  meas- 
ured by  industrial  or  monetary  values, 
witness  the  salaries  paid,  —  as  a  gen- 
eral rule  smaller  in  the  older  and  bet- 
ter-known universities,  which  without 
prejudice  may  be  said  to  be  at  least 
equally  as  efficient  as  the  younger  ones 
which  pay  higher  salaries.  Heaven  and 
the  professors  know  that  not  in  this 
regard  may  charges  of  extravagance  or 
waste  be  preferred! 

As  regards  excess  or  non-use  of  floor- 
space  in  lecture-halls  or  laboratories, 
it  is  maintained  that  upon  a  true 
theory  of  education  more  loss  or 
waste  will  occur  where  there  is  over- 
crowding and  bad  ventilation,  distrac- 
tion of  attention  and  noise  by  rea- 
son thereof,  than  where  each  student 
has  more  than  enough  room  for  him- 
self, whether  in  laboratory,  library,  or 
lecture-hall.  In  this  view  of  the  matter 
it  would  appear  to  be  a  short-sighted 


policy  of  financing  a  college  plant  to 
attempt  to  make  supply  exactly  equal 
to  demand,  for  the  demand  is  variable, 
both  as  to  courses,  and  by  years;  and  it 
would  be  impossible  precisely  to  expand 
and  contract  floor-space  as  needs  might 
grow  or  diminish.  Let  there  be  an  ex- 
cess or  even  a  non-use ;  so  much  the  bet- 
ter for  comfort  and  health,  which  are  in 
some  respects  alone  things  of  value. 

Furthermore,  observing  that  the 
cost  per  student-hour  is  directly  af- 
fected by  the  presence  or  absence  of 
the  individual  at  a  given  time  and 
place,  and  waiving  argument  upon 
the  point  that  "cuts"  are  sometimes 
justified  by  circumstances,  or  that  the 
liberty  of  judgment  in  that  regard  may 
on  the  other  hand  be  abused,  it  is  cer- 
tainly true  that  to  urge,or  insist  that  a 
student  shall  be  in  his  place  at  lectures 
or  recitations  for  the  reason  that  if  he  is 
not  a  money  loss,  a  lowering  of  return 
on  investment,  will  result  from  his  ab- 
sence, is  to  set  before  him  a  motive  that 
he  can  never  respect,  one  subversive 
of  all  ideals  of  true  scholarship,  and 
humiliating  to  the  instructor.  What 
progressive  educators  are  trying  to 
attain  is  the  growth  from  within  of  a 
greater  respect  for  high  scholarship, 
and  it  is  maintained  that  the  applica- 
tion of  «mill  methods  upon  the  under- 
graduate body  will  react  in  a  manner 
that  will  push  back  the  attempted  at- 
tainment as  little  else  could. 

Looking  at  the  subject  broadly,  it 
would  appear  that  only  general  prin- 
ciples of  economy  could  be  invoked 
to  correct  such  financial  evils  as  may 
exist  in  our  colleges  and  universities. 
There  is  no  real  unit  upon  which  to 
standardize,  nor  is  it  desirable  that  all 
colleges  should  even  be  similar  in  their 
organization  and  service.  The  man 
who  goes  to  a  University  of  Wiscon- 
sin does  so  with  a  different  object  from 
that  of  the  man  who  decides  for  a  Dart- 
mouth. Is  there  no  room  for  both? 


EDUCATIONAL   EFFICIENCY 


501 


These  questions  present  themselves 
to  the  majority  of  lovers  of  the  tradi- 
tional benefits  of  higher  education,  and 
can  be  answered  for  them  in  only  one 
way.  At  the  risk  of  being  set  down  as 
reactionaries,  as  non-progressives,  this 
large  conservative  element  finds  this 
reply:  Better  a  thousand  times  that 
waste  should  exist,  than  that  it  should 
be  checked  by  methods  derogatory  to 
the  creation  of  ideals,  the  setting  high 
of  spiritual  standards  of  thought  and 
conduct,  appreciation  and  understand- 
ing, among  the  youth  of  the  land.  These 
attributes  are  among  the  best  products 
of  our  learning-factories,  and  these 
come  slowly,  uncertainly :  now  educed 
by  contact  with  the  personality  of  this 
professor,  now  chastened  by  associa- 
tion with  that  fellow  classman,  again 
originated  by  the  new-lighted  flame  of 
inspiration  from  research  in  chemistry 
or  history. 

Granted  that  we  should  insist  upon 
more  diligence  in  study  by  the  student 
body,  that  high  scholarship  should  re- 
ceive somewhat  the  same  amount  of 
acclaim  that  athletics  does,  we  cannot 
grant  that  these  results  will  flow  from 


setting  the  dollar-mark  over  against 
things  of  the  intellect,  or  of  the  spirit. 
The  rough  hand  of  commercialism  too 
soon  strips  off  the  illusions  of  life  when 
our  lad  leaves  academic  shades,  and 
forthwith  he  becomes  a  disregarded, 
dispensable  factor  in  the  world's  work. 
Therefore  let  every  watch  be  set  to 
keep  the  influence  of  commercialism 
out  of  the  formative  years,  as  well  as 
out  of  the  sight  of  those  whose  un- 
selfish service  it  is  to  educate  —  to 
draw  forth  from  the  hearts  and  minds 
of  their  pupils  a  spark  of  the  divine 
fire. 

May  the  day  never  come  when  Amer- 
ican students  punch  a  time-clock,  or 
instructors  produce  by  the  hour  for 
their  daily  wage.  The  money  donated 
by  benefactors,  so  spent,  would  be 
money  better  not  spent,  for  it  would 
defeat  its  own  purpose  of  spreading 
liberalizing  education.  Let  us  have 
more,  rather  than  less,  of  the  English 
theory  of  education  for  its  own  sake 
and  the  general  enrichment  of  life.  Its 
value  should  be  measured,  not  by  the 
money  spent  in  obtaining  it,  but  by 
the  life  and  works  of  its  possessor. 


THE  PATRICIANS 


BY  JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


XL 

LEFT  by  her  father  and  mother  to 
the  further  entertainment  of  Har- 
binger, Barbara  had  said,  'Let's  have 
coffee  in  here/  and  passed  into  the 
withdrawing-room. 

Except  for  that  one  evening,  when 
together  by  the  sea  wall  they  stood 
contemplating  the  populace,  she  had 
not  been  alone  with  him  since  he  kissed 
her  under  the  shelter  of  the  ragged 
box-hedge.  And  now,  after  the  first 
moment,  she  looked  at  him  calmly, 
though  in  her  breast  there  was  a  flut- 
tering, as  if  an  imprisoned  bird  were 
struggling  ever  so  feebly  against  that 
soft  and  solid  cage.  Her  last  jangled 
talk  with  Courtier  had  left  an  ache  in 
her  heart.  Besides,  did  she  not  know 
all  that  Harbinger  could  give  her? 

Like  a  nymph  pursued  by  a  faun  who 
held  dominion  over  the  groves,  she, 
fugitive,  kept  looking  back.  There  was 
nothing  in  that  fair  wood  of  his  with 
which  she  was  not  familiar,  no  thicket 
she  had  not  traveled,  no  stream  she 
had  not  crossed,  no  kiss  she  could  not 
return.  His  was  a  discovered  land,  in 
which,  as  of  right,  she  would  reign.  She 
had  nothing  to  hope  from  him  but 
power,  and  solid  pleasure.  Her  eyes 
said,  How  am  I  to  know  whether  I 
shall  not  want  more  than  you;  feel 
suffocated  in  your  arms;  be  surfeited 
by  all  that  »you  will  bring  me?  Have  I 
not  already  got  all  that? 

She  knew,  from  his  downcast,  gloomy 
face,  how  cruel  she  seemed  to  him,  and 
was  sorry.  She  wanted  to  be  good  to 
602 


him,  and  she  said  almost  shyly,  'Are 
you  angry  with  me,  Claud?' 

Harbinger  looked  up. 

'What  makes  you  so  cruel,  Babs?' 

'I  am  not  cruel.' 

'You  are.  Where  is  your  heart?' 

'Here!'  said  Barbara,  touching  her 
breast.  « 

'Ah!'  muttered  Harbinger;  'but  I'm 
not  joking.' 

She  said  gently,  'Is  it  as  bad  as 
that,  my  dear?' 

But  the  softness  of  her  voice  seemed 
to  fan  the  smouldering  fires  in  Har- 
binger. 

'There's  something  behind  all  this,' 
he  stammered;  'you've  no  right  to 
make  a  fool  of  me!' 

'And  what  is  the  something,  please?' 

'That's  for  you  to  say.  I'm  not 
blind.  What  about  this  fellow  Court- 
ier?' 

At  that  moment  there  was  revealed 
to  Barbara  a  new  acquaintance  —  the 
male  proper.  No,  to  live  with  him 
would  not  be  quite  lacking  in  adven- 
ture! 

Harbinger's  face  had  darkened;  his 
eyes  were  dilated,  his  whole  figure 
seemed  to  have  grown.  On  his  fists, 
clenched  in  front  of  him,  Barbara  sud- 
denly noticed  the  hair  which  covered 
them.  All  his  suavity  had  left  him. 
He  came  very  close. 

How  long  that  look  between  them 
lasted,  and  of  all  there  was  in  it,  she 
had  no  clear  knowledge;  thought  after 
thought,  wave  after  wave  of  feeling, 
rushed  through  her.  Revolt  and  at- 
traction, contempt  and  admiration, 


THE  PATRICIANS 


503 


queer  sensations  of  disgust  and  pleas- 
ure, all  mingled  —  as  on  a  May  day 
one  may  see  the  hail  fall,  and  the  sun 
suddenly  burn  through,  and  steam  from 
the  grass. 

Then  he  said  hoarsely:  'Oh!  Babs, 
forgive;  you  madden  me  so!' 

Smoothing  her  lips,  as  if  to  regain 
control  of  them,  she  answered,  'Yes, 
I  think  I  have  had  enough,'  and  went 
out  into  her  father's  study. 

The  sight  of  Lord  and  Lady  Valleys 
so  intently  staring  at  Milton  restored 
her  self-possession. 

It  struck  her  as  slightly  comical,  not 
knowing  that  the  little  scene  was  the 
outcome  of  that  word.  In  truth,  the 
contrast  between  Milton  and  his  par- 
ents at  this  moment  was  almost  ludi- 
crous. 

Lady  Valleys  was  the  first  to  speak. 

'  Better  comic  than  romantic.  I  sup- 
pose Barbara  may  know,  considering 
her  contribution  to  this  matter.  Your 
brother  is  resigning  his  seat,  my  dear; 
his  conscience  will  not  permit  him  to 
retain  it,  under  certain  circumstances 
that  have  arisen.' 

'Oh!'  cried  Barbara;  'but  surely  — ' 

'The  matter  has  been  argued,  Babs,' 
Lord  Valleys  said  shortly;  'unless  you 
have  some  better  reason  to  advance 
than  those  of  ordinary  common  sense, 
public  spirit,  and  consideration  for 
one's  family,  it  will  hardly  be  worth 
your  while  to  reopen  the  discussion.' 

Barbara  looked  up  at  Milton,  whose 
face,  all  but  the  eyes,  was  like  a  mask. 

'Oh,  Eusty!'  she  said,  'you're  not 
going  to  spoil  your  life  like  this!  Just 
think  how  I  shall  feel!' 

Milton  answered  stonily,  'You  did 
what  you  thought  right;  as  I  am 
doing.' 

'Does  she  want  you  to?' 

'No.' 

'There  is,  I  should  imagine,'  put  in 
Lord  Valleys,  'not  a  solitary  creature 
in  the  whole  world  but  your  brother 


who  would  wish  for  this  consummation. 
But  with  him  such  a  consideration 
does  not  weigh!' 

'Oh!'  sighed  Barbara;  'think  of 
Granny!' 

'I  prefer  not  to  think  of  her,'  mur- 
mured Lady  Valleys. 

'She's  so  wrapped  up  in  you,  Eusty. 
She  always  has  believed  in  you  in- 
tensely.' 

Milton  sighed.  And,  encouraged  by 
that  sound,  Barbara  went  closer. 

It  was  plain  enough  that,  behind  his 
impassivity,  a  desperate  struggle  was 
going  on  in  Milton.  He  spoke  at  last : 

'  If  I  have  not  already  yielded  to  one 
who  is  more  to  me  than  anything,  when 
she  begged  and  entreated,  it  is  because 
I  feel  this  in  a  way  you  don't  realize. 
I  apologize  for  using  the  word  comic 
just  now;  I  should  have  said  tragic. 
I  '11  enlighten  Uncle  Dennis,  if  that  will 
comfort  you;  but  this  is  not  exactly  a 
matter  for  any  one,  except  myself.' 

And,  without  another  look  or  word, 
he  went  out. 

As  the  door  closed,  Barbara  ran  to- 
wards it;  and,  with  a  motion  strangely 
like  the  wringing  of  hands,  said,  'Oh, 
dear!  Oh,  dear!'  Then,  turning  away 
to  a  bookcase,  she  began  to  cry. 

This  ebullition  of  feeling,  surpassing 
even  their  own,  came  as  a  real  shock 
to  Lord  and  Lady  Valleys,  ignorant 
of  how  strung-up  she  had  been  before 
she  entered  the  room.  They  had  not 
seen  Barbara  cry  since  she  was  a  tiny 
girl.  And  in  face  of  her  emotion  any 
animus  they  might  have  shown  her  for 
having  thrown  Milton  into  Mrs.  Noel's 
arms,  now  melted  away.  Lord  Valleys, 
especially  moved,  went  up  to  his 
daughter,  and  stood  with  her  in  that 
dark  corner,  saying  nothing,  but  gently 
stroking  her  hand.  Lady  Valleys,  who 
herself  felt  very  much  inclined  to  cry, 
went  out  of  sight  into  the  embrasure 
of  the  window. 

Barbara's  sobbing  was  soon  subdued. 


504 


THE  PATRICIANS 


'It's  his  face,'  she  said.  'And  why? 
Why?  It's  so  unnecessary!' 

Lord  Valleys,  continually  twisting 
his  moustache,  muttered,  'Exactly! 
He  makes  things  for  himself! ' 

'Yes,'  murmured  Lady  Valleys  from 
the  window,  '  he  was  always  like  that, 
uncomfortable.  I  remember  him  as  a 
baby.  Bertie  never  was.' 

And  then  the  silence  was  only  broken 
by  the  little  angry  sounds  of  Barbara 
blowing  her  nose. 

'I  shall  go  and  see  mother,'  said 
Lady  Valleys  suddenly.  'The  boy's 
whole  life  may  be  ruined  if  we  can't 
stop  this.  Are  you  coming,  child?' 

But  Barbara  refused. 

She  went  to  her  room,  instead.  This 
crisis  in  Milton's  life  had  strangely 
shaken  her.  It  was  as  if  Fate  had  sud- 
denly revealed  all  that  any  step  out 
of  the  beaten  path  might  lead  to,  had 
brought  her  sharply  up  against  her- 
self. To  wing  out  into  the  blue!  see 
what  it  meant!  If  Milton  kept  to  his 
resolve,  and  gave  up  public  life,  he  was 
lost!  And  she  herself!  The  fascina- 
tion of  Courtier's  chivalrous  manner, 
of  a  sort  of  innate  gallantry,  suggesting 
the  quest  of  everlasting  danger  —  was 
it  not  rather  absurd?  And  —  was  she 
fascinated?  Was  it  not  simply  that 
she  liked  the  feeling  of  fascinating 
him?  Through  the  maze  of  these 
thoughts  darted  the  memory  of  Har- 
binger's face  close  to  her  own,  his 
clenched  hands,  the  swift  revelation 
of  his  dangerous  masculinity.  It  was 
all  a  nightmare  of  scaring,  queer  sen- 
sations, of  things  that  could  never  be 
settled.  She  was  stirred  for  once  out 
of  all  her  normal  philosophy.  Her 
thoughts  flew  back  to  Milton.  That 
which  she  had  seen  in  their  faces  then 
had  come  to  pass!  And  picturing 
Agatha's  horror,  when  she  came  to 
hear  of  it,  Barbara  could  not  help  a 
smile.  Poor  Eustace!  If  only  he  would 
not  take  things  so  hard!  If  he  really 


carried  out  his  resolve  —  and  he  never 
changed  his  mind  —  it  would  be  tragic ! 
It  would  mean  the  end  of  everything 
for  him! 

Perhaps  he  would  get  tired  of  Mrs. 
Noel,  now!  But  she  was  not  the  sort 
of  woman  a  man  would  get  tired  of. 
She  would  never  let  him!  She  would 
never  try  to  keep  him!  Why  could  n't 
they  go  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened? 
Could  nobody  persuade  him?  She 
thought  again  of  Courtier.  If  he,  who 
knew  them  both,  would  talk  to  Milton, 
about  the  right  to  be  happy,  the  right 
to  revolt?  Eustace  ought  to  revolt. 
It  was  his  duty.  She  sat  down  and 
wrote;  then,  putting  on  her  hat,  took 
the  note  and  slipped  downstairs. 

XLI 

The  flowers  of  summer  in  the  great 
glass  house  at  Ravensham  were  keep- 
ing the  last  afternoon-watch  when  Clif- 
ton summoned  Lady  Casterley  with 
the  words,  'Lady  Valleys  is  in  the 
white  room.' 

Since  the  news  of  Milton's  illness, 
and  of  Mrs.  Noel's  nursing,  the  little 
old  lady  had  possessed  her  soul  in  pa- 
tience; often,  it  is  true,  afflicted  with 
poignant  misgivings  as  to  this  new 
influence  in  the  life  of  her  favorite, 
affected  too  by  a  sort  of  jealousy 
which  she  did  not  admit,  even  in  her 
prayers.  Having  small  liking  now  for 
leaving  home,  even  for  Catton,  her 
country  place,  she  was  still  at  Ravens- 
ham,  where  Lord  Dennis  had  come 
up  to  stay  with  her  as  soon  as  Milton 
had  left  Sea  House.  But  indeed  Lady 
Casterley  was  never  very  dependent 
on  company.  She  retained  unimpaired 
her  intense  interest  in  politics,  and  still 
corresponded  freely  with  prominent 
men.  Of  late,  too,  a  slight  revival  of  the 
June  war-scare  had  made  its  mark  on 
her  in  a  certain  rejuvenescence,  which 
always  accompanied  her  contemplation 


THE   PATRICIANS 


505 


of  national  crises,  even  when  such  were 
a  little  in  the  air.  At  blast  of  trum- 
pet her  spirit  still  leaped  forward,  un- 
sheathed its  sword,  and  stood  at  the 
salute.  At  such  times,  she  rose  earlier, 
went  to  bed  later,  was  far  less  suscept- 
ible to  draughts,  and  refused  with  as- 
perity any  food  between  meals.  She 
wrote  too  with  her  own  hand  letters 
which  she  would  otherwise  have  dic- 
tated to  her  secretary.  Unfortunately 
the  scare  had  died  down  again  almost 
at  once;  and  the  passing  of  danger  al- 
ways left  her  rather  irritable.  Lady 
Valleys's  visit  came  as  a  timely  con- 
solation. 

She  kissed  her  daughter  critically, 
for  there  was  that  about  her  manner 
which  she  did  not  like. 

'Yes,  of  course  I  am  well!'  she  said. 
'Why  did  n't  you  bring  Barbara?' 

'She  was  tired!' 

'H'm!  Afraid  of  meeting  me,  since 
she  committed  that  piece  of  folly  over 
Eustace.  You  must  be  careful  of  that 
child,  Gertrude,  or  she  will  be  doing 
something  silly  herself.  I  don't  like 
the  way  she  keeps  Claud  Harbinger 
hanging  in  the  wind.' 

Her  daughter  cut  her  short:  'There 
is  bad  news  about  Eustace.' 

Lady  Casterley  lost  the  little  color 
in  her  cheeks;  lost  too  all  her  super- 
fluity of  irritable  energy. 

'Tell  me,  at  once!' 

Having  heard,  she  said  nothing; 
but  Lady  Valleys  noticed  with  alarm 
that  over  her  eyes  had  come  suddenly 
the  peculiar  filminess  of  age. 

'Well,  what  do  you  advise?'  she 
asked. 

Tired  herself,  and  troubled,  she  was 
conscious  of  a  quite  unwonted  feeling 
of  discouragement  before  this  silent 
little  figure,  in  the  silent  white  room. 
She  had  never  before  seen  her  mother 
look  as  if  she  heard  Defeat  passing  on 
its  dark  wings.  And  moved  by  sudden 
tenderness  for  the  little  frail  body  that 


had  borne  her  so  long  ago,  she  mur- 
mured almost  with  surprise,  '  Mother, 
dear!' 

'Yes,'  said  Lady  Casterley,  as  if 
speaking  to  herself,  'the  boy  saves 
things  up;  he  stores  his  feelings  —  they 
burst  and  sweep  him  away.  First  his 
passion ;  now  his  conscience.  There  are 
two  men  in  him;  but  this  will  be  the 
death  of  one  of  them.'  And  suddenly 
turning  on  her  daughter,  she  said,  'Did 
you  ever  hear  about  him  at  Oxford, 
Gertrude?  He  broke  out  once,  and 
ate  husks  with  the  Gadarenes.  You 
never  knew.  Of  course  —  you  never 
have  known  anything  of  him.' 

Resentment  rose  in  Lady  Valleys, 
that  any  one  should  know  her  son  bet- 
ter than  herself;  but  she  lost  it  again 
looking  at  the  little  figure,  and  said, 
sighing,  'Well?' 

Lady  Casterley  murmured,  'Go  away, 
child;  I  must  think.  You  say  he's  to 
consult  Dennis?  Do  you  know  her  ad- 
dress? Ask  Barbara  when  you  get  back 
and  telephone  it  to  me.'  And  at  her 
daughter's  kiss,  she  added  grimly,  'I 
shall  live  to  see  him  in  the  saddle  yet, 
though  I  am  seventy-eight.' 

As  the  sound  of  the  car  died  away, 
she  rang  the  bell. 

'When  Lady  Valleys  rings  up,  Clif- 
ton, don't  take  the  message,  call  me.' 
And  seeing  that  Clifton  did  not  move, 
she  added  sharply,  'Well?' 

'There  is  no  bad  news  of  his  young 
lordship's  health,  I  hope,  my  lady.' 

'No.' 

'Forgive  me,  my  lady,  but  I  have 
had  it  on  my  mind  for  some  time  to 
ask  you  something.' 

And  the  old  man  raised  his  hand  with 
a  peculiar  dignity,  seeming  to  say, 
You  will  excuse  me  that  for  the  mo- 
ment I  am  a  human  being  speaking  to 
a  human  being. 

'The  matter  of  his  attachment,'  he 
went  on,  'is  known  to  me;  it  has  given 
me  acute  anxiety,  knowing  his  lord- 


506 


THE  PATRICIANS 


ship  as  I  do,  and  having  heard  him 
say  something  singular  when  he  was 
here  in  July.  I  should  be  grateful  if 
you  would  assure  me  that  there  is  to 
be  no  hitch  in  his  career,  my  lady.' 

The  expression  on  Lady  Casterley's 
face  was  strangely  compounded  of 
surprise,  kindliness,  defense,  and  im- 
patience, as  with  a  child. 

'Not  if  I  can  prevent  it,  Clifton,' 
she  said  sharply;  'you  need  not  con- 
cern yourself.' 

Clifton  bowed. 

'Excuse  me  mentioning  it,  my  lady,' 
a  quiver  ran  over  his  face  between  its 
long  white  whiskers,  'but  his  young 
lordship's  career  is  more  to  me  than 
my  own.' 

When  he  had  left  her,  Lady  Caster- 
ley  sat  down  in  a  little  low  chair  — 
long  she  sat  there  by  the  empty  hearth, 
till  the  daylight  was  all  gone. 

XLII 

Not  far  from  the  dark-haloed  in- 
determinate limbo  where  dwelt  that 
bugbear  of  Charles  Courtier,  the  great 
Half-Truth  Authority,  he  himself  had 
a  couple  of  rooms  at  fifteen  shillings  a 
week.  Their  chief  attraction  was  that 
the  great  Half-Truth  Liberty  had  re- 
commended them.  They  tied  him  to 
nothing,  and  were  ever  at  his  disposal 
when  he  was  in  London;  for  his  land- 
lady, though  not  bound  by  agreement 
so  to  do,  let  them  in  such  a  way  that 
she  could  turn  any  one  else  out  at  a 
week's  notice.  She  was  a  gentle  soul, 
married  to  a  socialistic  plumber  twenty 
years  her  senior.  The  worthy  man  had 
given  her  two  little  boys,  and  the  three 
of  them  kept  her  in  such  permanent 
order  that  to  be  in  the  presence  of 
Courtier  was  the  greatest  pleasure  she 
knew.  When  he  disappeared  on  one  of 
his  missions,  explorations,  or  adven- 
tures, she  inclosed  the  whole  of  his  be- 
longings in  two  tin  trunks,  and  placed 


them  in  a  cupboard  which  smelled  a 
little  of  mice.  When  he  reappeared  the 
trunks  were  reopened,  and  a  power- 
ful scent  of  dried  rose-leaves  would 
escape.  For,  recognizing  the  mortality 
of  things  human,  she  procured  every 
summer  from  her  sister,  the  wife  of  a 
market  gardener,  a  consignment  of 
this  commodity,  which  she  passionate- 
ly sewed  up  in  bags,  and  continued  to 
deposit  year  by  year  in  Courtier's 
trunks.  This,  and  the  way  she  made 
his  toast  —  very  crisp  —  and  aired  his 
linen  —  very  dry,  were  practically  the 
only  things  she  could  do  for  a  man 
naturally  inclined  to  independence, 
and  accustomed  from  his  manner  of 
life  to  fend  for  himself. 

At  first  signs  of  his  departure  she 
would  go  into  some  closet  or  other, 
away  from  the  plumber  and  the  two 
marks  of  his  affection,  and  cry  quietly; 
but  never  in  Courtier's  presence  did 
she  dream  of  manifesting  grief  —  as 
soon  weep  in  the  presence  of  death  or 
birth,  or  any  other  fundamental  trag- 
edy or  joy.  In  face  of  the  realities  of 
life  she  had  known  from  her  youth  up 
the  value  of  the  simple  verb  '  sto  — 
stare  —  to  stand  fast.' 

And  to  her  Courtier  was  a  reality, 
the  chief  reality  of  life,  the  focus  of 
her  aspiration,  the1  morning  and  the 
evening  star. 

The  request,  then,  —  five  days  after 
his  farewell  visit  to  Mrs.  Noel,  —  for 
the  elephant-hide  trunk  which  accom- 
panied his  rovings,  produced  her  habit- 
ual period  of  seclusion,  followed  by  her 
habitual  appearance  in  his  sitting-room 
bearing  a  note,  and  some  bags  of  dried 
rose-leaves  oh  a  tray.  She  found  him 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  packing. 

'Well,  Mrs.  Benton:  off  again!' 

Mrs.  Benton,  plaiting  her  hands,  for 
she  had  not  yet  lost  something  of  the 
look  and  manner  of  a  little  girl,  an- 
swered in  her  flat,  but  serene  voice, 
'Yes,  sir;  and  I  hope  you're  not  going 


THE  PATRICIANS 


507 


anywhere  very  dangerous  this  time.  I 
always  think  you  go  to  such  dangerous 
places.' 

'To  Persia,  Mrs.  Benton,  where  the 
carpets  come  from.' 

'Oh!  yes,  sir.  Your  washing's  just 
come  home.' 

Her  apparently  cast-down  eyes  stored 
up  a  wealth  of  little  details:  the  way 
his  hair  grew,  the  set  of  his  back,  the 
color  of  his  braces.  But  suddenly  she 
said  in  a  surprising  voice, '  You  have  n't 
a  photograph  you  could  spare,  sir,  to 
leave  behind?  Mr.  Benton  was  only 
saying  to  me  yesterday,  we've  no- 
thing to  remember  you  by,  in  case  you 
should  n't  come  back.' 

'Yes,  here's  an  old  one.' 

Mrs.  Benton  took  the  photograph. 

'Oh!'  she  said;  'you  can  see  who  it 
is.'  And  holding  it  perhaps  too  tightly, 
for  her  fingers  trembled,  she  added,  'A 
note,  please,  sir;  the  messenger  boy  is 
waiting  for  an  answer.' 

And  while  he  read  the  note,  she 
noticed  with  concern  how  packing  had 
brought  the  bipod  into  his  head. 

When,  in  response  to  that  note, 
Courtier  entered  the  well-known  con- 
fectioner's called  Gustard's,  it  was  still 
not  quite  tea-time,  and  there  seemed 
to  him  at  first  no  one  in  the  room 
save  three  middle-aged  women  packing 
sweets;  then  in  the  corner  he  saw  Bar- 
bara. The  blood  was  no  longer  in  his 
head;  he  was  pale,  walking  down  that 
mahogany-colored  room,  impregnated 
with  the  scent  of  wedding-cake.  Bar- 
bara, too,  was  pale. 

Being  so  close  to  her  that  he  could 
count  every  eyelash,  and  inhale  the 
scent  of  her  hair  and  clothes,  to  listen 
to  her  story  of  Milton,  so  hesitat- 
ingly, so  wistfully  told,  seemed  very 
like  being  kept  waiting,  with  the  rope 
already  round  his  neck,  to  hear  about 
another  person's  toothache.  He  felt 
this  to  have  been  unnecessary  on  the 
part  of  Fate!  And  there  came  to  him 


perversely  the  memory  of  that  ride 
over  the  sun-warmed  heather,  when 
he  had  paraphrased  the  old  Sicilian 
song,  'Here  will  I  sit  and  sing.'  He  was 
a  long  way  from  singing  now;  nor  was 
there  love  in  his  arms.  There  was  in- 
stead a  cup  of  tea;  and  in  his  nostrils 
the  scent  of  cake,  with  now  and  then 
a  whiff  of  orange-flower  water. 

'  I  see,'  he  said,  when  she  had  finish- 
ed telling  him:  '"Liberty's  a  glorious 
feast?"  You  want  me  to  go  to  your 
brother,  and  quote  Burns.  You  know, 
of  course,  that  he  regards  me  as  dan- 
gerous.' 

'Yes;  but  he  respects,  and  likes  you.' 

'And  I  respect  and  like  him,'  an- 
swered Courtier. 

One  of  the  middle-aged  females 
passed,  carrying  a  large  white  card- 
board box;  and  the  creaking  of  her 
stays  broke  the  hush. 

'You  have  been  very  sweet  to  me,' 
said  Barbara  suddenly. 

Courtier's  heart  stirred,  as  if  it  were 
turning  over  within  him;  and  gazing 
into  his  teacup,  he  answered,  'All  men 
are  decent  to  the  evening  star.  I  will 
go  at  once  and  find  your  brother. 
When  shall  I  bring  you  news?' 

'To-morrow  at  five.' 

And  repeating,  'To-morrow  at  five,' 
he  rose. 

Looking  back  from  the  door,  he  saw 
her  face  puzzled,  rather  reproach- 
ful, and  went  out  gloomily.  The  scent 
of  cake  and  orange-flower  water,  the 
creaking  of  the  female's  stays,  the  color 
of  mahogany,  still  clung  to  his  eyes, 
and  ears,  and  nose.  It  was  all  dull, 
baffled  rage  within  him.  Why  had  he 
not  made  the  most  of  this  unexpect- 
ed chance?  why  had  he  not  made  de- 
sperate love  to  her?  A  conscientious 
fool !  And  yet  —  the  whole  thing  was 
absurd!  She  was  so  young!  God  knew 
he  would  be  glad  to  be  out  of  it.  If  he 
stayed  he  was  afraid  that  he  would 
play  the  cad.  But  the  memory  of  her 


508 


THE  PATRICIANS 


words,  'You  have  been  very  sweet  to 
me!'  would  not  leave  him;  nor  the 
memory  of  her  face,  so  puzzled,  and  re- 
proachful. Yes,  if  he  stayed  he  would 
play  the  cad !  He  would  be  asking  her 
to  marry  a  man  double  her  age,  of  no 
position  but  that  which  he  had  carved 
for  himself,  and  without  a  rap.  And  he 
would  be  asking  her  in  such  a  way  that 
she  might  have  some  little  difficulty 
in  refusing.  He  would  be  letting  him- 
self go.  And  she  was  only  twenty  —  for 
all  her  woman-of-the-world  air,  a  child ! 
No!  He  would  be  useful  to  her,  if  pos- 
sible, this  once,  and  then  clear  out! 

XLIII 

When  Milton  left  Valleys  House  he 
walked  in  the  direction  of  Westmin- 
ster. During  the  five  days  that  he  had 
been  back  in  London  he  had  not  yet 
entered  the  House  of  Commons.  After 
the  seclusion  of  his  illness,  he  still  felt 
a  yearning,  almost  painful,  toward 
the  movement  and  stir  of  the  town. 
Everything  he  heard  and  saw  made  an 
intensely  vivid  impression.  The  lions 
in  Trafalgar  Square,  the  great  build- 
ings of  Whitehall,  filled  him  with  a 
sort  of  exultation.  He  was  like  a  man 
who,  after  a  long  sea  voyage,  first 
catches  sight  of  land,  and  stands  strain- 
ing his  eyes,  hardly  breathing,  taking 
in,  one  by  one,  the  lost  features  of  that 
face.  He  walked  on  to  Westminster 
Bridge,  and  going  to  an  embrasure  in 
the  very  centre,  looked  back. 

It  was  said  that  the  love  of  those 
towers  passed  into  the  blood.  It  was 
said  that  he  who  had  sat  beneath  them 
could  never  again  be  quite  the  same. 
Milton  knew  that  it  was  true — desper- 
ately true,  of  himself.  In  person  he  had 
sat  there  but  three  weeks,  but  in  soul 
he  seemed  to  have  been  sitting  there 
hundreds  of  years.  And  now  he  would 
sit  there  no  more!  And  there  rose  up 
in  him  an  almost  frantic  desire  to  free 


himself  from  the  coil  around  him.  To 
be  held  a  prisoner  by  that  most  secret 
of  all  his  instincts,  the  instinct  for  au- 
thority! To  be  unable  to  wield  author- 
ity because  to  wield  authority  was  to 
insult  authority.  God!  It  was  hard! 
He  turned  his  back  on  the  towers,  and 
sought  distraction  in  the  faces  of  the 
passers-by. 

Each  of  these,  he  knew,  had  his 
struggle  to  keep  self-respect!  Or  was  it 
that  they  were  unconscious  of  struggle 
or  of  self-respect,  and  just  let  things 
drift?  They  looked  like  that,  most  of 
them!  And  all  his  inherent  contempt 
for  the  average  or  common  welled  up 
as  he  watched  them.  Yes,  they  looked 
like  that !  Ironically,  the  sight  of  those 
from  whom  he  had  desired  the  com- 
fort of  compromise,  served  instead  to 
stimulate  that  part  of  him  which  re- 
fused to  let  him  compromise.  They 
looked  soft,  soggy,  without  pride  or 
will,  as  though  they  knew  that  life  was 
too  much  for  them,  and  had  shame- 
fully accepted  the  fact.  They  so  ob- 
viously needed  to  be  told  what  they 
might  do,  and  which  way  they  should 
go;  they  would  accept  orders  as  they 
accepted  their  work,  or  pleasures.  And 
the  thought  that  he  was  now  de- 
barred from  the  right  to  give  them 
orders  rankled  in  him  furiously.  They, 
in  their  turn,  glanced  casually  at  his 
tall  figure  leaning  against  the  parapet, 
not  knowing  how  their  fate  was  trem- 
bling in  the  balance.  His  thin,  sallow 
face  and  hungry  eyes  gave  one  or  two 
of  them  perhaps  a  feeling  of  interest 
or  discomfort;  but  to  most  he  was  as- 
suredly no  more  than  any  other  man 
or  woman  in  the  hurly-burly.  That 
dark  figure  of  conscious  power  strug- 
gling in  the  fetters  of  its  own  belief  in 
power,  was  a  piece  of  sculpture  they 
had  neither  time  nor  wish  to  under- 
stand; having  no  taste  for  tragedy,  for 
witnessing  the  human  spirit  driven  to 
the  wall. 


THE  PATRICIANS 


509 


It  was  five  o'clock  before  Milton 
left  the  bridge,  and  passed,  like  an  exile, 
before  the  gates  of  Church  and  State, 
on  his  way  to  his  uncle's  club.  He 
stopped  to  telegraph  to  Mrs.  Noel  the 
time  he  would  be  coming  to-morrow 
afternoon;  and  in  leaving  the  Post  Of- 
fice, noticed  in  the  window  of  the  ad- 
joining shop  some  reproductions  of  old 
Italian  masterpieces,  amongst  them 
one  of  Botticelli's  Birth  of  Venus.  He 
had  never  seen  that  picture  of  ever- 
lasting love  and  joy;  and,  remembering 
that  she  had  told  him  it  was  her  favor- 
ite picture,  he  stopped  to  look  at  it. 
Ordinarily  well  versed  in  such  matters, 
as  became  one  of  his  caste,  Milton  had 
not  the  power  of  letting  a  work  of  art 
insidiously  steal  the  private  self  from 
his  soul,  and  replace  it  with  the  self 
of  all  the  world.  He  examined  this 
far-famed  presentment  of  the  heathen 
goddess  with  detachment,  even  with 
irritation.  The  drawing  of  the  body 
seemed  to  him  crude,  the  whole  pic- 
ture a  little  flat  and  Early;  he  did 
not  like  the  figure  of  the  Flora.  That 
golden  serenity,  and  tenderness,  of 
which  she  had  spoken,  left  him  cold. 
Then  he  found  himself  looking  at  the 
face,  and  slowly,  but  with  uncanny 
certainty,  began  to  feel  that  he  was 
looking  at  the  face  of  Audrey.  The 
hair  was  golden  and  different,  the  eyes 
gray  and  different,  the  mouth  a  little 
fuller;  yet  —  it  was  her  face;  the  same 
oval  shape,  the  same  far-apart  arched 
brows,  the  same  strangely  tender,  elus- 
ive spirit.  And,  as  though  offended, 
he  turned  and  walked  on. 

In  the  window  of  a  little  shop  was 
that  for  which  he  had  bartered  his  life: 
the  incarnation  of  passive  and  entwin- 
ing love;  that  gentle  creature  who  had 
given  herself  to  him  so  utterly,  for  whom 
his  senses  yearned  and  his  heart  ached 
at  the  least  thought,  for  whom  love,  and 
the  flowers,  and  trees,  and  birds,  music, 
the  sky,  and  the  slow-flowing  river,  were 


all-sufficing;  who,  like  the  goddess  in 
the  picture,  seemed  wondering  at  her 
own  birth.  He  had  a  sudden  glimpse 
of  understanding,  strange  indeed  in  one 
who  had  so  little  power  of  seeing  into 
others'  hearts.  She  was  touching  be- 
cause of  her  dim  wonder  that  into  a 
world  like  this  she  should  ever  have 
been  born!  But  this  flash  of  insight 
quickly  yielded  to  that  sickening  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  position,  which 
never  left  him  now. 

Whatever  he  did,  he  must  get  rid  of 
that  malaise!  But  what  could  he  do? 
Write  books  ?  What  sort  of  books  could 
he  write?  Only  such  as  expressed  his 
views  of  citizenship,  his  political  and 
social  beliefs.  As  well  remain  sitting 
and  speaking  beneath  those  towers! 
He  could  never  join  the  happy  band 
of  artists,  those  soft  and  indeterminate 
spirits  for  whom  barriers  had  no  mean- 
ing, content  to  understand,  interpret, 
and  create.  What  should  he  be  doing 
in  that  galley?  The  thought  was  incon- 
ceivable. A  career  at  the  Bar  —  yes, 
he  might  take  that  up;  but  to  what 
end?  To  become  a  judge!  As  well 
continue  to  sit  beneath  those  towers! 
Too  late  for  diplomacy.  Too  late  for 
the  army;  besides,  he  had  not  the 
faintest  taste  for  military  glory.  Bury 
himself  in  the  country  like  Uncle 
Dennis,  and  administer  one  of  his 
father's  estates?  It  would  be  death. 
Go  amongst  the  poor?  For  a  moment 
he  thought  he  had  found  a  new  voca- 
tion. But  in  what  capacity  —  to  order 
their  lives,  when  he  could  not  order 
his  own;  or,  as  a  mere  conduit  pipe  for 
money,  when  he  believed  that  charity 
was  rotting  the  nation  to  its  core! 

At  the  head  of  every  avenue  stood  an 
angel  or  devil  with  drawn  sword.  And 
then  there  came  to  him  another  thought. 
Since  he  was  being  cast  forth  from 
Church  and  State,  could  he  not  play 
the  fallen  spirit  like  a  man  —  be  Luci- 
fer, and  destroy!  And  instinctively  he 


510 


THE  PATRICIANS 


at  once  saw  himself  returning  to  those 
towers,  and  beneath  them  crossing 
the  floor;  joining  the  revolutionaries, 
the  radicals,  the  freethinkers;  scourg- 
ing his  present  party,  the  party  of 
authority  and  institutions.  The  idea 
struck  him  as  supremely  comic,  and 
he  laughed  out  loud  in  the  street. 

The  club  which  Lord  Dennis  fre- 
quented was  in  St.  James's,  untouched 
by  the  tides  of  the  waters  of  fashion  — 
steadily  swinging  to  its  moorings  in  a 
quiet  backwater,  and  Milton  found  his 
uncle  in  the  library.  He  was  reading  a 
volume  of  Burton's  travels,  and  drink- 
ing tea. 

'Nobody  comes  here,'  he  said,  'so, 
in  spite  of  that  word  on  the  door,  we 
shall  talk.  Waiter,  bring  some  more 
tea,  please.' 

Impatiently,  but  with  a  sort  of  pity, 
Milton  watched  Lord  Dennis's  urbane 
movements,  wherein  old  age,  pathetic- 
ally, was  trying  to  make  each  little 
thing  seem  important,  if  only  to  the 
doer.  Nothing  his  great-uncle  could 
say  would  outweigh  the  warning  of 
his  picturesque  old  figure!  To  be  a  by- 
stander; to  see  it  all  go  past  you;  to 
let  your  sword  rust  in  its  sheath,  as 
this  poor  old  fellow  had  done! 

The  notion  of  explaining  what  he  had 
come  about  was  particularly  hateful 
to  Milton;  but  since  he  had  given  his 
word,  he  nerved  himself  with  secret 
anger,  and  began,  'I  promised  my 
mother  to  ask  you  a  question,  Uncle 
Dennis.  You  know  of  my  attachment, 
I  believe?' 

Lord  Dennis  nodded. 

'Well,  I  have  joined  my  life  to  this 
lady's.  There  will  be  no  scandal,  but 
I  consider  it  my  duty  to  resign  my  seat, 
and  leave  public  life  alone.  Is  that 
right  or  wrong  according  to  your  view? ' 

Lord  Dennis  looked  at  his  nephew 
in  silence.  A  faint  flush  colored  his 
brown  cheeks.  He  had  the  appearance 
of  one  traveling  in  mind  over  the  past. 


'Wrong,  I  think,'  he  said,  at  last. 

'Why,  if  I  may  ask?' 

'  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing 
this  lady,  and  am  therefore  somewhat 
in  the  dark;  but  it  appears  to  me  that 
your  decision  is  not  fair  to  her.' 

'That  is  beyond  me,'  said  Milton. 

Lord  Dennis  answered  firmly,  'You 
have  asked  me  a  frank  question,  ex- 
pecting a  frank  answer;  is  that  so?' 

Milton  bowed. 

'Then,  my  dear,  don't  blame  me  if 
what  I  say  is  unpalatable.' 

'I  shall  not,'  said  Milton. 

'Good!  You  say  you  are  going  to 
give  up  public  life  for  the  sake  of  your 
conscience.  I  should  have  no  criticism 
to  make,  if  it  stopped  there.' 

He  paused,  and  for  quite  a  minute 
remained  silent,  evidently  searching  for 
words  to  express  some  intricate  thread 
of  thought. 

'But  it  won't,  Eustace;  the  public 
man  in  you  is  far  stronger  than  the 
other.  You  want  leadership  more  than 
you  want  love.  Your  sacrifice  will  kill 
your  affection;  what  you  imagine  is 
your  loss  and  hurt  will  prove  to  be 
this  lady's.' 

Milton  smiled. 

Lord  Dennis  continued  very  dryly 
and  with  a  touch  of  malice,  'You  are 
not  listening  to  me;  but  I  can  see  very 
well  that  the  process  has  begun  already 
underneath.  There's  a  curious  streak 
of  the  Jesuit  in  you,  Eustace.  What 
you  don't  want  to  see,  you  won't  see.' 

'You  advise  me,  then,  to  compro- 
mise?' 

'On  the  contrary,  I  point  out  that 
you  will  be  compromising  if  you  try  to 
keep  both  your  conscience  and  your 
love.  You  will  be  seeking  to  have  it 
both  ways.' 

'That  is  interesting.' 

'And  you  will  find  yourself  having 
it  neither,'  said  Lord  Dennis  sharply. 

Milton  rose.  'In  other  words,  you, 
like  the  others,  recommend  me  to  desert 


THE  PATRICIANS 


511 


this  lady  who  loves  me,  and  whom  I 
love.  And  yet,  Uncle,  they  say  that  in 
your  own  case  — ' 

But  Lord  Dennis  had  risen,  too, 
having  lost  all  the  appanage  and  man- 
ner of  old  age. 

'Of  my  own  case,'  he  said  bluntly, 
'we  won't  talk.  I  don't  advise  you  to 
desert  any  one;  you  quite  mistake  me. 
I  advise  you  to  know  yourself.  And 
I  tell  you  my  opinion  of  you  —  you 
were  cut  out  by  Nature  for  a  states- 
man, not  a  lover!  There's  something 
dried  up  in  you,  Eustace;  I'm  not  sure 
there  is  n't  something  dried  up  in  all 
our  caste.  We  've  had  to  do  with  forms 
and  ceremonies  too  long.  We  're  not 
good  at  taking  the  lyrical  point  of  view ! ' 

'Unfortunately,'  said  Milton,  'I 
cannot,  to  fit  in  with  a  theory  of  yours, 
commit  a  baseness.' 

Lord  Dennis  began  pacing  up  and 
down.  He  was  keeping  his  lips  closed 
very  tight. 

'A  man  who  gives  advice,'  he  said,  at 
last,  'is  always  a  fool.  For  all  that, 
you  have  mistaken  mine.  I  am  not  so 
presumptuous  as  to  attempt  to  enter 
the  inner  chamber  of  your  spirit.  I  have 
merely  told  you  that,  in  my  opinion, 
it  would  be  more  honest  to  yourself, 
and  fairer  to  this  lady,  to  compound 
with  your  conscience,  and  keep  your 
love  and  your  public  life,  than  to  pre- 
tend that  you  were  capable  of  sacri- 
ficing what  I  know  is  the  stronger  ele- 
ment in  you  for  the  sake  of  the  weaker. 
To  that  I  can  add  nothing.' 

Milton  turned  to  the  window.  In 
the  little  side  street  over  which  the 
club  looked,  a  man  was  sorting  his 
evening  papers  before  returning  to  the 
sale  of  them.  And  at  the  sight  of  that 
other  creature  quietly  wrapped-up  in 
his  own  life,  Milton  turned  abruptly 
and  said, '  I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled 
you,  Uncle  Dennis.  A  middle  policy  is 
no  use  to  me.  Good-bye! '  And  without 
shaking  hands,  he  went  out. 


XLIV 

As  he  crossed  the  hall  a  man  rose 
from  a  sofa.  It  was  Courtier.  'Run 
you  to  earth  at  last,'  he  said:  'I  wish 
you'd  come  and  dine  with  me.  I'm 
leaving  England  to-morrow  night,  and 
there  are  things  I  want  to  say.' 

There  passed  through  Milton's  mind 
the  rapid  thought,  Does  he  know? 
But  he  assented,  and  they  went  out 
together. 

'It's  difficult  to  find  a  quiet  place,' 
said  Courtier;  'this  might  do.' 

He  led  the  way  into  a  little  hostel, 
frequented  by  racing-men,  and  famed 
for  the  excellence  of  its  steaks.  As  they 
sat  down  opposite  each  other  in  an 
almost  empty  room,  Milton  thought, 
Yes,  he  does  know!  Can  I  stand  any 
more  of  this?  And  he  waited  savagely 
for  the  attack  he  felt  was  coming. 

'So  you  are  going  to  give  up  your 
seat?'  said  Courtier. 

Milton  looked  at  him  a  long  time,  be- 
fore replying. 

'  From  what  town-crier  did  you  hear 
that?' 

But  something  in  Courtier's  face  had 
checked  his  anger;  its  friendliness  was 
too  transparent. 

'I  am  about  her  only  friend,'  said 
Courtier  earnestly;  'and  this  is  my  last 
chance;  to  say  nothing  of  my  feeling 
toward  you,  which,  believe  me,  is  very 
cordial.' 

'  Go  on,  then,'  muttered  Milton. 

'Forgive  me  for  putting  it  bluntly. 
But  her  position  —  have  you  consider- 
ed what  it  was  before  she  met  you?' 

Milton  felt  all  the  blood  in  his  body 
rushing  to  his  face,  but  he  sat  still, 
clenching  his  nails  into  the  palms  of  his 
hands. 

'Yes,  yes,'  said  Courtier,  'but  this 
pharisaism  —  you  used  to  have  it 
yourself  —  which  decrees  either  living 
death,  or  spiritual  adultery  to  women, 
makes  my  blood  boil.  You  can't  deny 


512 


THE  PATRICIANS 


that  those  were  the  alternatives,  and 
I  say  you  had  the  right  fundamentally 
to  protest  against  them,  not  only  in 
words  but  deeds.  Well,  I  know,  you 
did  protest.  But  this  present  decision 
of  yours  is  a  climb-down;  as  much  as 
to  say  that  your  protest  was  wrong.' 

Milton  half-rose  from  his  seat.  'I 
cannot  discuss  this,'  he  said ; '  I  cannot.' 

'For  her  sake,  you  must.  If  you  give 
up  your  public  work,  you'll  spoil  her 
life  again.' 

Milton  sat  down  again.  At  the  word 
'must'  a  steely  feeling  had  come  to  his 
aid;  his  eyes  began  to  look  like  the  old 
Cardinal's.  'Your  nature  and  mine, 
Courtier,'  he  said,  'are  too  far  apart; 
we  shall  never  understand  each  other.' 

'Never  mind  that,'  answered  Court- 
ier. 'Admitting  those  two  alternatives 
to  be  horrible,  which  you  never  would 
have  done  unless  the  facts  had  been 
brought  home  to  you  personally  — ' 

'That,'  said  Milton  icily,  'I  deny 
your  right  to  say.' 

'Anyway,  you  do  admit  them  —  if 
you  believe  you  had  not  the  right  to 
rescue  her,  on  what  principle  do  you 
base  that  belief?' 

Milton  placed  his  elbow  on  the  table, 
and  leaning  his  chin  on  his  hand,  re- 
garded the  champion  of  lost  causes 
without  speaking.  There  was  such  a 
turmoil  going  on  within  him  that  it 
was  with  difficulty  he  could  force  his 
lips  to  obey  him. 

' By  what  right  do  you  ask  me  that? ' 
he  said  at  last. 

He  saw  Courtier's  face  go  scarlet, 
and  his  fingers  twisting  furiously  at 
those  flame-like  moustaches;  but  his  an- 
swer was  as  steadily  ironical  as  usual. 

'  I  can  hardly  sit  still,  my  last  even- 
ing in  England,  without  lifting  a  fin- 
ger, while  you  half-murder  a  woman  to 
whom  I  feel  like  a  brother.  I'll  tell 
you  what  your  principle  is:  authority, 
unjust  or  just,  desirable  or  undesirable, 
must  be  implicitly  obeyed.  To  break 


a  law,  no  matter  on  what  provocation, 
or  for  whose  sake,  is  to  break  the  com- 
mandment — ' 

'Don't  hesitate  —  say,  of  God.' 

'  Of  an  infallible  fixed  Power.  Is  that 
a  true  definition  of  your  principle? 

'Yes,' said  Milton  between  his  teeth, 
'I  think  so.' 

'Exceptions  prove  the  rule.' 

'Hard  cases  make  bad  law.' 

Courtier  smiled  sardonically.  'I 
knew  you  were  coming  out  with  that.  I 
deny  that  they  do  with  this  law,  which 
is  behind  the  times  and  rotten.  You 
had  the  right  to  rescue  this  woman.' 

Milton's  eyes  had  begun  to  burn. 

'No,  Courtier,'  he  said,  'if  we  must 
fight,  let  us  fight  on  the  naked  facts. 
I  have  not  rescued  any  one.  I  have 
merely  stolen  sooner  than  starve.  That 
is  why  I  cannot  go  on  pretending  to  be 
a  pattern.  If  it  were  known,  I  could 
not  retain  my  seat  an  hour;  I  can't  take 
advantage  of  an  accidental  secrecy. 
Could  you?' 

Courtier  was  silent;  and  with  his 
eyes  Milton  pressed  on  him,  as  though 
he  would  dispatch  him  with  that  glance. 

'Yes,'  said  Courtier  at  last,  'in  such 
a  case  I  could.  I  do  not  believe  in  this 
law  as  it  stands.  I  revolt  against  it.  It 
is  tyrannical ;  it  is  the  grave  of  all  spirit- 
uality in  the  married  state.  I  should 
not  lose  my  self-respect,  and  that  is  all 
I  care  about.' 

In  Milton  there  was  rising  that  vast 
and  subtle  passion  for  dialectic  com- 
bat, which  was  of  his  very  fibre.  He 
had  almost  lost  the  feeling  that  this 
was  his  own  future  being  discussed. 
He  saw  before  him  in  this  sanguine 
man,  whose  voice  and  eyes  had  such  a 
white-hot  sound  and  look,  the  incar- 
nation of  all  that  he  temperamentally 
opposed. 

'That,'  he  said,  'is  devil's  advocacy. 
I  admit  no  individual  as  judge  in  his 
own  case.' 

Courtier  rose,    'Ah!'  he  said,  'now 


THE  PATRICIANS 


513 


we're  coming  to  it.   By  the  way,  shall 
we  get  out  of  this  heat  ? ' 

They  were  no  sooner  outside  in  the 
cooler  street  than  the  voice  of  Courtier 
began  again. 

'Distrust  of  human  nature,  fear  — 
it 's  the  whole  basis  of  action  for  men  of 
your  stamp.  You  deny  the  right  of  the 
individual  to  judge,  because  you  Ve  no 
faith  in  the  essential  goodness  of  men ; 
at  heart  you  believe  them  bad.  You 
give  them  no  freedom,  you  allow  them 
no  consent,  because  you  believe  their 
decisions  would  move  downwards,  not 
upwards.  Well,  it's  the  whole  differ- 
ence between  the  aristocratic  and  the 
democratic  view  of  life.  As  you  once 
told  me,  you  hate  and  fear  the  crowd.' 

Milton  eyed  him  sidelong,  with  one 
of  his  queer,  smouldering  looks. 

'Yes,'  he  said,  'I  do  believe  that 
men  are  raised  in  spite  of  themselves.' 

'You're  honest,'  muttered  Courtier. 
'By  whom?' 

Again  Milton  felt  rising  within  him 
a  sort  of  fury.  Once  for  all  he  would 
slay  this  red-haired  rebel;  he  answered 
with  almost  savage  irony,  'Strangely 
enough,  by  that  Being  to  mention 
whom  you  object  —  working  through 
the  medium  of  the  best.' 

Courtier  gave  him  a  no  less  sardonic 
look. 

'  High-Priest ! '  he  said.  '  Look  at  that 
girl  slinking  along  there,  with  her  eye 
on  us;  suppose  now,  instead  of  with- 
drawing your  garment,  you  went  over 
and  talked  to  her  as  a  human  being, 
and  got  her  to  tell  you  what  she  really 
felt  and  thought,  you'd  find  things 
that  would  astonish  you.  At  bottom, 
mankind  is  splendid.  And  they're 
raised,  sir,  by  the  aspiration  that's 
in  all  of  them.  Have  n't  you  ever 
noticed  that  public  sentiment  is  always 
in  advance  of  the  law?' 

'And  you,'   said  Milton,   'are  the 
man  who  is  never  on  the  side  of  the 
majority?' 
VOL.  107 -tfO.  4 


The  champion  of  lost  causes  uttered 
a  short  laugh. 

'Not  so  logical  as  all  that,'  he  mut- 
tered; 'the  wind  still  blows;  and  Life's 
not  a  set  of  rules  hung  up  in  an  office. 
Let's  see,  where  are  we?'  They  had 
been  brought  to  a  standstill  by  a  group 
on  the  pavement  in  front  of  the  Queen's 
Hall.  'Shall  we  go  in  and  hear  some 
music,  and  cool  our  tongues?' 

Milton  nodded,  and  they  went  in. 
The  great  lighted  hall,  filled  with  the 
faint  bluish  vapor  from  hundreds  of 
little  rolls  of  tobacco-leaf,  was  crowded 
from  floor  to  ceiling. 

As  Milton  took  his  stand  among  the 
straw-hatted  crowd,  he  heard  Court- 
ier's voice  murmuring,  'Profanum 
vulgus!  Come  to  listen  to  the  finest 
piece  of  music  ever  written !  Folk  whom 
you  would  n't  trust  a  yard  to  know  what 
was  good  for  them!  Deplorable  sight, 
isn't  it?' 

But  Milton  did  not  answer,  for  the 
first  slow  notes  of  the  Seventh  Sym- 
phony of  Beethoven  came  stealing 
forth  across  a  bank  of  flowers;  and, 
save  for  the  steady  rising  of  that  blu- 
ish vapor,  as  it  were  incense  burnt  to 
the  god  of  melody,  the  crowd  had  be- 
come deathly  still,  as  though  one  mind, 
one  spirit,  possessed  every  pale  face 
and  cranny  of  the  hall,  to  listen  to  that 
music  rising  and  falling,  like  the  sigh- 
ing of  the  winds,  welcoming  from  death 
the  freed  spirits  of  the  beautiful.  When 
the  last  notes  had  died  away  he  turned 
on  his  heel  and  walked  out. 

'Well,'  said  Courtier's  voice  behind 
him,  as  he  emerged  into  the  air, '  has  n't 
that  shown  you  how  things  swell  and 
grow;  how  splendid  the  world  is?' 

Milton  smiled. 

'  It  has  shown  me  how  beautiful  the 
world  can  be  made  by  a  great  man.' 

And  suddenly,  as  if  the  music  had 
loosened  some  band  within  him,  he 
began  pouring  out  a  stream  of  words. 

'Look  at  the  crowd  in  this  street, 


514 


THE   PATRICIANS 


Courtier!  Of  all  crowds  in  the  whole 
world  it  can  best  afford  to  be  left  to  it- 
self; it's  secure  from  pestilence,  earth- 
quake, cyclone,  drought,  and  from  ex- 
tremes of  heat  and  cold,  in  the  heart 
of  the  greatest  and  safest  city  in  the 
world;  and  yet,  see  the  figure  of  that 
policeman!  Running  through  all  the 
good  behavior  of  this  crowd,  however 
safe  and  free  it  may  look,  there  is, 
there  always  must  be,  the  central  force 
holding  it  together.  Where  does  that 
central  force  come  from?  From  the 
crowd  itself,  you  say.  I  answer,  no. 
Look  back  at  the  origin  of  human 
states.  From  the  beginnings  of  things, 
the  best  man  has  been  the  unconscious 
medium  of  authority,  of  the  control- 
ling principle,  of  the  divine  force;  he 
felt  that  power  within  him,  — physical, 
at  first,  —  he  used  it  to  take  the  lead, 
he  has  held  the  lead  ever  since,  he 
must  always  hold  it.  All  your  pro- 
cesses of  election,  your  so-called  demo- 
cratic apparatus,  are  only  a  blind  to 
the  inquiring,  a  sop  to  the  hungry, 
a  salve  to  the  pride  of  the  rebellious. 
They  are  merely  surface  machinery, 
they  cannot  prevent  the  best  man  from 
coming  to  the  top;  for  the  best  man 
stands  nearest  to  the  Deity,  and  is  the 
first  to  receive  the  waves  that  come 
from  Him.  I  'm  not  speaking  of  hered- 
ity. The  best  man  is  not  necessarily 
born  in  my  class.  I,  at  all  events,  do 
not  believe  he  is  any  more  frequent  in 
that  class  than  in  other  classes.' 

He  stopped  as  suddenly  as  he  had 
begun. 

'You  need  n't  be  afraid,'  said  Court- 
ier, 'that  I  take  you  for  an  average 
specimen.  You  're  at  one  end  and  I  at 
the  other  —  and  very  likely  both  wide 
of  the  golden  mark.  But  the  world  is 
not  ruled  by  power,  and  the  fear  which 
power  produces,  as  you  think;  it  is  ruled 
by  love.  Society  is  held  together  by 
the  natural  decency  in  man,  by  fellow- 
feeling.  The  democratic  principle, 


which  you  despise,  at  root  means  no- 
thing at  all  but  that.  Man  left  to  him- 
self is  on  the  upward  lay.  If  it  were  n't 
so,  do  you  imagine  for  a  moment  your 
"boys  in  blue"  could  keep  order?  A 
man  knows  unconsciously  what  he  can 
and  what  he  can't  do,  without  losing 
self-respect.  He  sucks  that  knowledge 
in  with  every  breath.  Laws  and  au- 
thority are  not  the  be-all  and  end-all, 
—  they  are  conveniences,  machinery, 
conduit  pipes,  main  roads.  They  are 
not  of  the  structure  of  the  building  — 
they're  only  scaffolding.' 

Milton  lunged  out  with  the  retort, 
'  Without  which  no  building  could  be 
built.' 

Courtier  parried  :  — 

'That's  rather  different,  my  friend, 
from  identifying  them  with  the  building. 
They  are  things  to  be  taken  down  as 
fast  as  ever  they  can  be  cleared  away, 
to  make  room  for  an  edifice  that  begins 
on  earth,  not  in  the  sky.  All  the  scaf- 
folding of  law  is  merely  there  to  save 
time,  to  prevent  the  temple,  as  it 
mounts,  from  losing  its  way,  and  stray- 
ing out  of  form.' 

'No,'  said  Milton,  'no!  The  scaf- 
folding as  you  call  it  is  the  material 
projection  of  the  architect's  concep- 
tion, without  which  the  temple  does 
not  and  cannot  rise;  and  the  architect 
is  God,  working  through  the  minds  and 
spirits  most  akin  to  Himself.' 

'We  are  now  at  the  bed-rock,'  cried 
Courtier;  'your  God  is  outside  this 
world;  mine  within  it.' 

'  "And  never  the  twain  shall  meet ! " 

There  followed  silence.  They  were 
now  in  Leicester  Square  —  quiet  at 
this  hour,  before  the  theatres  had  dis- 
gorged; quiet  yet  waiting,  with  the 
lights,  like  yellow  stars  low-driven  from 
the  dark  heavens,  clinging  to  the  white 
shapes  of  the  music-halls  and  cafes; 
and  a  sort  of  flying  glamour  blanching 
the  still  foliage  of  the  plane  trees. 

*A  "whitely  wanton" — this  square!' 


THE  PATRICIANS 


515 


said  Courtier  suddenly:  'alive  as  a 
face;  no  end  to  its  queer  beauty!  And, 
by  Jove,  if  you  go  deep  enough,  you'll 
find  goodness  even  here/ 

But  Milton  did  not  answer;  he  had 
begun  to  move  on  again  towards  the 
Temple.  He  felt  weary  all  of  a  sudden, 
anxious  to  get  to  his  rooms,  unwilling 
to  continue  this  battle  of  words,  that 
brought  him  no  nearer  to  any  relief 
from  his  position. 

It  was  with  strange  lassitude  that  he 
heard  Courtier  again  speaking:— 

'We  must  make  a  night  of  it,  since 
to-morrow  we  die.  You  would  curb 
license  from  without  —  I  from  within. 
When  I  get  up  and  when  I  go  to  bed, 
when  I  draw  a*  breath,  see  a  face,  or 
a  flower,  or  a  tree  —  if  I  did  n't  feel 
that  I  was  looking  on  my  God,  I  be- 
lieve I  should  quit  this  palace  of  va- 
rieties, from  sheer  boredom.  You,  I 
understand,  can't  look  on  your  God, 
unless  you  withdraw  into  some  high 
place.  Tell  me,  is  n't  it  lonely  there?' 

But  again  Milton  did  not  answer,  and 
they  walked  on  perforce  in  silence,  till 
he  suddenly  broke  out,  'You  talk  of 
tyranny!  What  tyranny  could  equal 
this  tyranny  of  your  freedom?  What 
tyranny  in  the  world  like  that  of  this 
"free,"  vulgar,  narrow  street,  with  its 
hundred  journals,  teeming  like  ants' 
nests,  to  produce  —  what?  In  the  en- 
trails of  that  creature  of  your  freedom 
there  is  room  neither  for  exaltation, 
discipline,  nor  sacrifice;  there  is  room 
only  for  commerce,  and  license.' 

Courtier  did  not  answer  for  a  moment, 
looking  dubiously  back  at  those  tall, 
narrow  houses,  as  they  turned  down 
towards  the  river.  'No,'  he  said  at 
last;  'for  all  its  faults,  the  wind  blows 
in  that  street,  and  there's  a  chance  for 
everything.  By  God,  I  would  rather 
see  a  few  stars  struggle  out  in  a  black 
sky  than  any  of  your  perfect  artificial 
lighting.' 

But  the  flame  had  died  down  again 


in  Milton,  and  he  heard  that  answer 
with  indifference. 

The  river's  black  water  was  making 
stilly,  slow  recessional  under  a  half- 
moon.  Beneath  the  cloak  of  night  the 
chaos  of  the  far  bank,  the  forms  of 
cranes,  high  buildings,  jetties,  the  bodies 
of  the  sleeping  barges,  a  million  queer 
dark  shapes,  were  invested  with  emo- 
tion. All  was  religious  out  there,  all 
beautiful,  all  strange.  And  over  this 
great  quiet  friend  of  man,  lamps  — 
those  humble  flowers  of  night  —  were 
throwing  down  the  faint  continual 
glamour  of  fallen  petals;  and  a  sweet- 
scented  wind  stole  along,  from  the  west, 
very  slow  as  yet,  bringing  in  advance 
thetremorand  perfumeof  the  innumer- 
able trees  and  fields  which  the  river  had 
loved  as  she  came  by. 

A  murmur  that  was  no  true  sound, 
but  like  the  whisper  of  a  heart  to  a 
heart,  accompanied  this  voyage  of  the 
dark  water. 

Then  a  small  blunt  skiff  manned  by 
two  rowers  came  by  under  the  wall, 
with  a  thudding  and  creaking  of  oars. 

'You said,  "To-morrow we  die," '  said 
Milton  suddenly.  'Did  you  mean  that 
"public  life"  was  the  breath  of  my 
nostrils,  and  that  I  must  die,  because 
I  give  it  up?' 

Courtier  nodded.  'That,  and  other 
things.' 

'  We  shall  see.  I  am  right,  I  suppose, 
in  thinking  it  was  my  young  sister  who 
sent  you  on  this  crusade?' 

Courtier  did  not  answer. 

'And  so,'  went  on  Milton,  looking 
him  through  and  through,  'to-morrow 
is  to  be  your  last  day,  too?  You're 
right  to  go.  She  is  not  an  ugly  duck- 
ling, who  can  live  out  of  the  social 
pond;  she'll  always  want  her  native 
element.  And  now,  we  '11  say  good-bye ! 
Whatever  happens  to  us  both,  I  shall 
remember  this  evening';  and  smiling 
wistfully,  he  put  out  his  hand:  'Mori- 
turus  te  saluto' 


516 


THE  PATRICIANS 


XLV 

Courtier  sat  in  Hyde  Park  waiting 
for  five  o'clock. 

The  day  had  recovered  somewhat 
from  a  gray  morning,  as  if  the  glow 
of  that  long  hot  summer  were  too  burnt- 
in  on  the  air  to  yield  to  the  first  assault. 
The  sun,  piercing  the  crisped  clouds, 
those  breast-feathers  of  heavenly 
doves,  darted  its  beams  at  the  mellow- 
ed leaves,  and  showered  to  the  ground 
their  delicate  shadow  stains.  The  first, 
too  early,  scent  from  leaves  about  to 
fall,  penetrated  to  the  heart.  And  sor- 
rowful sweet  birds  were  tuning  their 
little  autumn  pipes,  blowing  into  them 
fragments  of  spring  odes  to  liberty. 

And  Courtier  thought  of  Milton  and 
his  mistress.  What  strange  fate  had 
thrown  those  two  together?  to  what 
end  was  their  love  coming?  The  seeds 
of  grief  were  already  sown :  what  flow- 
ers of  darkness  or  of  sorrow  would  come 
up?  He  saw  her  again  as  a  little,  grave, 
considering  child,  with  her  soft  eyes, 
set  wide  apart  under  the  dark  arched 
brows,  and  the  little  tuck  at  the  corner 
of  her  mouth  that  used  to  come  when 
he  teased  her.  Milton!  A  strange  fel- 
low —  worshiping  a  strange  God !  A 
God  that  stood  with  a  whip  in  hand, 
driving  men  to  obedience.  An  old  God 
that  even  now  Courtier  could  conjure 
up  staring  at  him  from  the  walls  of  his 
nursery.  The  God  his  own  father  had 
believed  in.  A  God  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, that  knew  neither  sympathy  nor 
understanding.  Strange  that  He  should 
be  alive  still;  that  there  should  still  be 
thousands  who  worshiped  him.  Yet,  not 
so  very  strange,  if,  as  they  said,  man 
made  God  in  his  own  image!  Here  in- 
deed was  a  curious  mating  of  what  the 
philosophers  would  call  the  Will  to 
Love  and  the  Will  to  Power. 

A  soldier  and  his  girl  came  and  sat 
down  on  a  bench  close  by.  They  cast 
sidelong  glances  at  this  trim  and  up- 


right figure  with  the  fighting  face; 
then,  some  subtle  thing  informing  them 
that  he  was  not  of  the  disturbing  breed 
called  officer,  they  ceased  regarding 
him,  abandoning  themselves  to  dumb 
and  inexpressive  felicity.  Arm  in  arm, 
touching  each  other,  they  seemed  to 
Courtier  very  jolly,  having  that  look 
of  living  entirely  in  the  moment,  which 
always  especially  appealed  to  one  whose 
blood  ran  too  fast  to  allow  him  to  specu- 
late much  upon  the  future,  or  brood 
much  over  the  past. 

A  leaf  from  the  bough  above  him, 
loosened  by  the  sun's  kisses,  dropped 
and  fell  yellow  at  his  feet.  The  leaves 
were  turning  very  soon!  It  was  char- 
acteristic of  this  man,  who  could  be 
so  hot  over  the  lost  causes  of  others, 
that,  sitting  there  within  half  an  hour 
of  the  final  loss  of  his  own  cause,  he 
could  be  so  calm,  so  almost  apathetic. 
This  apathy  was  partly  due  to  the 
hopelessness,  which  Nature  had  long 
perceived,  of  trying  to  make  him  feel 
oppressed;  but  also  to  the  habits  of  a 
man  incurably  accustomed  to  carry- 
ing his  fortunes  in  his  hand,  and  that 
hand  open.  It  did  not  seem  real  to  him 
that  he  was  actually  going  to  suffer  a 
defeat,  to  have  to  confess  that  he  had 
hankered  after  this  girl  all  these  past 
weeks,  and  that  to-morrow  all  that 
would  be  wasted,  and  she  as  dead  to 
him  as  if  he  had  never  seen  her.  No, 
it  was  not  exactly  resignation,  it  was 
rather  sheer  lack  of  commercial  in- 
stinct. If  only  this  had  been  the  lost 
cause  of  another  person!  How  gal- 
lantly he  would  have  rushed  to  the  as- 
sault, and  taken  her  by  storm !  If  only 
he  himself  could  have  been  that  other 
person,  how  easily,  how  passionately, 
could  he  not  have  pleaded,  letting  forth 
from  him  all  those  words,  which  had 
knocked  at  his  teeth  ever  since  he 
knew  her,  and  which  would  have  seemed 
so  ridiculous  and  so  unworthy,  spoken 
on  his  own  behalf.  Yes,  for  that  other 


THE   EMBARRASSED  ELIMINATORS 


517 


person  he  could  have  cut  her  out  from 
under  the  guns  of  the  enemy,  he  could 
have  taken  her,  that  fairest  prize. 

And  in  queer,  cheery-looking  apathy 
—  not  far  removed  perhaps  from  de- 
spair —  he  sat,  watching  the  leaves 
turn  over  and  fall,  and  now  and  then 
cutting  with  his  stick  at  the  air,  where 
autumn  was  already  riding.  And,  if 
in  imagination  he  saw  himself  carrying 
her  away  into  the  wilderness,  and  with 
his  love  making  her  happiness  to  grow, 
it  was  so  far  a  flight,  that  a  smile  crept 
about  his  lips,  and  once  or  twice  he 
snapped  his  jaws  together. 

The  soldier  and  his  girl  rose,  passing 
in  front  of  him  down  the  Row.  He 
watched  their  scarlet  and  blue  figures, 
moving  slowly  towards  the  sun,  and  a 
couple  close  to  the  rails  crossing  those 
receding  forms.  This  new  couple  came 
nearer  and  nearer.  Straight  and  tall, 
there  was  something  exhilarating  in 
the  way  they  swung  along,  holding 


their  heads  up,  turning  towards  each 
other,  to  exchange  words  or  smiles. 
Even  at  that  distance  they  could  be 
seen  to  be  of  high  fashion;  in  their  gait 
was  the  indescribable  poise  of  those 
who  are  above  doubts  and  cares,  cer- 
tain of  the  world  and  of  themselves. 
The  girl's  dress  was  tawny  brown,  her 
hair  and  hat  too  of  the  same  hue,  and 
the  pursuing  sunlight  endowed  her  with 
a  hazy  splendor.  Then  Courtier  saw 
who  they  were. 

Except  for  an  unconscious  grinding 
of  his  teeth,  he  made  no  sound  or  move- 
ment, so  that  they  went  by  without 
seeing  him.  Her  voice,  though  not  the 
words,  came  to  him  distinctly.  He  saw 
her  hand  slip  up  under  Harbinger's 
arm,  and  swiftly  down  again.  A  smile, 
of  whose  existence  he  was  unaware, 
settled  on  his  lips.  He  got  up,  shook 
himself,  as  a  dog  shakes  off  a  beating, 
and  walked  away,  with  his  mouth  set 
very  firm. 


(To  be  concluded.) 


THE  EMBARRASSED  ELIMINATORS 


BY   E.   V.   LUCAS 


We  were  talking  about  Lamb. 

'Supposing,'  some  one  said,  'that  by 
some  incredible  chance  all  the  essays 
except  one  were  to  be  demolished, 
which  one  would  you  keep?' 

This  kind  of  question  is  always  in- 
teresting, no  matter  to  what  author's 
work  or  to  what  picture  gallery  it  is 
applied.  But  for  the  best  resulting  lit- 
erary talk  it  must  be  applied  to  Shake- 
speare, Dickens,  or  Elia. 

'Why,  of  course,'  at  once  replied  H., 
whose  pleasant  habit  it  is  to  rush  in 


with  a  final  opinion  on  everything  at  a 
moment's  notice,  with  no  shame  what- 
ever in  changing  it  immediately  after- 
wards, 'there's  no  doubt  about  it  at 
all  —  Mrs.  Battle.  Absolutely  impos- 
sible to  give  up  Mrs.  Battle.  Or  wait 
a  minute,  I'd  forgotten  Bo-Bo.  "The 
Dissertation  on  Roast  Pig,"  you  know. 
Either  Mrs.  Battle  or  that.' 

The  man  who  had  propounded  the 
question  laughed.  'I  saw  that  second 
string  coming,'  he  said.  'That's  what 
every  one  wants :  one  or  another.  But 


518 


THE   EMBARRASSED   ELIMINATORS 


the  whole  point  of  the  thing  is  that  one 
essay  and  one  only  is  to  remain :  every- 
thing else  goes  by  the  board.  Now. 
Let's  leave  H.  to  wrestle  it  out  with 
himself.  What  do  you  say,  James?' 

'It's  too  difficult,'  said  James.  'I 
was  going  to  say  "The  Old  Actors" 
until  I  remembered  several  others.  But 
I'm  not  sure  that  that  is  not  my 
choice.  It  stands  alone  in  literature 
almost  more  than  any  of  its  compan- 
ions; it  is  Lamb  inimitable.  His  literary 
descendants  have  done  their  best  or 
worst  with  most  of  his  methods;  but 
here,  where  knowledge  of  the  world, 
knowledge  of  the  stage,  love  of  man- 
kind, gusto,  humor,  style,  and  imagin- 
ative understanding  unite,  the  mimics, 
the  assiduous  apes,  are  left  behind. 
Miles  behind.  Yes,  I  vote  for  "The 
Old  Actors.'" 

'But,  my  dear  James,'  said  L., 
'think  a  moment.  Remember  James 
Elia,  in  "  My  Relations  ";  remember 
Cousin  Bridget,  in  "Mackery  End." 
You  are  prepared  deliberately  to  have 
these  forever  blotted  out  of  your  con- 
sciousness? Because,  as  I  understand 
it,  that  is  what  the  question  means:  ut- 
ter elimination.' 

James  groaned.  '  It 's  too  serious,'  he 
said.  'It's  not  to  be  thought  of,  real- 
ly. It  reminds  me  of  terrible  nights 
at  school  when  I  lay  awake  trying  to 
understand  eternity  —  complete  nega- 
tion —  until  I  turned  giddy  with  the 
immensity  of  dark  nothingness.' 

Our  host  laughed.  'You  were  very 
positive  just  now,'  he  said.  '  But  have 
you  forgotten  a  wistful  little  trifle 
called  "Old  China"?' 

'Or,  more  on  your  own  lines,'  said 
W.,  who  hates  actors  and  acting, '  "The 
South  Sea  House"  or  "The  Old  Bench- 
ers"? I  will  grant  you  the  perfection 
—  there  is  no  other  word  —  of  the  full 
lengths  of  Dicky  Suett  and  Bannister 
and  Bensley's  Malvolio.  There  is  no- 
thing like  it  —  you  are  quite  right. 


Not  even  Hazlitt  comes  near  it.  One 
can  see  one's  self  with  a  great  effort  do- 
ing something  passably  Hazlittian  in 
dramatic  criticism  if  one  were  put  to 
it;  but  Lamb,  Lamb  reconstructs  life 
and  dignifies  and  enriches  it  as  he  does 
so.  In  my  opinion  that  essay  is  the 
justification  of  footlights,  grease-paint, 
and  the  whole  tawdry  business.  And 
yet'  —  W.'s  face  glowed  with  his  elo- 
quence, as  it  does  always  sooner  or 
later  every  evening  — '  and  yet  if  I 
were  restricted  to  one  Elia  essay  — 
dreadful  thought! — it  would  not  be 
"The  Old  Actors"  that  I  should 
choose,  but  —  I  can't  help  it  —  "Cap- 
tain Jackson."  I  know  there  are  far 
more  beautiful  things  in  Elia:  deeper, 
sweeter,  rarer.  But  the  Captain  and  I 
are  such  old  friends;  and  it  comes  to 
this,  that  I  could  n't  now  do  without 
him.' 

'Of  course,'  cried  H.,  'I  had  forgot- 
ten. You  remind  me  of  something  I 
simply  must  keep  —  the  Elliston.' 

He  snatched  the  'Essays'  from  our 
host's  hands  and  read  the  following 
passage,  while  we  all  laughed  a  double 
laughter,  overtly  with  him  and  covert- 
ly at  him,  for  if  there  is  one  man  living 
who  might  be  the  hero  to-day  of  a  sim- 
ilar story  it  is  H.  himself,  who  has  a 
capriciousness,  an  impulsiveness,  a  for- 
getfulness,  and  a  grandiosity  that  are 
Ellistonian  or  nothing. 

'"Those  who  know  Elliston,'"  he 
read,  '"will  know  the  manner  in  which 
he  pronounced  the  latter  sentence  of 
the  few  words  I  am  about  to  record. 
One  proud  day  to  me  he  took  his  roast 
mutton  with  us  in  the  Temple,  to  which 
I  had  superadded  a  preliminary  had- 
dock. After  a  rather  plentiful  partak- 
ing of  the  meagre  banquet,  not  unre- 
freshed  with  the  humbler  sort  of 
liquors,  I  made  a  sort  of  apology  for 
the  humility  of  the  fare,  observing  that 
for  my  own  part  I  never  ate  but  of  one 
dish  at  dinner.  'I  too  never  eat  but 


THE   EMBARRASSED   ELIMINATORS 


519 


one  thing  at  dinner,'  —  was  his  reply; 
then,  after  a  pause,  —  '  reckoning  fish 
as  nothing.'  The  manner  was  all.  It 
was  as  if  by  one  peremptory  sentence 
he  had  decreed  the  annihilation  of  all 
the  savoury  esculents  which  the  pleas- 
ant and  nutritious-food-giving  Ocean 
pours  forth  upon  poor  humans  from 
her  watery  bosom.  This  was  greatness, 
tempered  with  considerate  tenderness 
to  the  feelings  of  his  scanty  but  wel- 
coming entertainer." 

'No,'  said  H.  emphatically  as  he 
closed  the  book.  '  I  stick  to  that.  Ellis- 
ton.  That's  my  ultimate  choice.' 

'Well,'  said  our  host,  reclaiming  the 
book,  'my  vote  if  I  had  one  would  be 
"  Mackery  End  in  Hertfordshire,"  and 
I  make  the  declaration  quite  calmly, 
knowing  that  we  are  all  safe  to  retain 
what  we  will.  James  will  of  course  dis- 
agree with  the  choice;  but  then  you  see 
I  am  a  sentimentalist,  and  when  Lamb 
writes  about  his  sister  and  his  child- 
hood I  am  lost.  And  "Mackery  End" 
delights  me  in  two  ways,  for  it  not  only 
has  the  wonderful  picture  of  Bridget 
Elia  in  it,  but  we  see  Lamb  also  in  one 
of  his  rapturous  walks  in  his  own  coun- 
try. I  never  see  a  field  of  wheat  with- 
out recalling  his  phrase  of  Hertford- 
shire as  "that  fine  corn  country."' 

'All  very  well,'  said  James,  'but  if 
you  talk  like  this,  how  are  you  going  to 
let  "Dream  Children"  go?' 

'Ah,  yes,'  sighed  our  host,  '  "Dream 
Children "  —  of  course.  How  could  I 
let  that  go?  No,  it's  too  difficult.' 

'What  about  this?'  said  the  grave 
incisive  voice  of  K.,  who  had  not  yet 
spoken,  and  ha  began  to  read:  — 

"In  proportion  as  the  years  both  less- 
en and  shorten,  I  set  more  count  upon 
their  periods,  and  would  fain  lay  my 
ineffectual  finger  upon  the  spoke  of 
the  great  wheel.  I  am  not  content  to 
pass  away  'like  a  weaver's  shuttle.' 
Those  metaphors  solace  me  not,  nor 
sweeten  the  unpalatable  draught  of 


mortality.  I  care  not  to  be  carried  with 
the  tide  that  smoothly  bears  human 
life  to  eternity;  and  reluct  at  the  inevit- 
able course  of  destiny.  I  am  in  love 
with  this  green  earth;  the  face  of  town 
and  country;  the  unspeakable  rural 
solitudes,  and  the  sweet  security  of 
streets."  —  Who  is  going  to  turn  his 
back  forever  on  that  passage?' 

We  all  sighed. 

K.  searched  the  book  again,  and 
again  began  to  read :  — 

'"In  sober  verity  I  will  confess  a 
truth  to  thee,  reader.  I  love  a  Fool  — 
as  naturally  as  if  I  were  of  kith  and  kin 
to  him.  When  a  child,  with  child-like 
apprehensions,  that  dived  not  below 
the  surface  of  the  matter,  I  read  those 
Parables,  —  not  guessing  at  the  in- 
volved wisdom,  —  I  had  more  yearn- 
ings towards  that  simple  architect  that 
built  his  house  upon  the  sand,  than  I 
entertained  for  his  more  cautious  neigh- 
bour: I  grudged  at  the  hard  censure 
pronounced  upon  the  quiet  soul  that 
kept  his  talent;  and  —  prizing  their 
simplicity  beyond  the  more  provident, 
and,  to  my  apprehension,  somewhat 
unfeminine  wariness  of  their  competi- 
tors —  I  felt  kindliness,  that  almost 
amounted  to  a  tendre,  for  those  five 
thoughtless  virgins." 

'  Who  is  going  to  forswear  that  pass- 
age?'  K.  asked  sternly,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
us  as  if  we  were  one  and  all  guilty  of  a 
damnable  heresy.  '  No,'  he  went  on, '  it 
won't  do.  It  is  not  possible  to  name  one 
essay  and  one  only;  therefore  I  have  an 
amendment  to  propose.  Instead  of  be- 
ing permitted  to  retain  only  one  essay, 
why  should  we  not  be  allowed  a  series 
of  passages  equal  in  length  to  the  long- 
est essay  —  say  to  "The  Old  Actors"? 
Then  we  should  not  be  quite  so  hope- 
less. That  for  example  would  enable 
one  to  keep  the  page  on  Bensley's  Mal- 
volio,  the  description  of  Bridget  Elia, 
a  portion  of  the  Mrs.  Battle,  Ralph 
Bigod,  a  portion  of  Captain  Jackson, 


520 


THE  EMBARRASSED  ELIMINATORS 


the  passages  I  have  read,  and  —  what 
personally  I  should  insist  upon  includ- 
ing, earlier  almost  than  anything  — 
the  fallacies  on  rising  with  the  lark  and 
retiring  with  the  lamb.' 

'Well,'  said  the  suggester  of  the 
original  problem,  'it's  a  compromise, 
and  therefore  no  fun.  But  you  may 
play  with  it  if  you  like.  The  sweeping- 
ness  of  the  first  question  was  of  course 
its  merit.  James  is  the  only  one  of  you 
with  courage  enough  really  to  make  a 
choice.' 

'Oh  no,'  said  our  host,  'I  chose  one, 
and  one  only,  instantly — "Old  China." ' 

'Nonsense,'  said  James,  'you  chose 
"MackeryEnd."' 

' There  you  are,'  said  K.  '  That  shows.' 

'Well,  I  refuse  to  be  deprived  of 
"Old  China"  anyway,'  said  our  host, 
'even  if  I  named  "  Mackery  End."  How 
could  one  live  without  "Old  China"? 
Our  discussion  reminds  me,'  he  added, 
'of  a  very  pretty  poem.  It  is  by  an 
American  who  came  nearer  Lamb  in 
humor  and  "the  tact  of  humanity" 
than  perhaps  any  writer  —  the  Auto- 
crat. Let  me  read  it  to  you.' 

He  reached  for  a  volume  and  read  as 
follows :  — 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring! 
I  'd  rather  laugh,  a  bright-haired  boy, 

Than  reign,  a  gray-beard  king. 

Off  with  the  spoils  of  wrinkled  age! 

Away  with  Learning's  crown! 
Tear  out  life's  Wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame! 


While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 
To  find  the  wished-for  day?' 

'Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind! 
Without  thee  what  were  life? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind: 
I  '11  take  —  my  —  precious  —  wife! ' 

The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 

And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  husband  too  I 

'And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid, 

Before  the  change  appears? 
Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 

With  those  dissolving  years.'        •    : 

'Why,  yes';  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys; 
'I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all  — 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys. 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen,  — 

'Why,  this  will  never  do; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 
And  be  a  father  too!' 


My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 
And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 

'  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair 
Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

'But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track, 
To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 


And  so  I  laughed,  —  my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise,  — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 
To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 

'We,'  said  our  host,  'are  like  that: 
we  would  eliminate  most  of  Elia  and 
have  our  Elia  too.' 

'Yes,'  said  K.  'Exactly.  We  want 
them  all.  And  we  value  them  the  more 
as  we  grow  older  and  they  grow  truer 
and  better!  For  that  is  Lamb's  way. 
He  sat  down  —  often  in  his  employer's 
time  —  to  amuse  the  readers  of  a  new 
magazine  and  earn  a  few  of  those  extra 
guineas  which  made  it  possible  to  write 
"Old  China,"  and  behold  he  was  shed- 
ding radiance  on  almost  every  fact  of 
life  no  matter  how  spiritually  recon- 
dite or  how  remote  from  his  own  prac- 
tical experience.  No  one  can  rise  from 
Elia  without  having  his  nature  deep- 
ened and  enriched;  and  no  one  having 
read  Elia  can  ever  say  either  offhand  or 
after  a  year's  thought  which  one  essay 
he  will  retain,  to  the  loss  of  all  the 
others.' 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


BY   JOHN    MUIR 


August^.  [1869.] — It  seemed  strange 
to  sleep  in  a  paltry  hotel  chamber  after 
the  spacious  magnificence  and  luxury 
of  the  starry  sky  and  Silver  Fir  grove. 
Bade  farewell  to  my  friend  and  the 
General.  The  old  soldier  was  very 
kind,  and  an  interesting  talker.  He  told 
me  long  stories  of  the  Florida  Seminole 
war  in  which  he  took  part,  and  in- 
vited me  to  visit  him  in  Omaha.  Call- 
ing Carlo,  I  scrambled  home  through 
the  Indian  Canon  gate,  rejoicing,  pity- 
ing the  poor  Professor  and  General 
bound  by  clocks,  almanacs,  orders, 
duties,  etc.,  and  compelled  to  dwell 
with  lowland  care  and  dust  and  din 
where  Nature  is  covered  and  her  voice 
smothered,  while  the  poor  insignificant 
wanderer  enjoys  the  freedom  and  glory 
of  God's  wilderness. 

Apart  from  the  human  interest  of 
my  visit  to-day,  I  greatly  enjoyed  Yo- 
semite,  which  I  had  visited  only  once 
before,  having  spent  eight  days  last 
spring  in  rambling  amid  its  rocks  and 
waters.  Wherever  we  go  in  the  moun- 
tains, or  indeed  in  any  of  God's  wild 
fields,  we  find  more  than  we  seek.  De- 
scending four  thousand  feet  in  a  few 
hours,  we  enter  a  new  world;  climate, 
plants,  sounds,  inhabitants,  and  scen- 
ery all  new  or  changed.  Near  camp  the 
gold-cup  oak  forms  sheets  of  chaparral 
on  top  of  which  we  may  make  our  beds. 
Going  down  the  Indian  Canon,  we 
observe  this  little  bush  changing  by 
regular  gradations  to  a  large  bush,  to  a 

1  Earlier  portions  of  this  journal  were  pub- 
lished in  the  January,  February,  and  March 
Atlantic,  —  THE  EDITOBS, 


small  tree,  and  then  larger,  until  on  the 
rocky  taluses  near  the  bottom  of  the 
valley  we  find  it  developed  into  a  broad, 
wide-spreading,  gnarled,  picturesque 
tree  from  four  to  eight  feet  in  diameter, 
and  forty  or  fifty  feet  high.  Innumer- 
able are  the  forms  of  water  displayed. 
Every  gliding  reach,  cascade,  and  fall 
has  characters  of  its  own.  Had  a  good 
view  of  the  Vernal  and  Nevada,  two  of 
the  main  falls  of  the  valley,  less  than  a 
mile  apart,  and  offering  striking  differ- 
ences in  voice,  form,  color,  etc. 

The  Vernal,  four  hundred  feet  high  and 
about  seventy-five  or  eighty  feet  wide, 
drops  smoothly  over  a  round-lipped  pre- 
cipice and  forms  a  superb  apron  of  em- 
broidery, green  and  white,  slightly  fold- 
ed and  fluted,  maintaining  this  form 
nearly  to  the  bottom,  where  it  is  sud- 
denly veiled  in  quick  flying  billows  of 
spray  and  mist,  in  which  the  afternoon 
sunbeams  play  with  ravishing  beauty 
of  rainbow  colors. 

The  Nevada  is  white  from  its  first 
appearance  as  it  leaps  out  into  the 
freedom  of  the  air.  At  the  head,  it 
presents  a  twisted  appearance  by  an 
overfolding  of  the  current  from  strik- 
ing on  the  side  of  its  channel  just  be- 
fore the  first  frSe  outbounding  leap  is 
made.  About  two  thirds  of  the  way 
down,  the  hurrying  throng  of  comet- 
shaped  masses  glances  on  an  inclined 
part  of  the  face  of  the  precipice,  and 
is  beaten  into  yet  whiter  foam,  great- 
ly expanded,  and  sent  bounding  out- 
ward, making  an  indescribably  glorious 
show,  especially  when  the  afternoon 
sunshine  is  pouring  into  it.  In  this  fall, 

521 


522 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


one  of  the  most  wonderful  in  the  world, 
the  water  does  not  seem  to  be  under 
the  dominion  of  ordinary  laws,  but 
rather  as  if  it  were  a  living  creature  full 
of  the  strength  of  the  mountains  and 
their  huge,  wild  joy. 

August  5.  —  We  were  awakened  this 
morning  before  daybreak  by  the  furi- 
ous barking  of  Carlo  and  Jack,  and  the 
sound  of  stampeding  sheep.  Billy  fled 
from  his  punk-bed  to  the  fire,  and  re- 
fused to  stir  into  the  darkness  to  try 
to  gather  the  scattered  flock,  or  ascer- 
tain the  nature  of  the  disturbance.  It 
was  a  bear  attack,  as  we  afterward 
learned,  and  I  suppose  little  was  gained 
by  attempting  to  do  anything  before 
daylight.  Nevertheless,  being  anxious  to 
know  what  was  up,  Carlo  and  I  groped 
our  way  through  the  woods,  guided  by 
the  sound  made  by  fragments  of  the 
flock,  not  fearing  the  bear,  for  I  knew 
that  the  runaways  would  go  from  their 
enemy  as  far  as  possible,  and  Carlo's 
nose  was  also  to  be  depended  upon. 

About  half  a  mile  east  of  the  corral  we 
overtook  twenty  or  thirty  of  the  flock, 
and  succeeded  in  driving  them  back. 
Then  turning  to  the  westward  we  traced 
another  band  of  fugitives  and  got  them 
back  to  the  flock.  After  daybreak  I 
discovered  the  remains  of  a  sheep  car- 
cass still  warm,  showing  that  Bruin 
must  have  been  enjoying  his  early  mut- 
ton breakfast  while  I  was  seeking  the 
runaway.  He  had  eaten  about  half  of 
it.  Six  dead  sheep  lay  in  the  corral, 
evidently  smothered  by  the  crowding 
and  piling  up  of  the  flock  against  the 
side  of  the  corral  wall  when  the  bear 
entered.  Making  a  wide  circuit  of  the 
camp,  Carlo  and  I  discovered  a  third 
band  of  fugitives,  and  drove  them  back 
to  camp.  We  also  discovered  another 
dead  sheep  half-eaten,  showing  there 
had  been  two  of  the  shaggy  freebooters 
at  this  early  breakfast.  They  were 
easily  traced.  They  had  each  caught 


a  sheep,  jumped  over  the  corral  fence 
with  it,  carrying  them  as  a  cat  carries 
a  mouse,  laid  them  at  the  foot  of  fir 
trees  a  hundred  yards  or  so  back  from 
the  corral,  and  eaten  their  fill.  After 
breakfast  I  set  out  to  seek  more  of  the 
lost,  and  found  seventy-five  at  a  con- 
siderable distance  from  camp.  In  the 
afternoon  I  succeeded  with  Carlo's 
help  in  getting  them  back  to  the  flock. 
I  don't  know  whether  all  are  together 
again  or  not.  I  shall  make  a  big  fire 
this  evening  and  keep  watch. 

When  I  asked  Billy  why  he  made  his 
bed  against  the  corral  in  rotten  wood 
when  so  many  better  places  offered,  he 
replied  that  he  'wished  to  be  as  near 
the  sheep  as  possible  in  case  bears 
should  attack  them.'  Now  that  the 
bears  have  come,  he  has  moved  his  bed 
to  the  far  side  of  the  camp,  and  seems 
afraid  of  being  mistaken  for  a  sheep. 

This  has  been  mostly  a  sheep  day, 
and  of  course  studies  have  been  inter- 
rupted. Nevertheless  the  walk  through 
the  gloom  of  the  woods  before  the  dawn 
was  worth  while,  and  I  have  learned 
something  about  these  noble  bears. 
Their  tracks  are  very  telling,  and  so 
are  their  breakfasts.  Scarce  a  trace  of 
clouds  to-day,  and  of  course  our  ordin- 
ary midday  thunder  is  a-wanting. 

August  10. — Another  of  those  charm- 
ing, exhilarating  days  that  make  the 
blood  dance,  and  excite  nerve-currents 
that  render  one  unweariable  and  well- 
nigh  immortal.  Had  another  view  of 
the  broad  ice-ploughed  divide,  and 
gazed  again  and  again  at  the  Sierra 
temple  and  the  great  red  mountains 
east  of  the  meadows. 

We  are  camped  near  the  Soda  Springs 
on  the  north  side  of  the  river.  A  hard 
time  we  had  getting  the  sheep  across. 
They  were  driven  into  a  horseshoe  bend 
and  fairly  crowded  off  the  bank.  They 
seemed  willing  to  suffer  death  rather 
than  risk  getting  wet,  though  they  swim 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


523 


well  enough  when  they  have  to.  Why 
sheep  should  be  so  unreasonably  afraid 
of  water,  I  don't  know,  but  they  do  fear 
it  as  soon  as  they  are  born,  and  perhaps 
before.  I  once  saw  a  lamb  only  a  few 
hours  old  approach  a  shallow  stream 
about  two  feet  wide  and  an  inch  deep, 
after  it  had  walked  only  about  a  hun- 
dred yards  on  its  life  journey.  All  the 
flock  to  which  it  belonged  had  crossed 
this  inch-deep  stream,  and  as  the  mo- 
ther and  her  lamb  were  the  last  to 
cross  I  had  a  good  opportunity  to  ob- 
serve them.  As  soon  as  the  flock  was 
out  of  the  way,  the  anxious  mother 
crossed  over  and  called  the  youngster. 
It  walked  cautiously  to  the  brink, 
gazed  at  the  water,  bleated  piteously, 
and  refused  to  venture.  The  patient 
mother  went  back  to  it  again  and  again 
to  encourage  it,  but  long  without  avail. 
Like  the  pilgrim  on  Jordan's  stormy 
bank,  it  feared  to  launch  away.  At 
length,  gathering  its  trembling,  inex- 
perienced legs  for  the  mighty  effort, 
throwing  up  its  head  as  if  it  knew  all 
about  drowning  and  was  anxious  to 
keep  its  nose  above  water,  it  made  the 
tremendous  leap  and  landed  in  the 
middle  of  the  inch-deep  stream.  It 
seemed  astonished  to  find  that  instead 
of  sinking  over  head  and  ears,  only  its 
toes  were  wet,  gazed  at  the  shining 
water  a  few  seconds,  and  then  sprang 
to  the  shore  safe  and  dry  through  the 
dreadful  adventure.  All  kinds  of  wild 
sheep  are  mountain  animals,  and  their 
descendants'  dread  of  water  is  not  easi- 
ly accounted  for. 

August  12.  — The  sky-scenery  has 
changed  but  little  so  far  with  the  change 
in  elevation.  Clouds  about  .05.  Glori- 
ous pearly  cumuli  tinted  with  purple 
of  ineffable  fineness  of  tone.  Moved 
camp  to  the  side  of  the  glacier  meadow 
mentioned  above.  To  let  sheep  tram- 
ple so  divinely  fine  a  place  seems  bar- 
barous. Fortunately  they  prefer  the 


succulent  broad-leaved  triticum  and 
other  woodland  grasses  to  the  silky 
species  of  the  meadows,  and  therefore 
seldom  bite  them  or  set  foot  on  them. 

The  shepherd  and  the  Don  cannot 
agree  about  methods  of  herding.  Billy 
sets  his  dog  Jack  on  the  sheep  far  too 
often,  so  the  Don  thought,  and  after 
some  dispute  to-day,  in  which  the  shep- 
herd loudly  claimed  the  right  to  dog 
the  sheep  as  often  as  he  pleased,  he 
started  for  the  plains.  Now  I  suppose 
the  care  of  the  sheep  will  fall  on  me, 
though  Mr.  Delaney  promises  to  do  the 
herding  himself  for  a  while,  then  re- 
turn to  the  lowlands,  and  bring  an- 
other shepherd,  so  as  to  leave  me  free 
to  rove  as  I  like. 

Had  another  rich  ramble.  Pushed 
northward  beyond  the  forests  to  the 
head  of  the  general  basin,  where  traces 
of  glacial  action  are  strikingly  clear 
and  interesting.  The  recesses  among 
the  peaks  look  like  quarries,  so  raw 
and  fresh  are  the  moraine-chips  and 
boulders  that  strew  the  ground  in  Na- 
ture's glacial  workshops. 

Soon  after  my  return  to  camp  we 
received  a  visit  from  an  Indian,  prob- 
ably one  of  the  hunters  whose  camp  I 
had  discovered.  He  came  from  Mono, 
he  said,  with  others  of  his  tribe,  to  hunt 
deer.  One  that  he  had  killed  a  short 
distance  from  here  he  was  carrying  on 
his  back,  its  legs  tied  together  in  an 
ornamental  bunch  on  his  forehead. 
Throwing  down  his  burden,  he  gazed 
stolidly  for  a  few  minutes  in  silent  In- 
dian fashion,  then  cut  off  eight  or  ten 
pounds  of  venison  for  us,  and  begged  a 
'HIP  (little)  of  everything  he  saw  or 
could  think  of,  —  flour,  bread,  sugar, 
tobacco,  whiskey,  needles,  etc.  We  gave 
a  fair  price  for  the  meat  in  flour  and 
sugar,  and  added  a  few  needles. 

A  strangely  dirty  and  irregular  life 
these  dark-eyed,  dark-haired,  half-hap- 
py savages  lead  in  this  clean  wilderness; 
starvation  and  abundance,  death-like 


524 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


calm,  indolence,  and  admirable  inde- 
fatigable action  succeeding  each  other 
in  stormy  rhythm,  like  winter  and  sum- 
mer. Two  things  they  have  that  civil- 
ized toilers  might  well  envy  them  — 
pure  air  and  pure  water.  These  go  far 
to  cover  and  cure  the  grossness  of  their 
lives.  Their  food  is  mostly  good  ber- 
ries, pine-nuts,  clover,  lily-bulbs,  wild 
sheep,  antelope,  deer,  grouse,  sage-hens, 
and  the  larvae  of  ants,  wasps,  bees,  and 
other  insects. 

August  13. — On  my  return  after  sun- 
set to  the  Portuguese  camp  after  a 
grand  ramble  along  the  Yosemite  walls, 
I  found  the  shepherds  greatly  excited 
over  the  behavior  of  the  bears  that 
have  learned  to  like  mutton.  'They  are 
getting  worse  and  worse,'  they  lament- 
ed. Not  willing  to  wait  decently  until 
after  dark  for  their  suppers,  they  come 
and  kill  and  eat  their  fill  in  broad  day- 
light. The  evening  before  my  arrival, 
when  the  two  shepherds  were  leisurely 
driving  the  flock  toward  camp  half  an 
hour  before  sunset,  a  hungry  bear  came 
out  of  the  chaparral  within  a  few  yards 
of  them  and  shuffled  deliberately  to- 
ward the  flock.  '  Portuguese  Joe, '  who 
always  carries  a  gun  loaded  with  buck- 
shot, fired  excitedly,  threw  down  his 
gun,  fled  to  the  nearest  suitable  tree, 
and  climbed  to  a  safe  height  without 
waiting  to  see  the  effect  of  his  shot. 
His  companion  also  ran,  but  said  that 
he  saw  the  bear  rise  on  its  hind  legs 
and  throw  out  its  arms  as  if  feeling  for 
somebody,  and  then  go  into  the  brush 
as  if  wounded. 

At  another  of  their  camps  in  this 
neighborhood  a  bear  with  two  cubs 
attacked  the  flock  before  sunset  just  as 
they  were  approaching  the  corral.  Joe 
promptly  climbed  a  tree  out  of  danger, 
while  Antone,  rebuking  his  companion 
for  cowardice  in  abandoning  his  charge, 
said  that  he  was  not  going  to  let  bears 
'eat  up  his  sheeps'  in  daylight,  and 


rushed  toward  the  bears,  shouting  and 
setting  his  dog  on  them.  The  fright- 
ened cubs  climbed  a  tree,  but  the  mo- 
ther ran  to  meet  the  shepherd,  and 
seemed  anxious  to  fight.  Antone  stood 
astonished  for  a  moment,  eying  the 
on-coming  bear,  then  turned  and  fled, 
closely  pursued.  Unable  to  reach  a  suit- 
able tree  for  climbing,  he  ran  to  the 
camp  and  scrambled  up  to  the  roof  of 
the  little  cabin;  the  bear  followed,  but 
did  not  climb  to  the  roof,  only  stood 
glaring  up  at  him  for  a  few  minutes, 
threatening  him  and  holding  him  in 
mortal  terror,  then  went  to  her  cubs, 
called  them  down,  went  to  the  flock, 
caught  a  sheep  for  supper,  and  vanished 
in  the  brush.  As  soon  as  the  bear  left 
the  cabin  the  trembling  Antone  begged 
Joe  to  show  him  a  good  safe  tree,  up 
which  he  climbed  like  a  sailor  climbing 
a  mast,  and  remained  as  long  as  he 
could  hold  on,  the  tree  being  almost 
branchless. 

After  these  disastrous  experiences 
the  shepherds  chopped  and  gathered 
large  piles  of  dry  wood,  and  made  a 
ring  of  fire  around  the  corral  every 
night,  while  one  with  a  gun  kept  watch 
from  a  comfortable  stage  built  on  a 
neighboring  pine  that  commanded  a 
view  of  the  corral.  This  evening  the 
show  made  by  the  circle  of  fire  was 
very  fine,  bringing  out  the  surrounding 
trees  in  most  impressive  relief,  and 
making  the  thousands  of  sheep  eyes 
glow  like  a  glorious  bed  of  diamonds. 

August  14.  —  Up  to  the  time  I  went 
to  bed  last  night  all  was  quiet,  though 
we  expected  the  shaggy  freebooters 
every  minute.  They  did  not  come  till 
near  midnight,  when  a  pair  walked 
boldly  to  the  corral  between  two  of  the 
great  fires,  climbed  in,  killed  two  sheep 
and  smothered  ten,  while  the  fright- 
ened watcher  in  the  tree  did  not  fire  a 
single  shot,  saying  that  he  was  afraid 
he  might  kill  some  of  the  sheep,  for  the 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


525 


bears  got  into  the  corral  before  he  got 
a  good  clear  view  of  them.  I  told  the 
shepherds  they  should  at  once  move 
the  flock  to  another  camp.  '  Oh,  no  use, 
no  use,'  they  lamented.  'Where  we  go 
the  bears  go  too.  See  my  poor  dead 
sheeps,  soon  all  dead.  No  use  try  an- 
other camp.  We  go  down  to  the  plains.' 
And  as  I  afterwards  learned,  they  were 
driven  out  of  the  mountains  a  month 
before  the  usual  time.  Were  bears  much 
more  numerous  and  destructive  the 
sheep  would  be  kept  away  altogether. 
It  seems  strange  that  bears,  so  fond 
of  all  sorts  of  flesh,  running  the  risks  of 
guns  and  fires  and  poison,  should  never 
attack  men  except  in  defense  of  their 
young.  How  easily  and  safely  a  bear 
could  pick  us  up  as  we  lie  asleep!  Only 
wolves  and  tigers  seem  to  have  learned 
to  hunt  man  for  food,  and  perhaps 
sharks  and  crocodiles.  Mosquitoes  and 
other  insects  would,  I  suppose,  devour 
a  helpless  man  in  some  regions,  and  so 
might  lions,  leopards,  wolves,  hyenas, 
and  panthers  at  times,  if  pressed  by 
hunger;  but  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances perhaps  only  the  tiger  among 
land  animals  may  be  said  to  be  a  man- 
eater,  unless  we  add  man  himself. 

Clouds  as  usual  about  .05.  Another 
glorious  Sierra  day,  warm,  crisp,  fra- 
grant, and  clear.  Many  of  the  flowering 
plants  have  gone  to  seed,  but  many 
others  are  unfolding  their  petals  every 
day,  and  the  firs  and  pines  are  more 
fragrant  than  ever.  Their  seeds  are 
nearly  ripe,  and  will  soon  be  flying  in 
the  merriest  flocks  that  ever  spread  a 
wing. 

On  the  way  back  to  our  Tuolumne 
camp,  enjoyed  the  scenery  if  possible 
more  than  when  it  first  came  to  view. 
Every  feature  already  seems  familiar, 
as  if  I  had  lived  here  always.  I  never 
weary  gazing  at  the  wonderful  Cathe- 
dral. It  has  more  individual  character 
than  any  other  rock  or  mountain  I  ever 


saw,  excepting 'perhaps  the  Yosemite 
South  Dome.  The  forests  too  seem 
kindly  familiar,  and  the  lakes  and 
meadows  and  glad,  singing  streams.  I 
should  like  to  dwell  with  them  forever. 
Here  with  bread  and  water  I  should  be 
content.  Even  if  not  allowed  to  roam 
and  climb,  tethered  to  a  stake  or  tree 
in  some  meadow  or  grove,  even  then  I 
should  be  content  forever.  Bathed  in 
such  beauty,  watching  the  expressions 
ever  varying  on  the  faces  of  the  moun- 
tains, watching  the  stars,  which  here 
have  a  glory  that  the  lowlander  never 
dreams  of,  watching  the  circling  sea- 
sons, listening  to  the  songs  of  the 
waters  and  winds  and  birds,  would  be 
endless  pleasure.  And  what  glorious 
cloud-lands  I  would  see!  storms  and 
calms,  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth 
every  day,  aye,  and  new  inhabitants. 
And  how  many  visitors  I  would  have! 
I  feel  sure  I  would  not  have  one  dull 
moment.  And  why  should  this  appear 
extravagant?  It  is  only  common  sense, 
a  sign  of  health,  —  genuine  natural  all- 
awake  health.  One  would  be  at  an 
endless  Godful  play,  and  what  speech- 
es and  music  and  acting  and  scenery 
and  lights!  sun,  moon,  stars,  auroras. 
Creation  just  beginning,  the  morning 
stars  *  still  singing  together  and  all  the 
sons  of  God  shouting  for  joy.' 

August  22.  —  Clouds  none,  cool  west 
wind,  slight  hoar-frost  on  the  meadows. 
Carlo  is  missing;  have  been  seeking 
him  all  day.  In  the  thick  woods  be- 
tween camp  and  the  river,  among  tall 
grass  and  fallen  pines,  I  discovered  a 
baby  fawn.  At  first  it  seemed  inclined 
to  come  to  me,  but  when  I  tried  to 
catch  it,  and  got  within  a  rod  or  two, 
it  turned  and  walked  softly  away,  choos- 
ing its  steps  like  a  cautious,  stealthy, 
hunting  cat.  Then  as  if  suddenly  called 
or  alarmed,  it  began  to  buck  and  run 
like  a  grown  deer,  jumping  high  above 
the  fallen  trunks,  and  was  soon  out  of 


526 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


sight.  Possibly  its  mother  may  have 
called  it,  but  I  did  not  hear  her.  I  don't 
think  fawns  ever  leave  the  home  thicket 
or  follow  their  mothers  until  they  are 
called  or  frightened.  I  am  distressed 
about  Carlo.  There  are  several  other 
camps  and  dogs  not  many  miles  from 
here,  and  I  still  hope  to  find  him.  He 
never  left  me  before.  Panthers  are  very 
rare  here,  and  I  don't  think  any  of  them 
would  dare  touch  him.  He  knows  bears 
too  well  to  be  caught  by  them,  and  as 
for  Indians,  they  don't  want  him. 

August  23.  —  Cool,  bright  day  hint- 
ing Indian  summer.  Mr.  Delaney  has 
gone  to  the  Smith  Ranch  on  the  Tuo- 
lumne  below  Hetch  Hetchy  Valley,  thir- 
ty-five or  forty  miles  from  here,  so  I  '11 
be  alone  for  a  week  or  more;  not  really 
alone,  for  Carlo  has  come  back.  He  was 
at  a  camp  a  few  miles  to  the  northwest- 
ward. He  looked  sheepish  and  ashamed 
when  I  asked  him  where  he  had  been, 
and  why  he  had  gone  away  without 
leave.  He  is  now  trying  to  get  me  to 
caress  him,  and  show  signs  of  forgive- 
ness,—  a  wondrous  wise  dog.  A  great 
load  is  off  my  mind.  I  could  not  have 
left  the  mountains  without  him.  He 
seems  very  glad  to  get  back  to  me. 

Rose  and  crimson  sunset,  and  soon 
after  the  stars  appeared  the  moon  rose 
in  most  impressive  majesty  over  the 
top  of  Mt.  Dana.  I  sauntered  up  the 
meadow  in  the  white  light.  The  jet- 
black  tree-shadows  were  so  wonder- 
fully distinct  and  substantial-looking, 
I  often  stepped  high  in  crossing  them, 
taking  them  for  black  charred  logs. 

August  28.  —  The  dawn  a  glorious 
song  of  color.  Sky  absolutely  cloudless. 
A  fine  crop  of  hoar-frost.  Warm  after 
ten  o'clock.  The  gentians  don't  mind 
the  first  frost,  though  their  petals  seem 
so  delicate;  they  close  every  night  as  if 
going  to  sleep,  and  awake  fresh  as  ever 
in  the  morning  sun-glory.  The  grass  is 


a  shade  browner  since  last  week,  but 
there  are  no  nipped,  wilted  plants  of 
any  sort  as  far  as  I  have  seen.  Butter- 
flies and  the  grand  host  of  smaller  flies 
are  benumbed  every  night,  but  they 
hover  and  dance  in  the  sunbeams  over 
the  meadows  before  noon  with  no  ap- 
parent lack  of  playful,  joyful  life.  Soon 
they  must  all  fall  like  petals  in  an  or- 
chard, dry  and  wrinkled,  not  a  wing  of 
all  the  mighty  host  left  to  tingle  the  air. 
Nevertheless  new  myriads  will  arise  in 
the  spring,  rejoicing,  exulting,  as  if 
laughing  cold  death  to  scorn. 

August  30.  — This  day  just  like  yes- 
terday. A  few  clouds,  motionless  and 
apparently  with  no  work  to  do  beyond 
beauty.  Frost  enough  for  crystal-build- 
ing, —  glorious  fields  of  ice-diamonds 
destined  to  last  but  a  night.  How  lav- 
ish is  Nature,  building,  pulling  down, 
creating,  destroying,  chasing  every 
material  particle  from  form  to  form, 
ever  changing,  ever  beautiful. 

Mr.  Delaney  arrived  this  morning. 
Felt  not  a  trace  of  loneliness  while  he 
was  gone.  On  the  contrary,  I  never 
enjoyed  grander  company.  The  whole 
wilderness  seems  to  be  alive  and  famil- 
iar, full  of  humanity.  The  very  stones 
seem  talkative,  sympathetic,  brother- 
ly. No  wonder  when  we  think  that  we 
all  have  the  same  Father  and  Mother. 

August  31.  —  Clouds  .05.  Silky  cir- 
rus wisps  and  fringes  so  fine  they  almost 
escape  notice.  Frost  enough  for  an- 
other crop  of  crystals  on  the  meadows, 
but  none  on  the  forests.  The  gentians, 
goldenrods,  asters,  etc.,  don't  seem  to 
feel  it;  neither  petals  nor  leaves  are 
touched,  though  they  seem  so  tender. 
Every  day  opens  and  closes  like  a  flow- 
er, noiseless,  effortless.  Divine  peace 
glows  on  all  the  majestic  landscape, 
like  the  silent,  enthusiastic  joy  that 
sometimes  transfigures  a  noble  human 
face. 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


527 


September  6.  —  Still  another  perfect- 
ly cloudless  day,  purple  evening  and 
morning,  all  the  middle  hours  one  mass 
of  pure,  serene  sunshine.  Soon  after 
sunrise  the  air  grew  warm,  and  there 
was  no  wind.  There  is  a  suggestion  of 
real  Indian  summer  in  the  hushed, 
brooding,  faintly  hazy  weather.  The 
yellow  atmosphere,  though  thin,  is  still 
plainly  of  the  same  general  character 
as  that  of  Eastern  Indian  summer.  The 
peculiar  mellowness  is  perhaps  in  part 
caused  by  myriads  of  ripe  spores  adrift 
in  the  sky. 

Mr.  Delaney  now  keeps  up  a  solemn 
talk  about  the  need  of  getting  away 
from  these  high  mountains,  telling  sad 
stories  of  flocks  that  perished  in  storms 
that  broke  suddenly  into  the  midst  of 
fine  innocent  weather  like  this  we  are 
now  enjoying.  'In  no  case,'  said  he, 
'will  I  venture  to  stay  so  high  and  far 
back  in  the  mountains  as  we  now  are 
later  than  the  middle  of  this  month,  no 
matter  how  warm  and  sunny  it  may 
be.'  He  would  move  the  flock,  slowly 
at  first,  a  few  miles  a  day  until  the 
Yosemite  Creek  Basin  was  reached  and 
crossed;  then  while  lingering  in  the 
heavy  pine  woods,  should  the  weather 
threaten,  he  could  hurry  down  to  the 
foothills,  where  the  snow  never  falls 
deep  enough  to  smother  a  sheep.  Of 
course  I  am  anxious  to  see  as  much  of 
the  wilderness  as  possible  in  the  few 
days  left  me,  and  I  say  again,  —  May 
the  good  time  come  when  I  can  stay  as 
long  as  I  like  with  plenty  of  bread,  far 
and  free  from  trampling  flocks,  though 
I  may  well  be  thankful  for  this  gener- 
ous, foodful,  inspiring  summer.  Any- 
how, we  never  know  where  we  must  go, 
nor  what  guides  we  are  to  get, — men, 
storms,  guardian  angels,  or  sheep.  Per- 
haps almost  everybody  in  the  least 
natural  is  guided  more  than  he  is  ever 
aware  of.  All  the  wilderness  seems  to  be 
full  of  tricks  and  plans  to  drive  and 
draw  us  up  into  God's  light. 


September  9.  —  Weariness  rested 
away,  and  I  feel  eager  and  ready  for  an- 
other excursion  a  month  or  two  long 
in  the  same  wonderful  wilderness. 
Now,  however,  I  must  turn  toward  the 
lowlands,  praying  and  hoping  Heaven 
will  shove  me  back  again. 

The  most  telling  thing  learned  in 
these  mountain  excursions  is  the  in- 
fluence of  cleavage  joints  on  the  feat- 
ures sculptured  from  the  general  mass 
of  the  range.  Evidently  the  denuda- 
tion has  been  enormous,  while  the  in- 
evitable outcome  is  subtle,  balanced 
beauty.  Comprehended  in  general 
views,  the  features  of  the  wildest  land- 
scape seem  to  be  as  harmoniously  re- 
lated as  the  features  of  a  human  face. 
Indeed,  they  look  human,  and  radiate 
spiritual  beauty,  divine  thought,  how- 
ever covered  and  concealed  by  rock 
and  snow. 

Mr.  Delaney  has  hardly  had  time  to 
ask  me  how  I  enjoyed  my  trip,  though 
he  has  facilitated  and  encouraged  my 
plans  all  summer,  and  declares  I'll  be 
famous  some  day,  —  a  kind  guess  that 
seems  strange  and  incredible  to  a  wan- 
dering wilderness  lover  with  never  a 
thought  or  dream  of  fame,  while  hum- 
bly trying  to  trace  and  learn  and  en- 
joy Nature's  lessons. 

The  camp  stuff  is  now  packed  on  the 
horses,  and  the  flock  is  headed  for  the 
home  ranch.  Away  we  go,  down  through 
the  pines,  leaving  the  lovely  lawn  where 
we  have  camped  so  long.  I  wonder  if 
I'll  ever  see  it  again.  The  sod  is  so 
tough  and  close  it  is  scarce  at  all  in- 
jured by  the  sheep.  Fortunately  they 
are  not  fond  of  silky,  glacier  meadow 
grass. 

The  day  is  perfectly  clear,  not  a  cloud 
or  the  faintest  hint  of  a  cloud  is  vis- 
ible, and  there  is  no  wind.  I  wonder  if 
in  all  the  world,  at  a  height  of  nine 
thousand  feet,  weather  so  steadily, 
faithfully  calm  and  bright  and  hos- 
pitable may  anywhere  else  be  found. 


528 


MY  FIRST  SUMMER  IN  THE  SIERRA 


We  are  going  away  fearing  destructive 
storms,  though  it  is  difficult  to  con- 
ceive weather  changes  so  great. 

September  17.  —  Left  camp  early, 
ran  over  the  Tuolumne  divide  and 
down  a  few  miles  to  a  grove  of  sequoias 
that  I  had  heard  of,  directed  by  the 
Don.  They  occupy  an  area  of  perhaps 
less  than  a  hundred  acres.  Some  of  the 
trees  are  noble,  colossal  old  giants  sur- 
rounded by  magnificent  sugar  pines  and 
Douglas  spruces.  The  perfect  speci- 
mens not  burned  or  broken  are  singu- 
larly regular  and  symmetrical,  though 
not  at  all  conventional,  showing  infinite 
variety  in  general  unity  and  harmony. 
The  noble  shafts,  with  rich  brown,  pur- 
plish, fluted  bark,  are  free  of  limbs  for 
one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  or  so,  and 
are  ornamented  here  and  there  with 
leafy  rosettes.  The  main  branches  of 
the  oldest  trees  are  very  large,  crooked, 
and  rugged,  zigzagging  stiffly  outward, 
seemingly  lawless,  yet  unexpectedly 
stopping  just  at  the  right  distance  from 
the  trunk  and  dissolving  in  dense  bossy 
masses  of  branchlets,  thus  making  a 
regular  though  greatly  varied  outline, 
—  a  cylinder  of  leafy,  outbulging  spray 
masses  terminating  in  a  noble  dome 
that  may  be  recognized  while  yet  far 
off,  upheaved  against  the  sky  above  the 
dark  bed  of  pines  and  firs  and  spruces : 
the  king  of  all  conifers,  not  only  in  size 
but  in  sublime  majesty  of  behavior 
and  port.  I  found  a  black  charred 
stump  about  thirty  feet  in  diameter, 
and  eighty  or  ninety  feet  high,  a  ven- 
erable, impressive  old  monument  of  a 
tree  that  in  its  prime  may  have  been 
the  monarch  of  the  grove;  seedlings 
and  saplings  growing  up  here  and  there, 
thrifty  and  hopeful,  giving  no  hint  of 
the  dying-out  of  the  species.  Not  any 
unfavorable  change  of  climate,  but  only 
fire  threatens  the  existence  of  these 
noblest  of  God's  trees.  Sorry  I  was  not 

(The 


able  to  get  a  count  of  the  old  monu- 
ment's annual  rings. 

Camp  this  evening  at  Hazel  Green, 
on  the  broad  back  of  the  dividing  ridge 
near  our  old  camp-ground  when  we  were 
on  the  way  up  the  mountains  in  the 
spring.  This  ridge  has  the  finest  sugar- 
pine  groves,  and  finest  manzanita  and 
ceanothus  thickets,  I  have  yet  found 
on  all  this  wonderful  summer  journey. 

September  21.  — A  terribly  hot,  dusty 
sun-burned  day,  and  as  nothing  was  to 
be  gained  by  loitering  where  the  flock 
could  find  nothing  to  eat  save  thorny 
twigs  and  chaparral,  we  made  a  long 
drive,  and  before  sundown  reached  the 
home  ranch  on  the  Yellow  San  Joaquin 
plain. 

September  22.  —  The  sheep  were 
let  out  of  the  corral  one  by  one  this 
morning  and  counted,  and  strange  to 
say,  after  all  their  long  adventurous 
wanderings  in  bewildering  rocks  and 
brush  and  streams,  scattered  by  bears, 
poisoned  by  azalea,  kalmia,  alkali,  all 
are  accounted  for.  Of  the  two  thou- 
sand and  fifty  that  left  the  corral  in 
the  spring  lean  and  weak,  two  thousand 
and  twenty-five  have  returned  fat  and 
strong.  The  losses  are,  ten  killed  by 
bears,  one  by  a  rattlesnake,  one  that 
had  to  be  killed  after  it  had  broken  its 
leg  on  a  boulder-slope,  and  one  that  ran 
away  in  blind  terror  on  being  accident- 
ally separated  from  the  flock;  thirteen 
all  told.  Of  the  other  twelve  doomed 
never  to  return,  three  were  sold  to 
ranchmen,  and  nine  were  made  camp 
mutton. 

Here  ends  my  forever  memorable 
first  High  Sierra  excursion.  I  have 
crossed  the  Range  of  Light,  surely  the 
brightest  and  best  of  all  the  Lord  has 
built.  And,  rejoicing  in  its  glory,  I 
gladly,  gratefully,  hopefully  pray  I 
may  see  it  again. 

End.} 


A  LITTLE  BABY 


BY   CAROLINE   BRETT  McLEAN 


*  I  WON'T  have  no  lump  of  a  child,' 
said  Judith  tremulously. 

'An'  I  won't  have  no  squallin'  baby,' 
retorted  her  husband.  He  spoke  with 
the  air  of  a  man  goaded  by  the  un- 
reasonableness of  one  he  was  willing  to 
indulge  to  almost  any  limit.  'A  child 
three  or  four  year  old,  now.  Surely 
that  'ud  be  young  enough  for  you,  an' 
no  trouble  to  what  a  reel  young  'un  'ud 
be,  an'  good  comp'ny  for  you  all  day. 
Not  but  that  I  think  a  kid  ten  or  eleven 
year  old  'ud  be  best  to  adopt.  But  I  'm 
willin'  to  take  one  three  or  four,  if  yer 
that  dead  set  on  havin'  a  young  'un.' 
There  was  a  pleading  note  in  his  voice. 

Judith's  was  sullen  as  she  answered, 
'I  won't  have  no  child  three  or  four 
years,  any  more  than  one  ten  or  eleven.' 

Mason,  grew  more  nearly  angry  with 
Judith  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his 
life  before. 

'I  won't  have  no  kid  a  couple  o* 
month&old,'  he  cried.  *  I  don't  want  one 
at  all,  but  if  you  do,  I  'm  willin'  to  take 
one.  But  it'll  have  to  be  one  three  or 
four  year  old.  I  won't  have  no  young 
babies,  an'  that's  flat.' 

In  the  newspaper  he  had  been  read- 
ing there  was  an  advertisement  offering 
for  adoption  a  little  girl  four  years  old. 
After  reading  it  aloud,  Mason  had  cut 
out  the  address  to  which  inquiry  was 
to  be  made,  remarking  as  he  did  so, 
'I'll  call  there  when  I'm  in  town  on 
Saturday.  A  lump  of  a  child  like  that 
is  what  we're  lookin'  for.' 

And  Judith  had  cried  with  tremulous 
defiance,  'I  won't  have  no  lump  of  a 
child.' 

VOL.  107 -NO.  4 


Presently  she  left  the  kitchen  and 
went  into  the  bedroom  leading  off  it. 
She  was  trembling  as  she  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed  in  the  darkness.  She 
had  been  entirely  submissive  toward 
her  husband  during  all  their  married 
life.  She  had  had  no  will  apart  from 
his.  Now  to  find  herself  opposed  to 
him  was  bewildering,  even  terrifying, 
to  her.  She  knew  that  he  looked  upon 
her  as  a  helpless  being,  incapable  of 
judging  for  herself,  requiring  thought 
to  be  taken  for  her  in  every  relation  of 
life.  Judith  had  accepted  this  estimate 
of  herself  without  resentment.  It  seem- 
ed to  her  an  entirely  natural  attitude. 
Her  husband  practically  managed  the 
household.  He  bought  all  Judith's 
clothes  as  well  as  his  own,  and  his  pre- 
ference ruled  in  the  choice  of  the  former 
as  of  the  latter.  Judith  never  expressed 
dissatisfaction  with  what  he  purchased 
for  her.  He  spent  probably  twice  as 
much  on  anything  he  bought  for  her 
as  she  would  have  spent.  The  price 
was  to  him  a  guarantee  that  what  he 
bought  was  much  more  desirable  than 
the  cheaper  something  which  perhaps 
Judith  had  expressed  a  preference  for. 
His  desire  was  always  to  please  his  wife. 
He  was  essentially  a  good  husband, 
but  he  took  his  own  way  of  pleasing  her, 
not  hers.  Nothing  in  his  knowledge  of 
Judith  had  prepared  him  for  the  tenac- 
ity with  which  she  clung  to  her  idea 
that  the  child  they  proposed  to  adopt 
should  not  be  more  than  a  couple  of 
months  old  at  the  most. 

In  not  having  children,  Mason  had 
never  felt  any  loss,  and  until  Judith 

529 


530 


A  LITTLE  BABY 


had  fallen  sick,  he  did  not  know  that 
she  had  felt  any.  A  young  doctor, 
lately  settled  in  the  neighborhood,  had 
been  called  in  to  attend  her.  After 
prescribing  medicine,  he  said  to  James 
Mason  at  the  door, '  She  has  never  had 
any  children?' 

'No,'  the  husband  said,  adding,  'an' 
a  good  thing,  too.  She  ain't  never  been 
what  you'd  call  a  reel  strong  woman.' 

'But  she  might  have  been  a  happier 
one  if  she  had,'  the  young  doctor  re- 
joined. 

James  Mason  looked  after  the  re- 
treating figure  of  the  doctor  in  vague 
perplexity.  The  idea  that  Judith  was 
not  entirely  happy  and  satisfied  was  a 
new  one  to  him. 

A  day  or  so  later,  their  nearest  neigh- 
bor, the  hurried  mother  of  a  large  fam- 
ily, who  ran  over  when  she  could  spare 
a  minute,  to  do  what  she  could  for 
Judith,  said  something  that  seemed  a 
corroboration  of  the  doctor's  opinion. 

'I  think  it's  just  mopin'  here  alone 
all  day  that's  the  matter  with  her. 
Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  I  '11  be  drove 
distracted  with  the  noise  of  my  six. 
But  when  I  come  over  here,  it's  that 
quiet,  I  just  want  to  get  back  to  the 
noise  again.  I  could  n't  stand  the 
quiet  and  bein'  alone  all  day.  As  ye 
ain't  likely  to  ha'  none  o'  yer  own  now, 
I'd  think  you  an'  her  'ud  be  thin  kin' 
of  adoptin'  a  child.  Have  ye  ever 
thought  of  adoptin'  ? ' 

'  I  ain't  never  thought  of  it,  an'  I  'm 
sure  Judith  ain't,'  Mason  said  em- 
phatically. 'Other  folks'  children  ain't 
much  in  my  line,  or  in  hers  either,  I 
guess.' 

'Other  folks'  children  is  all  right 
when  wimmen  can't  ha'  none  o'  their 
own,'  rejoined  the  woman.  'An'  if  it 
was  n't  for  nothin'  but  not  bein'  alone 
when  ye  get  old,  I'd  think  ye'd  be 
wantin'  to  'dopt  one.  She'd  be  a  lot 
sight  happier  havin'  some  one  to  look 
after,  and  be  comp'ny  for  her.' 


James  Mason  pondered  over  his  pipe 
for  a  long  time  after  the  woman  had 
gone,  and  then  went  into  the  room 
where  Judith  lay. 

'Sally  Forsyth's  been  talkin'  'bout 
us  'doptin'  a  kid.  I  ain't  never  thought 
of  it.  But,  I  guess,  there  ain't  nothin' 
to  prevent  it,  if  you  wanted  one,'  he 
said  doubtfully. 

Judith  raised  herself  on  her  elbow. 
'If  I  wanted  one,'  she  said.  Rapture 
and  hunger  were  on  her  face. 

'  Why,  I  never  knowed  you  cared  for 
kids  that  much,'  Mason  cried,  in  vexed 
perplexity  that  a  desire  so  vital  as 
Judith's  face  showed  this  to  be  should 
have  been  kept  from  him.  'We  could 
ha'  'dopted  one  long  ago,  if  ye  'd  only 
said  so.' 

'I  did  n't  think  so  much  'bout  adopt- 
in'.  I  wanted  one  o'  me  own.  An'  when 
I  did  think  of  it,  I  did  n't  know  whether 
you'd  ha'  been  willin'.' 

'I'd  ha'  been  willin'  enough  if  I 
knew  that  you  wanted  it.  But  how 
was  I  to  know  when  you  never  said  a 
word  ?  An'  you  never  was  one  to  take 
up  much  with  kids,  kissin'  them  an'  all 
that.'  He  looked  at  Judith  with  sud- 
den suspicion,  as  if  he  found  it  hard  to 
believe  in  the  existence  of  so  strong  a 
desire  without  some  outward  manifest- 
ation of  it. 

Judith  lay  bacjk  on  her  pillow.  It 
was  true  that  she  had  never  manifested 
any  particular  delight  in  the  children 
that  came  across  her  path.  She  was 
even  diffident  with  them.  Mason  him- 
self was  on  easier  terms  with  children 
than  she.  But  from  her  window  she 
would  watch  them  for  hours,  until  she 
knew  every  trick  and  charm  of  child- 
hood by  heart,  tricks  and  charms  to  be 
brooded  over  in  her  solitary  days.  The 
child  she  had  never  had  would  have 
had  all  those  diverting  little  ways  and 
more.  Because  of  her  very  hunger  for 
a  child  of  her  own,  she  could  not  easily 
caress  the  children  of  happier  women. 


A  LITTLE  BABY 


'Well,  there  ain't  anything  to  hin- 
der us  from  gettin'  one  right  away,' 
Mason  said  after  watching  his  wife  for 
a  while.  '  There 's  always  lots  for  adop- 
tion. Twelve  year  old  'ud  be  about  the 
right  age,  I  guess.  One  that  old  'ud  be 
nice  comp'ny  for  you,  and  able  to^help 
you  some,  too.  Would  you  fancy  a  boy 
or  a  girl?' 

Judith  raised  herself  on  her  elbow 
again.  Her  eyes  were  very  bright.  'I 
don't  care  whether  it 's  a  boy  or  a  girl. 
But  I  don't  want  one  twelve  year 
old.  I  don't  want  one  any  age  at  all. 
I  mean,  I  want  a  little,  little  baby  — 
a  baby  just  born.' 

'A  baby  just  born,'  Mason  almost 
shouted.  'Yer  crazy.  What  would  you 
do  with  a  kid  that  young,  an'  you  sick 
half  the  time.  You  don't  know  what 
yer  talkin'  about.' 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  trou- 
ble. From  twelve  years,  Mason  came 
down  by  successive  degrees  to  three  or 
four,  but  a  child  younger  than  that  he 
declared  he  would  not  have. 

'  If  you  won't  let  me  have  the  kind  I 
want,  I  don't  see  what  you  want  to  be 
always  talkin'  about  it.  I  don't  want 
one  three  or  four  years  old;  you  say 
you  don't  want  one  at  all.  Then  ha' 
done  talkin'  about  it.  Things  '11  be  just 
the  same  as  they  always  was,'  Judith 
exclaimed  one  day,  when  at  breakfast 
Mason  had  again  broached  the  subject. 

'But  I  know  now  that  you  want  one, 
an'  I  did  n't  then.  Ain't  I  always  tried 
to  get  you  what  you  wanted?'  the  man 
demanded  in  genuine  grief  and  wrath. 

'I  ain't  ever  wanted  anything  bad 
that  you  ever  got  me,'  Judith  flung  back 
at  him.  'I  guess,  if  I'd  wanted  any- 
thing reel  bad,  I  would  n't  ha'  got  it.' 

'  An'  you  that  sick  last  night  that 
you  could  n't  get  my  supper.  Sup- 
posin'  ye'd  had  a  kid  to  'tend  to?  Yer 
clean  crazy.' 

'  I  would  n't  be  sick  then.'  Judith's 
voice  was  piteous. 


'I  don't  see  that  that  'ud  keep  you 
from  bein'  sick,'  Mason  said,  rising 
from  the  table.  'Ye'd  likely  be  sicker 
than  ever.  A  kid's  a  lot  more  trouble 
than  you  think.  You  don't  know  when 
yer  well  off.' 

Judith  watched  him  out  of  the  house 
with  a  dull  resentment  in  her  heart. 
She  thought  that  she  would  not  have 
his  supper  ready  for  him  to-night 
either.  It  had  not  been  sickness  so 
much  as  some  strange  new  feeling  that 
was  growing  in  her  heart  against  him 
that  had  kept  her  from  having  his  sup- 
per ready  the  night  before.  Yet,  as  she 
watched  the  plodding  figure  going  down 
the  road  to  the  adjacent  market-gar- 
den where  he  worked,  u  sudden  sense 
of  the  futility  of  such  warfare  on  her 
part  came  to  her.  Some  men  might 
show  impatience  or  resentment  coming 
home  to  an  unlit  fire  and  an  uncooked 
meal.  Mason  never  showed  either.  He 
had  lit  the  fire  and  cooked  the  supper 
and  waited  on  his  wife  solicitously; 
and  he  would  do  the  same  to-night  and 
every  night,  uncomplainingly,  patient- 
ly, if  she  chose  to  carry  on  the  war- 
fare, accepting  without  question  and 
with  sympathy  her  plea  of  sickness. 

But  this  willingness  to  acknowledge 
his  good  qualities  did  not  soften  Judith 
toward  him.  His  question,  'Ain't  I 
always  tried  to  get  you  what  you  want- 
ed?' had  not  been  without  a  certain 
pathos.  Judith  had  recognized  the 
pathos.  She  knew  why  he  could  n't 
let  the  matter  drop,  and  allow  things  to 
go  on  as  they  had  been  before.  Know- 
ing now  her  desire,  he  could  not  be 
content  while  it  was  ungratified.  Ready 
to  credit  him  with  a  desire  for  her 
happiness,  willing  to  admit  that  his  re- 
fusal to  agree  to  the  adoption  of  a  very 
young  child  arose  from  apprehension 
of  trouble  for  her,  yet  all  his  good  qual- 
ities were  in  danger  of  becoming  as 
naught  in  Judith's  eyes,  because  of  his 
inability  to  understand  that  the  trouble 


532 


A  LITTLE  BABY 


and  pains  of  motherhood  go  to  make 
up  its  joys.  In  her  heart  was  a  sense  of 
growing  estrangement  from  him,  deep- 
ening at  times  to  a  feeling  she  could 
not  name,  but  of  which  she  was  afraid. 
He  was  a  stranger  to  her,  in  that  he  was 
incapable  of  understanding  or  sym- 
pathizing with  her  deepest  feelings. 

For  Judith  would  not  forego  one  jot 
or  tittle  of  all  that  went  with  mother- 
hood. She  was  avid  of  all  its  experi- 
ences, pain  as  well  as  joy.  A  child  so 
young  even  as  three  years  could  do  little 
things  for  itself,  help  itself  in  some  de- 
gree, be  to  a  certain  extent  independ- 
ent. Judith  wanted  the  utter  helpless- 
ness and  futility  of  earliest  infancy. 
To  take  a  ch'ild-  three  years  old  would 
be  to  cut  short  by  that  many  years  the 
chapter  of  life  that  was  the  sweetest. 
Judith  would  not  cut  it  short  by  one 
moment.  At  best  it  was  too  short.  The 
little  helpless  baby  grew  so  quickly 
into  a  romping  child,  and  the  romping 
child  into  sturdy  boy  or  girl,  and  the 
boy  or  girl  into  man  or  woman.  Doubt- 
less, there  was  happiness  and  satisfac- 
tion in  every  stage  of  parenthood,  but 
to  Judith  no  after-happiness  could 
compare  with  the  days  of  clinging  help- 
lessness and  utter  dependence  of  little 
children. 

When  Mason  was  out  of  sight,  she 
went  into  the  bedroom.  From  a  drawer 
she  took  out  a  long  parcel  carefully 
wrapped  in  a  sheet.  Within  the  sheet 
there  was  a  further  wrapping  of  tissue 
paper,  as  if  the  contents  were  very  pre- 
cious. Judith  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  the  parcel  on  her  lap.  The  look  on 
her  face  was  reverent.  The  parcel  held  a 
variety  of  little  garments,  some  yel- 
lowed as  if  they  had  been  there  a  long 
time,  some  fresh  as  if  just  from  the 
needle.  That  was  Judith's  life  —  that 
part  of  her  to  which  her  husband  was  a 
stranger.  Those  tiny  garments  had  not 
been  prepared  in  the  expectation  of  a 
child.  Very  shortly  after  her  marriage, 


Judith  had  known  she  would  never 
have  a  child.  But  her  yearning  must 
have  some  outlet,  some  expression. 
And  in  the  surreptitious  fashioning  of 
those  tiny  garments,  it  had  found  ex- 
pression. Her  hands  hovered  over  them 
now,  smoothing,  folding,  straightening. 

In  saving  the  money  to  procure  the 
material  and  in  the  procuring  of  the 
material,  there  was  a  certain  element 
of  excitement  which  Judith  found 
pleasurable.  It  required  some  strategy 
to  evade  the  constant  care  of  her  hus- 
band. The  material  was  of  the  finest 
that  self-denial  on  Judith's  part  had 
been  able  to  procure,  but  the  work- 
manship was  crude.  Judith  was  as 
little  skilled  with  her  needle  as  she  was 
in  other  womanly  craft.  Stitches  were 
long  and  clumsy,  and  seams  were  not 
always  straight;  but  in  the  making  of 
them  Judith  had  found  much  joy.  The 
long  hours  when  she  was  alone,  which 
Sally  Forsyth  deplored,  were  not  al- 
ways unhappy  ones  for  Judith.  The 
door  locked,  safe  from  interruption, 
lawn  and  lace  about  her,  Judith  was 
transported  to  another  world,  a  world 
in  which  the  hours  slipped  by  unheeded. 
Oftentimes,  lawn  and  lace  had  to  be 
hastily  thrust  into  the  nearest  hiding- 
place  at  the  click  of  the  gate  announc- 
ing her  husband's  return  from  his 
work.  If  Mason  had  been  given  to 
voicing  his  impression  of  his  wife's 
manner  at  such  times,  he  would  have 
described  it  as  'dazy.'  But  he  never 
did  so  voice  it.  Her  dazedness  and  his 
unprepared  supper  were  accepted  with 
the  patience  with  which  he  accepted 
all  Judith's  incapacities. 

But  to-day  the  going  over  of  those 
tiny  garments  did  not  bring  any  joy  to 
Judith.  She  could  not  shut  out  real- 
ities; could  not  conjure  up  the  child  for 
whom  those  garments  had  been  fash- 
ioned. At  times  as  her  needle  went  in 
and  out,  that  child  had  seemed  to  be- 
come actual  flesh  and  blood.  Her  im- 


A  LITTLE  BABY 


533 


agination  had  gone  beyond  the  making 
of  the  garments  to  the  putting  them  on 
the  child.  With  what  gentleness  must 
the  soft  body  be  handled,  little  arms 
inserted  into  sleeves,  tiny,  tiny  feet, 
that  she  could  hide  in  her  hand,  cov- 
ered with  socks.  Judith,  childless,  had 
not  been  without  some  of  the  happi- 
ness of  motherhood. 

But  now  as  she  sat  there  folding  and 
unfolding  the  little  clumsily-made  gar- 
ments, she  remembered  suddenly  that 
not  since  the  subject  of  adoption  had 
been  broached  had  she  experienced  that 
secret  joy  that  had  in  some  measure 
been  compensation  for  her  childless- 
ness. She  had  not  been  able  to  evoke  a 
form  to  fill  those  little  garments,  as  she 
so  long  had  done.  It  had  been  but  a 
counterfeit  of  happiness  at  best,  but 
never  expecting  to  have  the  real  hap- 
piness, Judith  had  made  it  suffice.  Then 
had  come  the  suggestion  of  adoption, 
and  in  the  prospect  of  the  real  the 
counterfeit  had  been  swept  away,  and 
swept  away  forever,  Judith  felt.  The 
little  dresseg  were  empty  and  would 
remain  empty.  She  would  never  feel 
again  in  her  hands  round,  soft  little 
limbs;  little  soft,  soft  crushable  hands 
and  feet  to  be  touched  so  gently. 

And  with  the  conviction,  the  vague, 
nameless  feeling  that  had  been  in  her 
heart  towards  her  husband,  took  on 
definiteness,  became  a  resentment  so 
fierce  as  for  the  moment  to  be  almost 
hate.  He  had  done  this.  She  might 
have  cherished  her  counterfeit  to  the 
end,  getting  the  most  out  of  it  that  she 
could.  If  there  had  been  many,  many 
hours  hi  which  she  could  not  pretend, 
there  also  had  been  many  in  which  the 
pretense  had  seemed  real.  Now  all  the 
hours  would  be  desolate.  She  could 
never  pretend  again.  For  to  have  a 
child  whose  first  years  of  life  had  not 
been  with  her,  would  be  worse  than 
having  no  child  at  all.  Deep-rooted  as 
her  instinct  was  for  the  utter  helpless- 


ness of  the  tiny  infant,  there  would  be 
joy,  too,  in  growth  and  strength.  But 
Judith  wanted  to  see  each  leaf  unfold, 
to  gloat  over  dawning  intelligence,  to 
receive  the  first  conscious  smile  and 
touch.  Only  then,  she  felt,  could  she 
be  truly  mother  to  one  not  of  her  own 
flesh. 

That  night  Mason  came  home  again 
to  a  disordered  house  and  an  unpre- 
pared supper.  Judith  did  not  plead 
sickness.  He  assumed  it  for  her. 

'You  ain't  been  well,  then,  to-day, 
either,'  he  said;  then,  as  moved  less  by 
his  forbearance  than  by  some  remote 
sense  of  duty  she  owed  to  this  man,  her 
husband,  Judith  began  to  set  about 
preparation  for  supper,  he  added, 
'You  sit  quiet.  I '11  get  what  I  want  to 
eat.  I  ain't  very  hungry,  anyway.' 

After  supper,  Mason  lit  his  pipe  and 
went  out  and  leaned  over  the  gate  to 
smoke.  He  had  not  eaten  with  any 
appetite,  and  now  he  smoked  without 
any  enjoyment.  With  not  the  faintest 
conception  of  what  was  in  Judith's 
heart  against  him,  he  yet  felt  some- 
thing which  caused  him  a  vague  un- 
easiness. 'She  ain't  happy,'  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  leaned  over  the  gate.  Her 
unhappiness  came  as  a  reproach  to  him. 
He  searched  his  mind  for  an  instance  of 
anything  on  his  part  that  could  have 
caused  her  unhappiness,  but  could  find 
none. 

'  'Cept  it's  not  givin'  in  to  her  'bout 
the  kid.  But  what  could  she  do  with 
a  kid  so  young  as  she  wants?  I  guess 
I  know  what's  best  for  her.' 

Presently,  he  left  the  gate  and  stroll- 
ed down  the  road  in  the  direction  of 
Sally  Forsyth's  cottage.  A  swarm  of 
children  played  noisily  about  the  door. 
The  mother,  hot  and  tired-looking,  sat 
on  the  porch,  a  sleeping  child  in  her 
lap.  Mason  sat  down  beside  her. 

'How's  Judith?'  she  asked. 

'She  ain't  no  better.  That  is  —  I 
don't  think  she's  sick  —  not  sick  like 


534 


A  LITTLE  BABY 


she  was  a  while  ago.  She's  just — ' 
He  did  not  finish,  but  sat  looking  be- 
fore him. 

Tou  remember  what  you  said  'bout 
adoptin'  ? '  he  said  after  a  while.  '  Me 
an'  Judith  talked  about  it.  She'd  like 
one,  but  she  wants  a  young  'un  — 
younger  than  that.'  He  touched  the 
six-months-old  child  in  her  lap.  'Ba- 
bies that  young  ain't  no  good  for 
comp'ny,  an'  they  're  an  awful  trouble, 
an'  she  could  n't  look  after  one,  bein' 
sick  so  much,  but  she's  that  set  on 
havin'  a  young  'un.  I  want  her  to 
take  one  three  or  four  year,  but  she 
won't;  an'  she  ain't  happy,'  he  con- 
cluded miserably. 

The  mother  pressed  the  little  head 
more  closely  against  her  breast. 

'Young  babies  is  a  lot  o'  trouble,' 
she  admitted.  'What  with  havin'  to  be 
up  at  night  and  teethin'  later  on,  an' 
one  thing  an'  another.  I  guess  Judith 
don't  know  anything  about  the  trouble 
they  'd  be.  I  'd  think  one  three  or  four 
year  old  'ud  suit  her  best.' 

'That's  what  I  say,'  Mason  ex- 
claimed eagerly.  'One  like  yer  little 
Katie,  now.  There  was  a  advertise- 
ment in  the  paper  the  other  night,  a 
little  girl  four  year  old. '  I  was  thinkin' 
o'  callin'  at  the  place  to-morrow  when 
I'm  in  town.' 

Sally  Forsyth  nodded  concurrence. 

He  added  slowly,  'Judith  never 
found  fau't  with  nothin'  I  ever  done 
before,  an'  if  she  was  suitable  —  the 
little  girl  —  I  was  thinkin'  I  'd  just 
bring  her  along  'thout  any  more  to-do. 
I  guess  she'd  like  it  all  right?  She's 
allus  been  easy  to  please  an'  to  get  on 
with.  You  think  it  'ud  be  better  than 
havin'  a  reel  young  baby?'  he  ques- 
tioned anxiously. 

'I'd  think  so,'  Sally  Forsyth  said. 
'A  young  baby  'ud  be  a  awful  trouble 
to  Judith.  'T  ain't  as  if  she  ever  had 
none  of  her  own.  Babies  take  a  awful 
lot  o'  lookin'  after  an'  doin'  for.  I'd 


think  it  'ud  be  far  better  to  have  one 
three  or  four  year  old.' 

On  his  way  home,  presently,  forti- 
fied by  the  opinion  of  one  whom  he 
looked  upon  as  an  authority  on  such 
matters,  Mason  made  his  resolution. 
He  knew  what  was  best  for  Judith  bet- 
ter than  she  herself  could.  He  would 
call  to-morrow  at  the  address  given  in 
the  advertisement  and  see  the  child.  If 
she  were  not  suitable,  some  other  child 
could  be  procured.  He  would  end  the 
situation,  and  end  it  in  the  best  pos- 
sible way  for  Judith.  He  recalled  occa- 
sions when  he  had  been  commissioned 
by  Judith  to  procure  something  in 
town  —  a  dress,  a  hat,  style  and  color 
specified.  If  anything  of  a  different 
style  or  color  had  seemed  to  him  hand- 
somer or  richer,  he  had  never  hesitated 
to  disregard  the  instructions.  And  Ju- 
dith had  never  complained.  As  he  told 
Sally  Forsyth,  she  had  always  been 
pleased  with  anything  he  had  ever 
done  before.  Once  this  thing  was  ac- 
complished, she  would  be  as  peace- 
able as  she  had  always  been.  He  should 
have  done  it  before. 

Just  before  he  blew  out  the  light  that 
night,  preparatory  to  getting  into  bed, 
he  said  to  Judith  in  as  casual  a  tone  as 
he  could  command,  'I'm  goin'  to  see 
that  little  girl  that  was  advertised  for 
adoption  to-morrow.  If  she  don't  suit, 
I'll  look  'round  for  another  that  age.' 

Judith  made  no  answer,  and  Mason 
got  into  bed  and  was  soon  asleep. 

But  Judith  could  not  sleep.  She  had 
reached  the  point  where  she  could  no 
longer  resist.  Her  heart  was  hot  within 
her.  She  got  as  far  from  him  as  the 
limits  of  the  bed  would  allow.  She 
thought  that  the  feeling  surging  in  her 
heart  against  him  must  be  hate.  Pre- 
sently, when  the  late  moon  shining 
through  the  uncurtained  window  fell 
on  his  face,  she  raised  herself  on  her 
elbow  and  looked  at  him.  Judith  had 
been  in  love  with  Mason  when  she  mar- 


A  LITTLE  BABY 


535 


ried  him.  For  a  long  time  she  had  not 
been  sure  whether  he  cared  for  her  or 
not.  She  remembered  that  time  of  hope 
and  fear  now,  as  she  leaned  on  her 
elbow  watching  his  face.  And  it  seemed 
unbelievable  that  she  was  the  same 
person  as  the  girl  who  had  been  trans- 
ported when  he  had  declared  himself; 
unbelievable  that  he  could  ever  have 
inspired  that  rapturous  joy  in  her. 

'Girls  don't  know,'  she  said  to  her- 
self. 'They  think  if  they're  in  love 
with  a  man  an'  he  marries  them,  they  '11 
never  want  anything  else.  Oh,  they 
don't  know.' 

For  her  longing  for  a  child  had  been 
of  an  intensity  compared  to  which  the 
girl's  longing  for  her  lover  had  been  as 
nothing.  And  now  she  would  never 
know  again  even  the  vicarious  joy  that 
had  at  last  come  in  some  measure  to 
satisfy  her.  He  had  decreed  that.  She 
would  find  no  joy  in  the  child  he  forced 
upon  her;  whose  helplessness  had  not 
been  her  care.  She  flattened  herself 
against  the  wall,  shrinking  from  any 
contact  with  him,  and  she,  too,  thought 
of  the  dresses  and  hats  she  had  desired 
and  had  never  had,  because  they  had 
not  seemed  desirable  to  him.  Such 
trivial  things  she  had  let  go  without 
murmur  or  complaint;  she  had  thought 
none  the  worse  of  him  in  those  instances 
for  substituting  his  desires  and  tastes 
for  hers ;  but  this  she  could  not  forgive. 

When  the  moonlight  had  faded  and 
it  was  time  for  him  to  get  up,  as  he 
did  abnormally  early  on  the  mornings 
he  went  to  market,  she  turned  her  face 
to  the  wall  and  lay  very  still.  He 
never  required  her  to  rise  to  get  him 
off,  however  early  he  had  to  start,  and 
for  perhaps  the  first  time  in  her  mar- 
ried life  she  appreciated  this;  not  in 
acknowledgment  of  any  merit  in  his 
so  doing,  but  because  it  saved  her 
from  speech  with  him.  As  she  heard 
him,  heavy  with  sleep,  move  clumsily 
about,  she  quivered  in  every  nerve, 


lest,  after  all,  he  should  come  in  and 
rouse  her.  She  felt  that  she  could  not 
bear  to  speak  to  him  or  look  at  him. 
Yet,  she  knew  things  would  have  to 
continue  as  they  always  had  been; 
that  he  would  probably  see  no  differ- 
ence in  her;  but  for  this  once,  she  let 
repugnance  have  full  sway.  When 
finally,  she  heard  him  close  the  door 
with  an  elaborate  carefulness,  she  drew 
a  long  breath  of  relief. 

It  was  always  late  when  James  Ma- 
son came  home  on  market-days,  dead- 
tired  and  ready  for  bed.  To-night  he 
reached  home  about  his  usual  hour,  but 
the  heaviness  of  fatigue  that  always  sat 
upon  him  was  absent.  As  he  sat  down 
to  the  supper  which  Judith  had  ready 
for  him,  he  said,  'Well,  I  saw  her,  an' 
she's  a  little  daisy.  I  said  I'd  take  her. 
The  papers  '11  be  ready  to  sign  on  Sat- 
urday, an'  I  '11  bring  her  out  then.' 

Judith  sat  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

'You'll  like  her,  Judith,'  went  on 
Mason  pleadingly.  'I  ain't  no  great 
hand  for  kids,  as  you  know,  but  I  de- 
clare I'm  fond  o'  her  already;  a  lovin' 
little  thing,  with  her  little  soft  hands 
on  my  cheek  when  she  kissed  me. 
Purty,  too,  like  a  picture.  An'  comes 
o'  respectable  folks.  Father  an'  mother 
killed  in  a  accident.  You'll  like  her, 
Judith  ?  You  '11  be  good  to  her  ? '  he  said 
in  sudden  anxiety  for  the  happiness  of 
the  little  child  who  had  won  him. 

'I  guess  I  ain't  one  to  be  bad  to  a 
poor  little  orphan  child,'  Judith  said 
slowly,  'an'  I  guess  I'll  get  to  like  her, 
all  right.  But,'  she  got  up  and  came 
close  to  him,  'James  Mason,  you  won't 
never  know  what  you  've  done.  P'raps, 
bein'  a  man,  you  ain't  to  blame  for  not 
understandin'  why  it  was  I  wanted  as 
young  a  baby  as  I  could  get,  but  un- 
derstandin' or  no,  you  might  'a'  let  me 
have  what  I  wanted.' 

His  look  was  uneasy.  'Aw,  a  little 
baby !  What 's  the  good  of  a  little  baby, 
that  don't  know  npthin';  wouldn't 


536 


A  LITTLE  BABY 


even  know  you?  D'ye  think  any  one 
could  take  to  a  little  baby  like  I  took 
to  this  little  girl?  'T ain't  in  reason  that 
any  one  could  like  a  baby  so  well. 
When  the  people  told  her  I  was  goin' 
to  be  her  father,  she  put  her  little  soft 
hands  on  my  cheek  and  kissed  me,  an' 
called  me  father.  A  baby  could  n't  do 
nothin'  like  that.  An'  a  baby  'ud  grow, 
anyhow,  so  what  dif  rence  does  it 
make?  When  you  see  her,  you'll  be 
glad  that  I  did  n't  get  no  little  baby.' 

Voice  and  look  pleaded  with  her, 
but  Judith's  face  remained  hard.  When 
she  began  to  clear  away  the  dishes, 
he  offered  to  do  it,  alleging  that  he 
felt  wonderfully  fresh.  Heretofore,  Ju- 
dith had  always  been  willing  to  let 
him  take  such  tasks  upon  himself  even 
after  a  hard  day's  work;  but  now  she 
declined.  In  this  moment  of  infinite 
separation  from  her  husband,  she  re- 
cognized, as  she  had  never  recognized 
before,  her  shortcomings  as  wife  and 
housekeeper;  and  her  movements  as 
she  cleared  away  had  a  briskness  and 
quickness  about  them  that  was  evi- 
dently puzzling  to  Mason  as  he  sat 
and  watched  her.  Judith's  mind,  going 
over  all  the  many  things  in  which  as 
housekeeper  she  had  been  remiss,  real- 
ized his  patience  and  forbearance  with 
her  manifold  shortcomings  with  an 
almost  startling  vividness.  Few  men 
would  have  been  so  patient,  would 
have  taken  on  themselves  the  duties 
that  quite  plainly  belonged  to  the  wife. 
But  hereafter  she  would  do  her  part  to 
the  best  of  her  ability.  There  was  no 
longer  anything  between  them  that 
would  justify  her  acceptance  of  more 
than  she  gave. 

And  in  the  few  following  days,  Mason 
was  made  more  materially  comfortable 
than  he  had  ever  been  made  before.  In 
the  morning  Judith  rose  to  get  his 
breakfast,  against  his  protest.  Supper 
was  ready  on  the  table  when  he  came 
home  at  night.  None  of  the  household 


tasks,  so  prone  to  be  left  for  him,  were 
now  left.  But  Mason  was  not  com- 
fortable. His  state  of  mind  toward 
Judith  was  conciliatory.  He  would 
fain  have  taken  upon  himself  all  the 
household  tasks,  waited  upon  her  hand 
and  foot,  as  the  only  means  of  concilia- 
tion he  knew.  But  Judith  in  her  new- 
found competency  baffled  as  well  as 
bewildered  him.  She  gave  him  no 
opening  for  conciliation. 

On  the  morning  that  he  was  to  go  to 
town,  wakened  by  the  alarm  that  he 
had  set  at  his  usual  hour,  he  heard  from 
the  kitchen  the  rattle  of  dishes.  Ju- 
dith was  not  beside  him.  Getting  out 
of  bed,  he  went  to  the  door  that  opened 
to  the  kitchen.  It  was  so  early  that 
although  it  was  summer  a  lamp  was 
lighted;  but  the  table  was  spread,  and 
Judith,  bending  over  the  stove,  was  fry- 
ing meat.  She  turned  at  some  sound 
he  made. 

'Yer  up.  I  was  thinkin'  o'  callin' 
you,'  she  remarked. 

'There  was  no  call  for  you  to  rise,' 
Mason  said.  'I  could  'a'  got  a  bite  for 
mysel',  same  as  I've  allus  done.' 

'A  bite  would  n't  be  much  good  with 
that  long  drive  ahead  o'  you,'  Judith 
said  as  casually  as  if  for  years  he  had 
not  taken  the  long  drive  on  what  he 
had  been  able  to  pick  up  for  himself. 
'Better  hurry.  Everything's  ready,' 
she  advised. 

Mason  did  not  enjoy  his  substantial 
breakfast.  Judith,  sitting  opposite  him, 
looked  small  and  thin  and  tired,  and 
her  smallness  and  thinness  and  tired- 
ness reproached  him. 

'The  idea  o'  gettin'  up  at  this  time 
o'  the  morning,'  he  muttered.  'Ye'd 
best  go  to  bed  again,  soon 's  I  've  gone.' 
He  swallowed  a  great  gulp  of  tea,  and 
looked  away  from  Judith.  'Ye '11  have 
to  stay  up  for  me  to-night.  I'll  be 
bringin'  her  home,  an'  she  '11  be  wantin' 
some  lookin'  after,  I  guess.  Best  take 
all  the  rest  you  can  in  the  day.' 


A  LITTLE   BABY 


537 


When  he  was  gone  and  Judith  had 
put  the  house  in  order,  she  went  to  the 
secret  place,  and  took  out  the  little 
garments.  She  would  have  to  find  a 
place  yet  more  secret  for  them;  a  place 
that  even  she  herself  could  not  have 
access  to.  When  it  was  dark,  she 
would  go  out  in  the  garden  and  dig  a 
grave  and  bury  them.  Burial,  follow- 
ing upon  death  and  loss,  would  be  a 
fitting  disposition  of  them.  Judith  felt 
that  something  within  her  had  died; 
that  the  spiritual  happiness  which  the 
fashioning  and  contemplation  of  those 
little  garments  had  brought  to  her 
would  never  be  hers  again.  She  must 
put  out  of  sight  the  things  that  had 
stood  for  that  dead  happiness. 

She  sat  on  the  floor,  with  the  little 
garments  spread  out  around  her.  Some 
of  them  doubtless  would  fit  the  little 
girl  her  husband  was  bringing  home  to 
her.  Preparation  had  been  made  for 
the  growth  and  development  of  the 
child  of  her  imaginings.  But  Judith 
had  no  thought  of  putting  these  apart. 
She  could  as  little  bear  to  see  this  real 
child  wear  anything  that  had  been 
made  for  that  visionary  child,  as  a 
mother  could  bear  to  see  another 
dressed  in  the  garments  of  her  dead 
child.  Sitting  on  the  floor,  she  sorted 
and  folded  the  little  garments  for  the 
last  time,  one  moment  with  feverish 
quickness  as  if  eager  to  get  her  task 
done,  the  next  lingeringly,  unfolding 
what  she  had  folded,  to  smooth  out 
each  crease  and  straighten  each  fold. 
And  she  knew  what  mothers  suffer 
when  they  fold  up  and  put  away  the 
clothes  of  their  little  dead  children. 

She  did  not  expect  her  husband 
home  before  his  usual  time.  When  it 
grew  dark,  she  took  the  bundle  she  had 
made  to  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  On 
her  way  back  to  the  house  for  a  spade, 
she  heard  Mason  call  her  loudly,  'Ju- 
dith, Judith!'  He  had  returned  earli- 
er than  usual.  Judith  stood  motion- 


less outside  the  kitchen  door.  He  called 
again,  and  she  heard  his  steps  receding 
as  he  went  to  the  unused  front  room 
to  look  for  her.  As  she  stood  out  there 
in  the  darkness,  breathing  quickly, 
Judith  thought  again  of  the  time  when 
Mason  had  been  her  undeclared  lover, 
and  again  she  was  swept  with  an  in- 
credulous wonder  that  he  had  ever 
been  able  to  evoke  in  her  emotions  of 
joy.  When  he  came  back  to  the  kitchen 
she  stepped  inside. 

The  lighted  kitchen,  after  the  dark- 
ness outside,  dazed  her.  She  could  not 
see  for  a  moment  or  two. 

'I  didn't  think  you'd  be  home  so 
soon;  I  was  down  in  the  garden,'  she 
said.  Then  she  looked  about  her. 
'Did  n't  you —  did  n't  you  bring  her?' 

A  bundle  lay  upon  the  table,  and 
Mason  began  to  unwrap  it. 

'I  did  n't  bring  her,  but  I  brought 
this.'  He  threw  back  the  shawl,  —  'I 
could  n't  find  a  littler  'un,'  he  grinned. 

The  child  wrapped  up  in  the  shawl 
was  very  little,  not  more  than  a  week 
or  two  old  apparently.  Judith,  speech- 
less, bent  over  it,  and  inserted  a  finger 
in  the  little  curled-up  fist.  Immediately 
the  tiny  fingers  closed  upon  it.  Count- 
less times  in  imagination  had  Judith 
felt  her  finger  thus  held,  but  imagina- 
tion had  never  brought  the  ecstasy  that 
flooded  her  whole  being  at  the  touch  of 
actual  baby  fingers  upon  hers.  Still 
speechless,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  where 
Mason  stood,  and  they  widened  with 
sudden  wonder.  For  the  glamour  of  the 
days  of  courtship  had  fallen  upon  him 
again,  and  as  he  stood  there  watching 
her,  with  an  expression  half  shame- 
faced, half  anxious,  he  seemed  in  all 
things  as  he  had  seemed  then  —  the 
man  desirable,  the  man  to  make  her 
happy.  She  smiled  at  him  as  long  ago 
she  had  smiled  at  her  lover;  and  Mason 
smiled  back  in  relief. 

*  I  could  n't  get  a  littler  'un,'  he 
repeated. 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION:  AN  APOLOGIA 


BY   ANNE   HARD 


.     .     .     non  quia  crasse 

Composition  inlepideve  putetur,  sed  quia  nuper. 

HORACE. 


THE  Master-Builder  spoke  not  alone 
of  his  own  time  when  he  said:  'Just 
you  see,  Doctor,  presently  the  younger 
generation  will  come  knocking  at  the 
door!'  He  voiced  the  eternal  dread 
of  displacement,  that  most  terrible 
tragedy  of  Age. 

Age  sometimes  seems  to  see  itself 
surviving  in  a  sort  of  earthly  immor- 
tality of  influence,  an  exquisite  wraith 
whose  sustenance  is  human  opinion. 
Like  sounds  which  can  vibrate  to  birth 
only  upon  strings  of  fixed  length  and 
thickness,  so  this  influence  must  find 
a  human  organism  responsive  to  itself 
or  it  must  vanish  with  the  mind  which 
gave  it  birth.  Age  desires  not  to  survive 
only  in  an  epitaph.  Age  demands  that 
Youth  shall  be  its  earthly  immortality. 

Youth  knocks  at  the  door  of  the 
House  of  Life  and  presents  its  passport 
to-day  just  as  it  always  has;  it  will  en- 
ter on  its  own  terms  whether  the  Ward- 
er will  vise  its  passport  or  not.  Just  as 
once  Youth  gave  the  warm  humanity 
of  Euripides  when  the  Warder  asked 
for  the  sombre  majesty  of  ^Eschylus;  as 
it  gave  the  vernacular  Bible  when  the 
Warder  demanded  the  decrees  of  all 
the  councils;  as  it  gave  chemistry  and 
physics  and  biology  when  the  Warder 
demanded  the  classics,  so  to-day  it 
offers  a  determined  spirit  of  inquiry  in- 
stead of  loyalty  to  accepted  standards; 
a  broader  instead  of  a  more  deeply 

538 


thoughtful  intellectual  life;  a  more 
socialized  ethics  instead  of  stronger 
individual  virtues. 

It  is  easy  to  see  why  Age  distrusts 
us.  Broader  spaces,  fewer  interests, 
beliefs  more  single,  combined  with  a 
perhaps  not  less  important  inheritance 
of  unmixed  blood,  gave  to  an  earlier 
generation  in  this  country  a  stability, 
an  unbendable  quality  which  stands  as 
one  of  the  supreme  monuments  to  the 
possibilities  of  human  character.  It 
is  little  wonder  that  it  hopes  for  the 
worst  from  a  generation  born  of  blended 
racial  strains  into  crowded  areas,  mul- 
tifarious occupations  and  conflicting 
opinions. 

Age  expects  to  find  our  manners  as 
formless  as  our  environment.  And  it 
does  find  them  so.  I  can  remember  how 
carefully,  for  example,  the  Ladies  of 
the  Sacred  Heart  taught  us  the  correct 
attitude  for  the  drawing-room.  I  can 
see  us  walking  gingerly  across  those 
highly  polished  floors,  seating  ourselves 
with  carefully  distributed  weight,  fin- 
ally achieving  a  pose  which  in  retro- 
spect looks  very  Egyptian-monument- 
al, but  which  at  the  time  indicated 
ease  combined  with  a  determination 
never  never  to  admit  the  presence  of 
knees  by  crossing  them.  I  can  see,  too, 
that  long  refectory  with  two  rows  of 
young-ladies-in-training,  each  one  care- 
fully eliminating  her  elbows.  And  the 
very  first  thing  we  found  when  we 
emerged  into '  the  world '  was  that  every 
beautiful  lady  in  the  most  lustrant  of 
the  illustrations  not  only  owned  knees, 
but  crossed  them,  and  the  lady  who  was 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION:  AN  APOLOGIA 


539 


so  beautiful  that  she  burst  out  on  to 
the  cover,  invariably  had  elbows,  which 
she  rested  on  a  table. 

There  are  only  two  conditions  which 
keep  formal  manners  alive.  One  is  the 
importance  of  ceremonial,  —  such  a 
symbol  of  the  vicarious  performance 
of  leisure  for  example  as  the  uncut 
finger  nails  of  the  high-class  Chinese, 
the  necessity,  in  short,  for  impressing 
others  in  order  to  maintain  a  caste  or 
a  cult.  The  other  is  an  intense  belief 
in  one's  personal  dignity. 

Of  the  many  elements  which  have 
gone  to  wipe  out  both  these  conditions 
for  the  young,  none,  I  believe,  is  more 
powerful  than  the  substitution  of  an 
objective  interest  in  which  young  men 
and  young  women  are  equally  engaged, 
for  the  purely  personal  interest  which 
but  a  short  time  ago  was  the  basis  of 
all  intercourse  between  the  sexes.  They 
grow  used  to  being  together  without 
awareness  of  one  another's  personality. 
You  may  see  it  in  the  laboratory:  young 
men  and  young  women  checking  re- 
sults by  test  tube  or  microscope.  You 
may  see  it  again  on  the  links  or  on  the 
tennis  court. 

Or  it  may  be  a  September  day,  all 
sapphires  and  pure  light,  when  the  wind 
is  like  a  teasing  school-boy  and  every 
boat  that  sets  a  prankish  sail  does  so 
to  test  the  hearts  that  laugh  at  courage. 
More  things  go  down  than  ships  and 
men.  Many  a  fine  distinction,  many  a 
delicate  phrase,  many  a  pretty  dignity 
—  and  Kit  and  Tom  emerge. 

Is  it  because  we  are  becoming  more 
socialized,  that  we  approach  in  tone 
a  state  of  society  where  people  cry 
'Comrade'  to  each  other?  Certainly 
we  do  not  feel  that  our  manners  must 
support  a  caste,  and  to  the  younger 
generation  nothing  among  its  contem- 
poraries is  so  sure  a  mark  of  an  '  unar- 
rived'  person  as  any  suspicion  that 
an  effort  of  the  sort  is  being  made. 

Almost  too  defiantly  perhaps  youth 


longs  to  make  a  sacrifice  of  everything 
to  Revealment.  It  is  perfectly  aware 
of  the  genuineness  of  that  greater  dig- 
nity in  its  parents  and  yet  it  cannot 
help  a  secret  feeling  that  the  old-fash- 
ioned manner  covered  up  something 
just  for  the  sake  of  the  covering.  They 
believed  in  closed  parlors,  in  heavy 
hangings  at  the  windows,  in  tidies,  and 
feather-dusters.  They  desired  above 
all  that  things  should  'look  nice.' 

Just  as  their  manners  were  genuine 
for  them,  our  manners  are  genuine  for 
us.  We  do  not  believe  in  concealment. 
We  want  a  great  many  windows  all 
wide  open.  We  have  burned  up  tidies 
and  heavy  curtains.  A  feather-duster 
will  soon  be  as  interesting  a  domestic 
antiquity  as  a  warming-pan.  If  the 
vacuum  cleaner  is  being  mended  we 
leave  the  dust  right  where  we  can  find 
it  when  we  are  ready  to  clean  up. 

It  is  not  only  among  people  of  the 
same  age  that  there  is  greater  frank- 
ness. Fathers  are  talking  more  plainly 
to  their  sons;  mothers  to  their  daugh- 
ters. We  are  beginning  to  see  that  the 
eighth  deadly  sin  and  the  worst  of  all 
is  Ignorance.  Many  of  our  mothers 
were  held  in  restraint  by  a  sort  of  a 
general  terror  of  they  knew  not  what. 
We  are  not  afraid  to  go  ahead,  because 
we  know  all  the  implications  of  each 
step.  The  result  is  significantly  a  bold- 
ness of  manner,  founded  on  a  con- 
sciousness that  we  have  nothing  to 
conceal. 

The  rising  generation  has  heard  of 
'fine  reserve'  and  'noble  reticence,' 
but  it  refuses  to  believe  in  them  as  ends 
in  themselves.  If  they  are  to  form  a  sort 
of  spiritual  antimacassar,  concealing 
worn  places  in  the  mental  furniture,  — 
unworthy  suspicions,  base  unbeliefs, 
false  interpretations — they  would  bet- 
ter be  thrown  into  the  flames  of  self- 
examination.  In  Mr.  Galsworthy's 
Fraternity,  the  situation  is  completely 
suggested  by  Stephen's  jest:  'If  young 


540 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION:  AN  APOLOGIA 


people  will  reveal  their  ankles,  they'll 
soon  have  no  ankles  to  reveal.' 

A  woman  of  an  older  generation,  a 
gentlewoman,  whose  life  has  brought 
her  into  contact  with  the  young  people 
of  two  coeducational  universities,  ad- 
mitted this  greater  freedom  and  in- 
formality. But  she  got  from  it  a  hope- 
ful interpretation:  — 

'I  find  greater  frankness — and  more 
purity!'  she  said;  'less  putting  girls 
upon  a  pedestal,  —  and  less  smashing 
them  afterwards!' 

In  short  these  manners,  crudely, 
perhaps,  are  of  a  piece  with  a  passion- 
ate belief  in  its  own  intellectual  hon- 
esty, which  is  to  the  new  generation 
the  most  essential  element  in  its  self- 
respect.  They  are  of  a  piece  with  a  de- 
termined seeking  after  truth,  whither- 
soever the  argument  may  lead;  with 
a  conviction  that  uncleanness  is  the 
child  of  ignorance,  and  that  once  the 
white  light  of  frank  simplicity  is  turned 
upon  the  darker  corners  of  the  mind, 
much  that  was  once  thought  a  moral 
dust  heap  will  turn  out  to  be  but  float- 
ing scintillant  particles,  soon  dissipated. 
The  younger  generation  is  ashamed  to 
be  ashamed. 

ii 

If  from  a  half-conscious  longing  for 
recognizing  only  the  big  and  strong 
elements,  our  manners  lose  something, 
they  are  in  this  respect  symbolic  of 
another  characteristic  of  the  spiritual 
life  of  the  young.  It  would  be  folly 
to  deny  that  many  of  the  older  relig- 
ious sanctions  which  had  broken  down 
for  our  parents  have  not  been  reerected 
by  their  children.  But  from  that  wreck 
of  the  religious  sense  which  followed 
closely  upon  the  scientific  movement 
of  the  middle  nineteenth  century,  those 
children  are  reclaiming  for  themselves 
two  powerful  principles.  One  is  a  broad 
but  sincere  acceptance  of  those  spirit- 
ual beauties  common  to  all  beliefs,  and 


the  other,  the  socialization  of  its  sys- 
tem of  ethics. 

'I  believe  we  are  just  as  earnest!' 
said  a  College  Secretary  of  the  Young 
Woman's  Christian  Association  in  one 
of  the  largest  of  our  Universities;  'but 
it  is  often  hard  to  convince  our  elders 
because  we  are  broader  in  our  defini- 
tions. We  can  have  a  good  time  with- 
out doing  wrong.  We  can  combine  re- 
ligion and  pleasure.' 

Because  we  wear  our  philosophies 
easily,  because  we  have  enlarged  our 
inheritance  from  some  unknown  drop 
of  foreign  blood,  or  from  our  spreading 
out  into  warmer  places  than  the  chilly 
rocks  where  our  Puritan  forefathers 
'rescued  this  land  from  the  Devil,' 
because  we  can  jest  even  at  things  we 
secretly  hold  sacred,  we  are  often  inex- 
plicable to  our  parents.  It  was  not  a 
part  of  their  manners  so  to  do.  And 
it  is  hard  for  many  of  them  to  believe 
in  our  sincerity  when  we  do  it.  And 
yet  in  our  own  extraordinary  fashion 
we  are  probably  reconstructing  under 
new  forms  some  resemblance  to  the 
light-hearted  singleness  of  primitive 
Christianity. 

'These  early  Roman  Christians  re- 
ceived the  Gospel  message,  a  command 
to  love  all  men,  with  a  certain  joyous 
simplicity.  The  image  of  the  Good 
Shepherd  is  blithe  and  gay  beyond  the 
gentlest  shepherd  of  Greek  mythology,* 
Miss  Addams  says,  as  she  pauses  at 
her  fiftieth  milestone  to  interpret  that 
life  into  which  she  has  read  so  deep- 
ly; ...'  I  believe  there  is  a  distinct 
turning  among  many  young  men  and 
women  toward  this  simple  acceptance 
of  Christ's  message.' 

Left  free  in  our  choice  by  the  rule- 
lessness  of  our  upbringing,  early  al- 
lowed to  conclude  that  there  was  in 
every  creed  much  that  could  never  be 
assuredly  proven,  we  have  come  to 
judge  creeds  by  their  output  in  action 
and  to  unite  upon  lines  of  conduct 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION:  AN  APOLOGIA 


541 


rather  than  upon  lines  of  belief.  Relig- 
ious determinations  which  a  few  years 
ago  were  followed  simply  because  they 
were  the  recognized  aims  of  definite 
sects,  which  one  had  'joined,'  on  quite 
other  grounds,  now  unite  the  offspring 
of  many  different  creeds  or  of  no  creed 
at  all. 

Missionary  enthusiasm  for  example 
caused  about  four  thousand  college 
students,  most  of  them  undergrad- 
uates, to  give  up  their  Christmas  holi- 
days for  the  sake  of  attending  a  recent 
convention  of  the  Student  Volunteer 
Movement.  Last  year  four  thousand 
three  hundred  and  seventy-seven  more 
young  college  men  and  college  women 
offered  themselves  as  missionaries  to 
the  foreign  field  than  could  be  accepted. 
Growing  with  extraordinary  rapidity 
in  membership,  in  financial  ability,  in 
enthusiasm,  this  is  a  young  people's 
movement;  its  very  founders  and  its 
great  names  are  the  names  of  persons 
still  in  their  early  thirties. 

And  yet  note  that  the  content  of  this 
movement  is  a  content  which  has  al- 
ways been  most  intimately  identified 
with  certain  dogmatic  systems.  The 
younger  generation  takes  out  of  the 
separate  theologies  one  object  and 
unites  on  that. 

One  can  hardly  note  such  facts  as 
these,  and  others  like  them,  and  still 
maintain  that  the  older  sanctions  have 
not  their  followers  and  their  thousands 
of  followers  among  the  younger  gener- 
ation. 

in 

The  difference  of  emphasis,  however, 
which  distinguishes  the  younger  from 
the  elder  time,  is  that  ours  is  an  em- 
phasis not  upon  form  but  upon  content. 

The  younger  generation  is  far  more 
concerned  with  what  you  have  to  say 
than  with  how  you  wish  to  say  it.  It  is 
not  much  interested  in  personal  im- 
pression, general  theory.  It  is  pro- 


foundly interested  in  first-hand  studies 
carefully  made,  in  new  or  more  vigor- 
ous interpretations  of  well-known  facts. 
The '  mob  of  gentlemen  who  write  with 
ease '  is  tailing  the  gray  beaver  and  the 
hoop-skirt  around  the  corner  while 
the  band  just  passing  is  playing  for  the 
man  who  writes  because  he  has  some- 
thing to  say. 

You  expect  that  such  a  shift  of  stress 
as  this  would  profoundly  affect  our 
theories  of  the  proper  education  to  give 
our  children.  And  it  has  so  affected 
it.  No  better  illustration  could  be  made 
of  the  difference  between  two  genera- 
tions than  is  to  be  found  in  a  compari- 
son of  the  questions  our  fathers  had  to 
answer  when  they  sat  down  to  write  an 
examination  in  geography  with  those 
which  confront  the  children  of  to-day. 

'Why  does  the  St.  Lawrence  never 
have  floods?' 

'Give  causes  for  the  difference  in 
climate  between  England  and  New 
England.' 

'Why  has  New  York  become  the 
greatest  commercial  centre  in  the 
United  States?' 

'Why,  why,  why?'  that  is  the  ques- 
tion we  constantly  set  before  our  child- 
ren. Not  'define,'  not  'name,'  no 
rhymed  lists  of  capital  cities  and  prin- 
cipal rivers,  no  'What  sea  lies  east  of 
Cochin  China?'  or  'In  what  direction 
does  the  St.  Lawrence  flow?' 

In  most  of  the  comparisons  of  our 
time  with  another  we  are  at  one  pain- 
ful disadvantage.  Our  fathers  confute 
us  by  combining  what  they  remember 
of  themselves  with  what  they  guess 
about  us.  But  in  these  often  made  and 
quite  unfounded  assertions  that  the 
youth  of  to-day  is  deficient  in  the  three 
R's  because  he  is  proficient  in  a  fourth 
R  —  Raffia,  —  we  can  reply  to  their 
personal  impressions  with  a  few  actual 
facts.  For  several  schoolmasters,  smart- 
ing under  these  stings,  have  been  at 
pains  to  poultice  themselves  and  us. 


542 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION:  AN  APOLOGIA 


Proceeding  in  the  modern  experimental 
method,  they  have  first  unearthed  such 
monuments  of  the  alleged  golden  age 
in  American  spelling  as  could  be  found 
in  their  several  school  safes.  Under 
conditions  designed  to  promote  the 
greatest  fairness,  if  they  did  not  even 
put  our  children  at  a  disadvantage, 
those  same  questions  in  geography  and 
history,  those  same  spelling  lists,  were 
dusted  and  inserted  into  the  intellect- 
ual quick  of  the  infant  minds  of  Spring- 
field in  Massachusetts,  Norwich  in 
Connecticut,  and  Cleveland  in  Ohio.1 

The  average  gain  in  efficiency  in  spell- 
ing of  the  children  of  to-day  was  from 
4.5  to  9.6  per  cent,  the  combined  aver- 
age gain  in  efficiency  in  arithmetic,  his- 
tory, geography  and  grammar,  was 
20  per  cent. 

In  other  words,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  we  do  not  apparently[care  so  much 
about  these  things  as  our  fathers  did 
we  actually  do  them  better.  And  I  be- 
lieve that  it  would  be  safe  to  make  the 
same  assertion  for  our  knowledge  of  the 
classics,  although  I  could  not  so  easily 
prove  it. 

You  can  however  prove  for  your- 
self how  different  is  the  standard  of 
work  required  in  the  classical  depart- 
ments of  our  universities  from  that  of  a 
few  decades  ago.  And  it  is  only  fair  to 
remember  that  of  the  armies  of  youth 
who  on  entering  college  desert  the 
humanities  for  the  utilities,  a  large  pro- 
portion have  already  done  much  of  the 
Latin  which  would  have  been  called 
'college  work'  by  our  Fathers.  There 
are  so  many  of  us  who  have  done  much 
more  than  that,  'even  in  the  Latin  or 
the  Greek,'  that  we  do  not  pride  our- 
selves on  having  read  only  Virgil  and 
Cicero.  We  forget  to  mention  it  and 

1  "  The  Norwich  Tests."  By  HENRY  A.  TER- 
RILL,  in  The  School  Review,  May,  1910. 

"The  Springfield  Tests."  By  JOHN  LAWRENCE 
RILEY. 

"  The  Three  Rs."    By  WILLIAM  H.  ELSON. 


thereby  lose  much  credit.  To  have  read 
so  much  was  a  fair  Latinity  to  our 
grandfathers  in  America.  But  Ger- 
many has  caught  our  youth  by  the 
wing  and  applies  the  grindstone  of  the 
cuneiform  syllabary  of  Cyprian  or  the 
velar  q  to  the  edge  of  our  classical 
appetite.  In  other  words  unless  we  spe- 
cialize in  the  classics  we  are  n't  class- 
ical. Even  when  we  do  specialize  we  are 
not  always  classical  in  the  old  sense. 
As  soon  as  we  specialize  we  begin  to 
become  scientific. 

In  this  respect  we  are  perfectly  con- 
sistent. Education,  man's  greatest  lum- 
inant,  seems  in  another  aspect  to  be 
the  shadow  of  the  life  of  man;  —  it  is 
always  just  one  lap  behind,,  panting 
after  life  in  a  never-ending  race  to  catch 
up  with  life's  always  accumulating, 
changing  demands. 

In  other  words,  the  knowledge  of  the 
time  that  is  past  was  as  the  life  of  that* 
time.  Our  knowledge  is  as  our  life. 
In  place  of  the  few  books  which  it  was 
serviceable  to  have  in  one's  private 
collection,  we  have  a  card  on  the  circu- 
lating library,  where  any  sort  of  book 
leaps  conformably  to  hand  to  meet  our 
need  of  information  or  to  share  our 
hours  of  ease.  In  place  of  the  three 
simple  professions  which  had,  since 
Adam  delved,  adorned  the  life  of  our 
grandfathers,  all  life  has  become  a  pro- 
fession, commerce  an  art.  Our  souls 
demand  study,  and  there  are  psycho- 
logical laboratories;  typhoid  oppresses 
us,  and  there  are  bacteriological  labora- 
tories; we  eat,  and  there  are  special 
laboratories  for  the  chemical  analysis 
of  foods;  animal  life  is  all  about  us, 
and  there  are  biological  laboratories; 
we  read,  and  there  is  a  workshop  for 
library  science.  Physical  science  im- 
pinges upon  chemistry;  here  is  an  elec- 
trical furnace!  We  must  have  news- 
papers; here  is  a  school  of  journalism ! 
Men  live  in  groups  apparently  under 
the  dominance  of  certain  forces;  we 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION:  AN  APOLOGIA 


543 


will  begin  studies  leading  to  a  true  es- 
tablishment of  Sociology! 

Through  elementary  school  and  high 
school  giving  hours  to  making  wooden 
toys  or  gingham  aprons  as  well  as  to 
Greek  and  mathematics;  through  col- 
leges giving  hours  to  horticulture  or 
cookery  as  well  as  to  early  Gothic; 
through  all  the  seethe  of  struggling  ele- 
ments, is  there  any  one  clue  which  one 
may  hold  fast  to  bring  one  safe  to  day- 
light? I  think  there  is.  Just  as  our 
manners  are  adapted  to  the  newer 
thought  of  Pureness  in  Revealment; 
just  as  we  unite  on  the  content  rather 
than  on  the  form  of  religious  teaching, 
so  our  education  ministers  to  a  society 
which  feels  that  its  greatest  interest  is 
in  investigation.  We  need  to  acquire 
the  power  of  independent  thought. 
For  that  purpose  there  are  many  things 
as  valuable  as  a  remembrance  of  the 
fact  that  the  genitive  of  supellex  is 
not  supellicis,  but  supellectilis. 


IV 

The  demand  that  we  shall  get  our 
intellectual  nourishment  from  one 
source  is  of  a  piece  with  the  demand 
that  we  shall  get  our  spiritual  nourish- 
ment from  one  source.  We  are  glad 
that  the  day  is  gone  which  believed  in 
only  one  avenue  to  culture;  we  are  glad 
that  the  day  is  come  which  believes 
that  in  the  house  of  beauty  there  are 
many  mansions. 

Some  people  seem  •  to  look  at  life 
through  a  sort  of  mental  opera-glass, 
which,  when  directed  upon  the  extra- 
ordinary range  of  experience  surround- 
ing the  youth  of  to-day,  encircles  only 
those  elements  which  are  debasing  or 
demoralizing,  which  permits  them  to 
see  in  our  manners  only  their  element 
of  vulgarity,  in  our  spiritual  life  only 
the  quality  of  negation,  in  our  educa- 
tion only  a  lack  of  discipline.  Still  more 
restricted  does  that  encirclement  ap- 


pear to  us  when  it  finds  in  our  drama 
only  the  lower  form  of  vaudeville,  in 
our  art  only  the  'Sunday  Sup.' 

It  is  not  grandmother,  it  is  the  young 
mamma  who  hurries  to  the  front  porch 
to  tear  from  the  morning  newspaper  its 
brilliant  stuffing.  It  is  the  young  mam- 
ma who  believes  that  such  pictures  are 
'unmoral.'  Indeed,  one  of  the  most 
successful  Sunday  editors  in  the  coun- 
try asserts  that  the  '  Sunday  Sup '  is  a 
'circulation-getter'  among  the  mature 
of  the  crowded  quarters  rather  than 
among  the  American-born  of  tender 
years. 

The  Sunday  Supplement  however 
is  a  fact.  It  is  a  disagreeable  fact.  But 
more  significant  we  think  is  the  fact 
that  the  simple  performances  of  our 
daily  lives  can  be  carried  on  constantly 
under  increasingly  beautiful  conditions. 
Children  may  see  cheap  and  ephem- 
eral pictures.  Salvation  lies  in  this, 
that  they  are  ephemeral.  But  those 
same  children  sit  long  hours  in  school 
rooms  hung  with  fine  reproductions  of 
Corot  or  of  Millet,  or  set  with  the 
winged  Nike  dimly  wonderful  against 
a  background  carefully  studied  to  give 
just  the  proper  value.  Their  hands  are 
trained  to  execute  what  their  minds 
are  trained  to  work  out,  in  color,  in 
pottery,  in  textiles.  Even  the  children 
of  careless  or  busy  parents  have  their 
chance  to  receive  the  finer,  nobler 
impressions  when  their  class  is  taken 
on  little  'gallery  tours'  in  the  great 
centres;  when  they  can  see  and  talk 
over  a  '  loan  exhibition '  sent  out  to  the 
smaller  communities. 

As  a  work  of  pure  art  compare  '  the 
little  red  school  house '  with  such  pub- 
lic schools  as  those  of  Mr.  Perkins  in 
Chicago,  Mr.  Sturgis  in  Boston  or  Mr. 
Ittner  in  St.  Louis.  Compare  the  care- 
fully modeled  shafts  from  which  de- 
pend the  lights  in  our  finer  streets  with 
the  T-shaped  lamp  posts  of  a  few  years 
ago.  Compare  the  brown  stone  hor- 


544 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION:  AN  APOLOGIA 


rors  of  the  seventies,  the  ornate  furni- 
ture, the  involuted  draperies,  the  flow- 
ered carpets,  the  fringes,  the  tassels, 
with  a  domestic  art  based  upon  the 
idea  that  form  must  follow  function, 
with  our  adaptations  of  the  best  in  our 
native  colonial  houses,  with  our  simple 
lines,  our  spare  furnishings,  our  devo- 
tion to  the  gradual  acquisition  of  the 
money  for  a  really  good  rug.  When  you 
have  made  that  comparison,  do  you 
conclude  that  public  taste  is  really  de- 
generating? Do  you  not  rather  see 
that  there  is  at  work  a  new  spirit  in 
American  art,  a  spirit  which  allies  it 
to  the  brightest  time  of  the  art  of  other 
countries,  the  spirit  of  youth  which  is 
one  with  that  spirit  of  joy  without 
which  the  best  in  art  is  never  born? 
Moreover,  the  younger  generation,  list- 
ening to  the  Friday  afternoon  concert 
of  the  Theodore  Thomas  orchestra, — 
as  it  does,  —  or  to  the  Boston  Sym- 
phony, —  as  it  does,  —  or  to  the  Cin- 
cinnati festival  chorus,  —  as  it  does,  — 
is  having  its  taste  trained  and  satisfied 
by  Bach  and  Strauss,  by  Beethoven  and 
Brahms.  And  listening  to  those  un- 
worded  revealings  of  the  human  soul, 
the  younger  generation  is  aware  that 
in  half  a  million  homes  throughout 
the  country  those  same  strains,  less 
true  perhaps,  but  existent  still  in  some 
resemblance  to  their  first  great  artistry, 
are  heard  and  heard  again. 

More  than  a  handful  of  the  younger 
generation  are  the  supporters,  more 
than  a  handful  are  the  admirers  of 
Volpe,  of  Horatio  Parker,  of  Arthur 
Foote,  of  Chadwick,  of  Damrosch, 
Grover,  Stock,  Lutkin,  and  Hadley. 
Where  in  the  generation  of  our  fathers 
and  mothers  there  were  at  most  but 
two  cities  in  America  where  the  best 
music  was  constantly  interpreted  by 
competent  musicians,  there  are  now 
at  least  a  dozen.  Musical  Art  or  Choral 
Societies,  string  quartettes,  full  orches- 
tras in  New  York  and  Boston,  —  yes, 


but  also  in  Seattle,  in  Chicago,  in  St. 
Louis,  in  Minneapolis,J3t.  Paul,  Cin- 
cinnati, and  —  with  occasional  inter- 
ruptions —  in  Pittsburg!  Add  to 
this  the  children's  choruses,  singing 
really  good  music  extraordinarily  well; 
add  to  this  such  an  organization  as  the 
A  Cappella  Choir  of  Northwestern 
University;  add  to  it  sustained  musical 
departments  in  almost  every  univers- 
ity of  consequence,  and  one  reaches 
some  suggestion  of  the  reason  why 
many  of  the  greatest  singers  now  before 
the  public  are  Americans,  why  even 
'Herr  This'  and  'M.  That'  in  Berlin 
and  Paris,  with  waiting  lists  of  pupils 
and  an  acknowledged  position  in  the 
musical  life  of  the  continent,  are  'Old 
Chicago  boys,'  or  'Used  to  live  in 
Albany.' 


It  is,  however,  confusing  to  dismiss 
in  a  paragraph  the  total  effect  of  our 
aesthetic  surroundings  on  the  younger 
public,  because  there  is  not  one  public, 
there  are  a  score.  And  true  as  this  may 
be  of  the  artistic  or  the  musical  public 
it  is  quite  as  true  of  the  dramatic.  Not 
only  can  we  get  the  rug,  the  picture, 
the  jewel,  the  preserved  fruit,  the  bit 
of  lace,  —  from  north,  from  south,  from 
next  state,  from  far  country;  that 
this  one,  that  that  one,  momentarily 
needs;  but  there  is  also  a  commercial 
response  to  the  dramatic  tastes  of 
every  section  of  the  community. 

Those  who  demand  cheap  and  vul- 
garizing exhibitions  may  have  their 
tastes  satisfied  just  as  they  always 
have  had  them  satisfied,  but  with  the 
greater  competence  made  possible  by 
the  superiority  of  our  commercial  or- 
ganization. But  those  who  demand  a 
fine  interpretation  of  the  best  plays  can 
find  the  best  plays  also.  It  is  complete- 
ly unfair  to  the  influences  which  bear 
upon  the  youth  of  to-day,  to  turn  a 
jaundiced  gaze  upon  one  of  these  and 


THE  YOUNGER   GENERATION:  AN  APOLOGIA 


545 


to  disregard  entirely  the  other.  We 
have  heard  that  our  mothers  and  fathers 
spent  some  of  their  time  in  laughing  at 
the  extraordinary  humor  of  such  lines 
as  'I  learn,  on  inquiry,  that  cows  do 
not  give  sardines,'  when  lisped  off  by 
the  elder  Sothern,  or  in  fascinated  at- 
tention to  the  writhings  of  the  com- 
ical Mr.  Muldoon  about  the  legs  of  a 
high  chair,  as  well  as  in  attending  upon 
occasional  performances  of  Booth  or 
Barrett.  And  we  call  attention  in  turn 
to  the  fact  that  we  derive  some  en- 
tertainment from  The  Blue  Bird,  and 
The  Faun  and  Peter  Pan  as  well  as 
from  Mme.  Sherry,  from  Herod  and 
Everyman  as  well  as  from  The  Girl  in 
the  Taxi,  and  that  both  the  scenically 
glorious  Shakespeare  of  Miss  Marlowe 
and  the  scenically  barren  Shakespeare 
of  Mr.  Ben  Greet  have  been  applauded 
with  some  enthusiasm  in  recent  years. 

It  is  not  merely  the  varying  tastes 
of  different  publics  which  are  met,  but 
the  varying  moods  of  the  individual. 
And  to  the  young  it  seems  a  misfortune 
for  you  if  you  have  not  varying  moods. 
Granted  that  the  spectacle  be  clean,  — 
it  seems  to  them  a  misfortune  if  you 
cannot  get  enjoyment  out  of  many  dif- 
fering kinds  of  dramatic  effort.  You 
cannot  yourself  be  close  to  all  sorts  of 
the  wonderful  ranging  life  of  to-day; 
but  you  can  get  just  a  little  closer  to  it 
through  the  theatre.  And  this  is  the 
point  at  which  vaudeville,  the  best 
vaudeville,  makes  its  appeal  to  us. 
Remember,  not  all  of  us  by  any  means 
are  devotees  of  the  'top-liners.'  But 
don't  despair  of  us  if  we  are! 

While  we  pause  to  observe  that  we 
did  not  invent  the  entertainment,  we 
may  nevertheless  also  insist  that  there 
is  variety  in  vaudeville.  You  may  thrill 
to  an  act  of  daring,  or  take  your  joy 
in  that  magnificent  display  of  human 
physique  which  indicates  not  only  skill 
but  years  of  abstemiousness  which 
would  do  credit  to  an  anchorite.  You 
VOL.  107 -NO,  4 


may  hear  the  sort  of '  stunts '  that  good 
musicians  do  when  they  lay  aside  their 
professional  manner  and  play  with 
their  art  among  their  friends.  Is  n't 
it  worth  noticing  that  the  house-filling 
popularity  of  the  'most  beautiful 
woman  in  the  world '  is  equaled  by  that 
of  a  serious,  uncompromising  study  of 
real  life  such  as  Mr.  J.  M.  Patterson's 
Dope  or  by  that  of  such  an  artistic  pre- 
sentation of  a  social  message  as  Mr. 
George  Beban's  The  Sign  of  the  Rose  ? 
The  element  in  it  all  which  is  terrify- 
ingly  new  to  our  discouraged  ancestors 
is  that  we  who  ought  to  be  the  children 
of  light  are  enjoying  every  bit  of  it. 
Of  course  we  are!  and  rightly!  It  mir- 
rors back  to  us  our  environment.  Just 
so  the  great  Elizabethan  drama  lived 
through  the  dreary  days  of  Anne  even 
to  our  own  time,  most  surely  because  it 
was  Elizabethan.  It  was  alive.  It  was 
written  by  live  people  about  live  peo- 
ple. It  reproduced  its  own  environment 
through  all  classical  disguise.  It  was  as 
good  and  as  bad  as  itself.  Our  drama 
seems  to  us  to  do  the  same  thing.  Paid 
in  Full,  The  Fourth  Estate,  The  Man  of 
the  Hour,  —  you  know  them  and  the 
many  others  like  them,  —  studies  of 
our  day,  they  may  be  called.  They  may 
be  called  studies  of  our  environment. 
And  in  that  respect  they  seem  not  only 
to  be  most  unlike  the  drama  of  a  gener- 
ation ago  but  to  reflect  and  to  present 
therein  a  similar  unlikeness  hi  our- 
selves. 

VI 

The  complete  lack  of  recognition  of 
the  public  point  of  view  is  to  us  one  of 
the  most  amazing  disclosures  as  we  pur- 
sue our  researches  into  the  history  of 
the  era  just  preceding  us.  More  men- 
acing, it  seems  to  us,  than  individual 
greed,  than  poor  little  aldermen  taking 
a  job  for  brother-in-law  in  considera- 
tion of  a '  right '  vote  on  a  gas  franchise; 
more  menacing  than  poor  little  legis- 


546 


THE   YOUNGER  GENERATION:  AN  APOLOGIA 


lators  'holcling-up'  the  rich  gun-club's 
game-preserve  bill  till  a  few  dollars 
trickle  into  their  silly  little  pockets; 
more  menacing  than  any  number  of 
examples  of  individual  'graft,'  is  the 
widespread  existence  of  that  social  at- 
titude which  saw  in  politics  only  a 
'cess-pool';  which  placed  the  rewards 
of  private  business  above  those  of 
public  service;  which  would  make  our 
government  the  handmaid  of  special 
privilege  —  in  short,  the  social  attitude 
into  which  we  were  born. 

Here  acres  of  state  land  quietly 
handed  over  to  a  steel  mill,  there  a 
city's  lake  front  given  over  to  a  rail- 
road ;  here  a  stream  —  of  all  the  won- 
derful universe,  one  would  think,  most 
sacred  gift  to  all,  —  poisoned  its  length, 
there  the  very  air  noxious  with  un- 
necessary vapors;  forests  and  mines 
which  should  have  been  the  bread  of  the 
future  children  of  America  made  the 
wine  of  the  women  of  the  Riviera,  — 
these  are  the  conditions,  into  which  we 
were  born.  These  are  the  conditions 
for  which  the  noble  Romans  of  anoth- 
er generation  are  responsible.  Having 
made  these  conditions  they  tremble  to 
think  how  we  are  going  to  face  them. 

Our  forbears,  preoccupied  with  ideals 
of  individual  beauty,  seem  to  us  to 
have  failed  to  realize  their  environ- 
ment. We  resent  an  individual  virtue 
which  exists  in  the  midst  of  social 
wrong.  Therefore  we  resent  that  inter- 
pretation of  our  conduct  which  calls  us 
individualistic.  For  it  seems  to  us  that 
never  before  has  a  sense  of  social  ethics 
been  so  widespread. 

There  are  various  signs  you  may 
read  if  you  doubt  that  statement.  Try 
for  example  the  one-time  heard  argu- 
ment that  because  a  man  is  good  to  his 
family  he  will  probably  make  a  good 
United  States  Senator;  you  will  arouse 
the  rude  and  violent  laughter  of  to-day. 

One  illustration  may  be  found  in  a 
recent  incident  in  the  newspaper  busi- 


ness. A  letter  of  Mr.  Edmund  Clarence 
Stedman,  written  during  the  war  to 
his  wife,  and  printed  last  fall  for  the 
first  time,  told  of  having  received  a 
check  from  the  manufacturer  of  a  cer- 
tain cannon,  and  says  that  he  'will 
boom  this  cannon  in  the  future.'  In  its 
editorial  comment,  the  Chicago  Tri- 
bune pointed  out  how  far  the  ideals  of 
the  newspaper  profession  had  pro- 
gressed since  the  sixties,  that  a  man  of 
Mr.  Stedman's  undoubted  honesty  and 
character  could,  without  a  thought,  do 
what  no  self-respecting  reporter  could 
do  to-day  —  and  retain  his  self-respect. 

VII 

The  talk  of  'temperament '  and  '  self- 
expression'  was  much  more  character- 
istic of  those  who  were  young  at  the 
feet  of  Whitman  than  it  is  of  those  who 
are  young  at  the  feet  of  Mr.  Dooley. 
The  test  of  effect  upon  individual  char- 
acter was  then  the  only  test  by  which 
to  try  even  social  conduct.  For  like  an 
unperfumed  rose,  that  penitential  spirit 
which  led  to  countless  mystical  ex- 
pressions in  the  middle  ages,  grew  up 
again  unlovely  in  the  individualistic 
interpretations  of  earlier  America.  It 
survives  among  us  in  that  attitude  of 
mind  which  demands  a  certain  draw- 
ing-room posture  partly  because  it  is 
uncomfortable,  not  because  it  is  beau- 
tiful; which  prescribes  certain  studies 
because  they  are  disciplinary,  not  be- 
cause they  teach  anything  worth  know- 
ing; which  finds  something  intrinsic- 
ally valuable  in  cleaning  lamps,  even 
though  the  room  may  be  better  lighted 
by  pressing  a  button;  which  cannot 
believe  that  you  really  want  to  make 
the  world  better  unless  you  have  a  pri- 
vate individual  tear  to  shed  at  each  of 
its  miseries. 

For  a  mediaeval  saint  to  wash  the 
feet  of  twelve  poor  old  men  was  a  sanc- 
tified act  because  it  cleansed  not  the 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION:  AN  APOLOGIA 


547 


feet  of  the  old  men,  but  the  soul  of  the 
saint.  If  Saint-of-To-day  were  to  be 
assigned  that  task  his  entire  thought 
would  be  the  better  preparation  of  those 
twelve  old  men  for  their  next  neces- 
sary walk,  with  a  mental  reservation 
in  favor  of  so  constituting  society  that 
it  would  never  be  necessary  for  some 
one  else  to  do  it  for  them. 

We  are  glad  that  the  time  is  gone 
which  in  the  words  of  Simon  Patten 
'  endeavored  to  extract  nobility  of  char- 
acter out  of  domestic  maladjustments.' 
We  are  going  to  use  for  social  service 
the  leisure  created  by  business  organ- 
ization and  by  mechanical  invention. 

We  are  perfectly  willing  that  you 
call  this  a '  sense  of  duty,'  —  this  newly 
awakened  social  conscience.  In  fact 
we  don't  care  m  the  least  what  name 
you  call  it  by.  You  may  come  as  a  So- 
cialist, a  single-taxer,  a  neighborhood- 
improver,  an  art-leaguer,  a  charity-or- 
ganizer. You  need  not  have  'a  passion 
of  Christ-like  pity,'  you  may  merely 
think  it  is  better  business  policy.  It 
does  n't,  to  the  youngsters,  make  very 
much  difference  by  what  name  you 
choose  to  be  called,  —  any  more  than  it 
made  any  difference  in  what  order  you 
entered  a  drawing-room,  or  whether  you 
studied  mathematics  or  bacteriology, 
—  provided,  PROVIDED  —  you  get  to 
making  life  more  livable  for  most  people. 
We  demand  a  sort  of  race-patriotism. 

Patriotism  to  the  human  race  will 
include  the  old  patriotism  and  the  old 
religion  in  one.  No  age  of  religion  ever 
recoiled  more  from  blood,  ever  came 
closer  to  a  conception  of  ultimate  peace, 
than  this  age.  No  age  has  produced 
greater  martyrs  to  religion  than  this 
age  has  dedicated  to  humanity. 


And  you  think  that  the  broadening 
notion  of  service  has  not  its  glories  of 
individual  character,  that  the  new  has 
not  its  martyrs  like  the  old?  I  like  to 
think  of  the  woman  who  has  given  up 
wealth  and  lives  meanly,  willingly  en- 
during not  only  material  discomforts 
but  to  be  misjudged,  insulted  and 
abused,  in  order  to  give  to  those  social 
causes  in  which  she  believes  not  only 
her  money  but  the  influence  of  her  ex- 
traordinary personality.  I  might  men- 
tion her  name.  But  she  has  many 
names.  She  is  in  every  city. 

I  like  to  think  of  Lazear,  —  thirty- 
four  years  old,  happily  married,  widely 
loved,  at  the  gate  of  his  profession, 
scientist  and  soldier,  embracing  death 
gloriously,  hurrying  to  meet  it,  that  he 
might  rip  but  by  a  little  thread  this 
veil  of  ignorance  which  so  enshrouds 
mankind.  To  us  he  seems  hardly  less 
glorious  because  his  life  was  given  not 
for  the  sake  of  single  creed  nor  for  the 
hope  of  future  unspeakable  reward,  but 
simply  that  other  men  might  know  one 
fact,  —  one  fact  about  one  disease  — 
simply  that  other  men  might  even  in  a 
small  degree  come  closer  to  a  right  re- 
lationship to  their  environment. 

For  however  light-heartedly  this 
generation  may  try  to  take  its  funda- 
mental philosophies  it  is  always  con- 
scious of  the  underlying  pathos  of  its 
position.  It  cannot  name  the  port 
whither,  it  seems,  our  bark  is  set.  With 
the  ship  under  full  sail  our  fathers  first 
tore  up  the  sailing  orders  and  then 
steered  into  uncharted  seas.  This  gen- 
eration, with  no  sailing  orders,  volun- 
tarily must  unite  for  charting  those 
seas.  It  must  be  for  some  other  genera- 
tion to  bring  the  ship  to  port. 


CRITICISM 


BY   W.   C.   BROWNELL 


CRITICISM  itself  is  much  criticized, 
which  logically  establishes  its  title.  No 
form  of  mental  activity  is  commoner, 
and,  where  the  practice  of  anything  is 
all  but  universal,  protest  against  it  is 
as  idle  as  apology  for  it  should  be  su- 
perfluous. The  essentially  critical  char- 
acter of  formularies  alleging  the  in- 
feriority to  books  of  the  books  about 
books  that  Lamb  preferred,  finding  the 
genesis  of  criticism  in  creative  failure, 
and  so  on,  should  of  itself  demon- 
strate that  whatever  objection  may  be 
made  to  it  in  practice  there  can  be 
none  in  theory.  In  which  case  the  only 
sensible  view  is  that  its  practice  should 
be  perfected  rather  than  abandoned. 
However,  it  is  probably  only  in  —  may 
one  say?  —  'uncritical  circles,'  notori- 
ously as  skeptical  about  logic  as  about 
criticism,  that  it  encounters  this  funda- 
mental censure.  'Nobody  here,'  said 
Lord  Morley  recently,  addressing  the 
English  Association,  'will  undervalue 
criticism  or  fall  into  the  gross  blunder 
of  regarding  it  as  a  mere  parasite  of 
creative  work.'  And,  indeed,  I  should 
be  conscious  of  slighting  just  propor- 
tion and  intellectual  decorum  in  lay- 
ing any  particular  stress  on  the  asper- 
sions of  the  sciolists  of  the  studios,  such 
as,  for  example,  the  late  Mr.  Whistler, 
and  of  literary  adventurers,  such  as, 
for  another  instance,  the  late  Lord 
Beaconsfield. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  these  two  rather 
celebrated  disparagers  of  criticism  were 
greatly  indebted  to  the  critical  faculty, 

548 


very  marked  in  each  of  them.  It  is  now 
becoming  quite  generally  appreciated, 
I  imagine,  —  thanks  to  criticism,  — 
that  Degas's  admonition  to  Whistler 
about  his  conduct  cheapening  his  tal- 
ent, which  every  one  will  remember, 
was  based  on  a  slight  misconception. 
Whistler's  achievements  in  painting, 
however  incontestable  their  merits, 
would  certainly  have  enjoyed  less  of 
the  vogue  he  so  greatly  prized  had  his 
prescription  that  work  should  be  're- 
ceived in  silence '  been  followed  in  his 
own  case  by  himself.  And  it  was  cer- 
tainly the  critical  rather  than  the  cre- 
ative element  in  Disraeli's  more  serious 
substance  that  gave  it  the  interest  it 
had  for  his  contemporaries,  and  has 
now  altogether  lost. 

More  worth  while  recalling  than  Dis- 
raeli's inconsistency,  however,  is  the 
fact  that  in  plagiarizing  he  distorted 
Coleridge's  remark,  substituting  'crit- 
ics' for  'reviewers'  as  those  who  had 
failed  in  creative  fields.  The  substitu- 
tion is  venial  in  so  far  as  in  the  Eng- 
land of  that  day  the  critics  were  the  re- 
viewers. But  this  is  what  is  especially 
noteworthy  in  considering  the  whole 
subject:  namely,  that  in  England,  as 
with  ourselves,  the  art  of  criticism  is  so 
largely  the  business  of  reviewing  as  to 
make  the  two,  in  popular  estimation 
at  least,  interconvertible  terms.  They 
order  the  matter  differently  in  France. 
Every  one  must  have  been  struck  at 
first  by  the  comparative  slightness  of 
the  reviewing  in  French  journalism. 
One's  impression  at  first  is  that  they 
take  the  business  much  less  seriously 


CRITICISM 


549 


than  one  would  expect  in  a  country 
with  such  an  active  interest  in  art  and 
letters.  The  papers,  even  the  reviews, 
concern  themselves  with  the  current 
product  chiefly  in  the  'notice'  or  the 
compte  rendu,  which  aims  merely  to 
inform  the  reader  as  to  the  contents  of 
the  book  or  the  contributions  to  the 
exposition,  whatever  it  may  be,  with 
but  a  meagre  addition  of  comment 
either  courteous  or  curt.  The  current 
art  criticism  even  of  Gautier,  even  of 
Diderot  for  that  matter,  is  largely  de- 
scriptive. In  the  literary  revues  what 
we  should  call  the  reviewing  is  apt  to 
be  consigned  to  a  few  back  pages  of 
running  chronique,  or  a  supplementary 
leaflet. 

Of  course  one  explanation  is  that  the 
French  public  reads  and  sees  for  itself 
too  generally  to  need  or  savor  extensive 
treatment  of  the  essentially  undiffer- 
entiated.  The  practice  of  reviewing 
scrupulously  all  the  output  of  the  novel 
factories,  exemplified  by  such  period- 
icals as  even  the  admirable  Athenceum, 
would  seem  singular  to  it.  But  with 
us,  even  when  the  literature  reviewed 
is  eminent  and  serious,  it  is  estimat- 
ed by  the  anonymous  expert,  who  at 
most,  and  indeed  at  his  best,  confines 
himself  to  the  matter  in  hand  and  de- 
livers a  kind  of  bench  decision  in  a 
circumscribed  case.  And  in  France  this 
is  left  to  subsequent  books  or  more 
general  articles,  with  the  result  of  re- 
leasing the  critic  for  more  personal 
work  of  larger  scope.  Hence,  there  are 
a  score  of  French  critics  of  personal 
quality  for  one  English  or  American. 
Even  current  criticism  becomes  a  pro- 
vince of  literature  instead  of  being  a 
department  of  routine.  Our  own  cur- 
rent criticism,  anonymous  or  other, 
is,  I  need  not  say,  largely  of  this  rou- 
tine character,  when  it  has  character, 
varied  by  the  specific  expert  decision 
in  a  very  few  quarters,  and  only  occa- 
sionally- by  a  magazine  article  de  fond 


of  a  real  synthetic  value.  This  last 
I  should  myself  like  to  see  the  Acad- 
emy, whose  function  must  be  mainly 
critical,  encourage  by  every  means  open 
to  it,  by  way  of  giving  more  standing  to 
our  criticism,  which  is  what  I  think  it 
needs  first  of  all. 

For  the  antipathy  to  criticism  I  im- 
agine springs  largely  from  confound- 
ing it  with  the  reviewing  —  which  I  do 
not  desire  to  depreciate,  but  to  dis- 
tinguish from  criticism  of  a  more  pos- 
itive and  personal  order  and  a  more 
permanent  appeal.  The  tradition  of 
English  reviewing  is  almost  august,  and 
it  is  natural  that  Coleridge  should  have 
spoken  of  reviewers  as  a  class,  and  that 
Mr.  Birrell  should  have  them  exclus- 
ively in  mind  in  defining  the  traits  of 
the  ideal  critic.  And  we  ourselves  are 
not  without  journals  which  review  with 
obvious  resources  of  scholarship  and 
skill,  and  deliver  judgments  with  the 
tone,  if  not  always  with  the  effect,  of 
finality.  But  of  course,  taking  the  coun- 
try as  a  whole,  reviewing  is  the  least 
serious  concern  of  the  journalism  that 
seems  to  take  so  many  things  lightly. 
And  it  is  this  reviewing  that  I  fancy 
the  authors  and  artists  have  in  mind 
when  they  disparage  criticism.  The 
critics  of  reviewing,  however,  deem  it 
insufficiently  expert,  and  I  dare  say 
this  is  often  just.  But  the  objection  to 
it  which  is  apparently  not  considered, 
but  which  I  should  think  even  more 
considerable,  is  its  tendency  to  mono- 
polize the  critical  field  and  establish 
this  very  ideal  of  specific  expertness, 
which  its  practice  so  frequently  fails 
to  realize,  as  the  ideal  of  criticism  in 
general.  This  involves,  I  think,  a  re- 
stricted view  of  the  true  critic's  field, 
and  an  erroneous  view  of  his  function. 
Virtually  it  confines  his  own  field  to 
that  of  the  practice  he  criticizes;  and 
his  function  to  that  of  estimating  any 
practice  with  reference  to  its  technical 
standards.  In  a  word,  expert  criticism 


550 


CRITICISM 


is  necessarily  technical  criticism,  and, 
not  illogically,  those  whose  ideal  it  is 
insist  that  the  practitioner  himself 
is  the  only  proper  critic  of  his  order  of 
practice. 

This  was  eminently  the  view  of  the 
late  Russell  Sturgis,  who  had  an  inex- 
haustible interest  in  technic  of  all  kinds 
and  maintained  stoutly  that  only  artists 
should  write  about  art.  And  though 
his  own  practice  negatived  his  princi- 
ple so  far  as  painting  and  sculpture  are 
concerned,  that  was  perhaps  because 
the  painters  and  sculptors  were  them- 
selves so  remiss  in  lending  a  hand  to 
the  work  he  deemed  it  important  to 
have  done.  They  were  surely  excus- 
able, in  many  cases,  since  they  could 
allege  preoccupation  with  what  they 
could  do  even  better  in  proportion  as 
they  were  either  satisfactorily  good  at 
it  or  successful  with  it.  Sturgis's  the- 
ory was  that  art  should  be  interpret- 
ed from  the  artist's  point  of  view,  as- 
suming of  course  the  existence  of  such 
a  point  of  view.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
there  is  none,  and  when  it  is  sought 
what  is  found  is  either  an  artist's  point 
of  view,  which  is  personal  and  not  pro- 
fessional, or  else  it  is  that  of  every  one 
else  sufficiently  educated  in  the  results 
which  artists  could  hardly  have  pro- 
duced for  centuries  without,  sooner  or 
later,  at  least  betraying  what  it  is  their 
definite  aim  distinctly  to  express.  The 
esoteric  in  their  work  is  a  matter,  not 
of  art,  —  the  universal  language  in 
which  they  communicate,  —  but  of 
science;  it  does  not  reside  in  the  point 
of  view,  but  in  the  process. 

All  artistic  accomplishment  divides 
itself  naturally,  easily,  and  satisfactor- 
ily, however  loosely,  into  the  two  cate- 
gories, moral  and  material.  The  two 
certainly  overlap,  and  this  is  particu- 
larly true  of  the  plastic  arts,  whose 
peculiarity  —  or  whose  distinction,  if 
you  choose  —  is  to  appeal  to  the  senses 
as  well  as  to  the  mind.  A  certain  tech- 


nic therefore  —  that  is  to  say,  the 
science  of  their  material  side  —  is  al- 
ways to  be  borne  in  mind.  But  a  far 
less  elaborate  acquaintance  with  this 
than  is  vital  to  the  practitioner  is  ample 
for  the  critic,  who  may  in  fact  easily 
have  too  much  of  it  if  he  have  any 
inclination  to  exploit  rather  than  to 
subordinate  it. 

The  artist  who  exacts  more  technical 
expertness  from  the  c~itic  than  he  finds 
is  frequently  looking  in  criticism  for 
what  it  is  the  province  of  the  studio  to 
provide;  he  requires  of  it  the  educa- 
tional character  proper  to  the  class- 
room, or  the  qualifications  pertinent 
to  the  hanging  committee.  Now,  even 
confined  within  its  proper  limits,  this 
esoteric  criticism  suffers  from  its  in- 
herent concentration  on  technic.  Art- 
istic innovation  meets  nowhere  with 
such  illiberal  hostility  as  it  encounters 
in  its  own  hierarchy,  and  less  on  tem- 
peramental than  on  technical  grounds. 
On  the  other  hand,  a  painter  like  Bou- 
guereau  may  systematically  invert  the 
true  relations  of  conception  and  execu- 
tion, employing  the  most  insipid  con- 
ventionalities to  express  his  exquisite 
drawing,  and  remain  for  a  generation 
the  head  of  the  professional  corner  in 
the  school  edifice  where  the  critical 
faculty  has  been  paralyzed  by  the  tech- 
nical criterion.  And  of  course  in  tech- 
nical circles  such  a  criterion  tends  to 
establish  itself.  Millet,  who  refused 
to  write  about  a  fellow  painter's  work 
for  the  precise  reason  that  he  was  a 
painter  himself  and  therefore  partial  to 
his  own  different  way  of  handling  the 
subject,  was  a  practitioner  of  excep- 
tional breadth  of  view,  and  would  per- 
haps have  agreed  with  Aristotle,  who, 
as  Montaigne  says,  'will  still  have  a 
hand  in  everything,'  and  who  asserts 
that  the  proper  judge  of  the  tiller  is 
not  the  carpenter  but  the  helmsman. 
Indeed,  'The  wearer  knows  where  the 
shoe  pinches'  is  as  sound  a  maxim  as 


CRITICISM 


551 


*Ne  sutor  ultra  crepidam';  and  the  au- 
thority of  the  latter  itself  may  be  in- 
voked in  favor  of  leaving  criticism  to 
critics.  And  even  the  literary  critic  of 
plastic  art  may  quite  conceivably  need 
to  be  reminded  of  Arnold's  caution: 
'To  handle  these  matters  properly, 
there  is  needed  a  poise  so  perfect  that 
the  least  overweight  in  any  direction 
tends  to  destroy  the  balance  .  .  .  even 
erudition  may  destroy  it.  Little  as  I 
know  therefore,  I  am  always  appre- 
hensive, in  dealing  with  poetry,  lest 
even  that  little  should  [quoting  a  re- 
mark by  the  Duke  of  Wellington] 
"prove  too  much  for  my  abilities.'" 

It  is  true  that  we  have  in  America 
—  possibly  in  virtue  of  our  inevitable 
eclecticism  —  a  considerable  number 
of  practicing  artists  who  also  write 
distinguished  criticism.  But  to  ascribe 
its  excellence  to  their  technical  expert- 
ness,  rather  than  to  their  critical  facul- 
ty, would  really  be  doing  an  injustice 
to  the  felicity  with  which  they  subor- 
dinate in  their  criticism  all  technical 
parade  beyond  that  which  is  certainly 
too  elementary  to  be  considered  eso- 
teric. Certainly  some  of  them  would  be 
indisposed  to  measure  work  by  their 
own  practice,  and  in  that  case  what 
critical  title  does  this  practice  in  itself 
confer?  As  a  rule  indeed,  I  think,  they 
rather  help  than  hinder  the  contention 
that  criticism  is  a  special  province  of 
literature  with,  in  fact,  a  technic  of  its 
own  in  which  they  show  real  expert- 
ness,  instead  of  a  literary  adjunct  of 
the  special  art  with  which  it  is  vari- 
ously called  upon  to  concern  itself. 
And  in  this  special  province,  material 
data  are  far  less  considerable  than 
moral — with  which  latter,  accordingly, 
it  is  the  special  function  of  criticism  to 
deal.  Every  one  is  familiar  with  plastic 
works  of  a  perfection  that  all  the  tech- 
nical talk  in  the  world  would  not  ex- 
plain, as  no  amount  of  technical  ex- 
pertness  could  compass  it.  However 


young  the  artist  might  have  begun  to 
draw,  or  model,  or  design,  whatever 
masters  he  might  have  had,  however 
long  he  might  have  practiced  his  art, 
whatever  his  skill,  native  or  acquired, 
whatever  his  professional  expertness,  in 
a  word,  no  artist  could  have  achieved 
the  particular  result  in  question  with- 
out those  qualities  which  have  con- 
trolled the  result,  and  which  it  is  the 
function  of  criticism  to  signalize,  as  it 
is  the  weakness  of  expert  evaluation  to 
neglect. 

Criticism,  thus,  may  not  inexactly 
be  described  as  the  statement  of  the 
concrete  in  terms  of  the  abstract.  It  is 
its  function  to  discern  and  characterize 
the  abstract  qualities  informing  the 
concrete  expression  of  the  artist.  Every 
important  piece  of  literature,  as  every 
important  work  of  plastic  art,  is  the 
expression  of  a  personality,  and  it  is  not 
the  material  of  it,  but  the  mind  behind 
it,  that  invites  critical  interpretation. 
Materially  speaking,  it  is  its  own  inter- 
pretation .  The  concrete  absorbs  the  con- 
structive artist  whose  endeavor  is  to  give 
substance  to  his  idea,  which  until  ex- 
pressed is  an  abstraction.  The  concern 
of  criticism  is  to  measure  his  success  by 
the  correspondence  of  his  expression 
to  the  idea  it  suggests  and  by  the  value 
of  the  idea  itself.  The  critic's  own 
language,  therefore,  into  which  he  is  to 
translate  the  concrete  work  he  is  con- 
sidering, is  the  language  of  the  ab- 
stract; and  as  in  translation  what  is 
needed  is  appreciation  of  the  foreign 
tongue  and  expertness  in  one's  own, 
it  is  this  language  that  it  behooves 
him  especially  to  cultivate. 

As  it  is  the  qualities  of  the  writer, 
painter,  sculptor,  and  not  the  proper- 
ties of  their  productions,  that  are  his 
central  concern,  as  his  function  is  to 
disengage  the  moral  value  from  its 
material  expression,  —  I  do  not  mean 
of  course  in  merely  major  matters, 
but  in  minutiae  as  well,  such  as  even 


552 


CRITICISM 


the  lilt  of  a  verse  or  the  drawing  of  a 
wrist,  the  distinction  being  one  of  kind, 
not  of  rank,  —  qualities,  not  proper- 
ties, are  the  very  substance  and  not 
merely  the  subject  of  the  critic's  own 
expression.  The  true  objects  of  his 
contemplation  are  the  multifarious  ele- 
ments of  truth,  beauty,  goodness,  and 
their  approximations  and  antipodes, 
underlying  the  various  phenomena 
which  express  them,  rather  than  the 
laws  and  rules  peculiar  to  each  form  of 
phenomenal  expression;  which,  be- 
yond acquiring  the  familiarity  needful 
for  adequate  appreciation,  he  may  leave 
to  the  professional  didacticism  of  each. 
And  in  thus  confining  itself  to  the  art 
and  eschewing  the  science  of  whatever 
forms  its  subject  —  mindful  mainly  of 
no  science,  indeed,  except  its  own  — 
criticism  is  enabled  to  extend  its  field 
while  restricting  its  function,  and  to 
form  a  distinct  province  of  literature, 
while  relinquishing  encroachments  up- 
on the  territory  of  more  exclusively 
constructive  art. 

Of  course  thus  individualizing  the 
field  and  the  function  of  criticism 
neither  predicates  universal  capacity 
in  nor  prescribes  universal  practice  to 
the  individual  critic,  who  however  will 
specialize  all  the  more  usefully  for  real- 
izing that  both  his  field  and  his  function 
are  themselves  as  special  as  his  faculty 
is  universally  acknowledged  to  be. 


ii 

The  critic's  equipment  consequently 
should  be  at  least  commensurate  with 
the  field  implied  by  this  view  of  his 
function.  But  it  should  really  even 
exceed  it,  on  the  well-known  principle 
that  no  one  knows  his  subject  who 
knows  his  subject  alone.  And  this  im- 
plies for  criticism  the  possession  of  that 
cognate  culture  without  which  specific 
erudition  produces  a  rather  lean  result. 
If,  which  is  doubtful,  it  achieves  rect- 


itude, it  misses  richness.  The  mere 
function  of  examining  and  estimation 
can  hardly  be  correctly  conducted 
without  illumination  from  the  side- 
lights of  culture.  But  certainly  if  criti- 
cism is  to  have  itself  any  opulence  and 
amplitude,  any  body  and  energy,  it 
must  bring  to  its  specific  business  a  sup- 
plementary fund  of  its  own.  If  litera- 
ture— or  art  as  well  for  that  matter — 
is  a  criticism  of  lue,  criticism  in  a  simi- 
lar sense  and  in  the  same  degree  deter- 
mines the  relations  of  the  two,  and  thus 
needs  as  close  touch  with  life  as  with 
art  and  letters.  Thus,  whatever  the 
subject,  the  critical  equipment  calls 
for  a  knowledge  of  life,  and  in  propor- 
tion to  its  depth  and  fullness,  a  philo- 
sophy of  life.  In  no  other  way,  indeed, 
can  the  critic's  individuality  achieve 
outline,  and  the  body  of  his  work  at- 
tain coherence. 

Obviously,  therefore,  that  general 
culture  which  is  a  prerequisite  to  any 
philosophy  of  life  is  a  necessity  of  his 
equipment,  without  which  he  can 
neither  estimate  his  subject  aright  nor 
significantly  enrich  his  treatment  to 
the  end  of  producing  what  constitutes 
literature  in  its  turn  —  an  ideal  which, 
as  I  have  already  intimated,  exhibits 
the  insufficiency  of  what  is  known  as 
expert  criticism.  And  of  this  general 
culture,  I  should  call  the  chief  constitu- 
ents history,  aesthetics,  and  philosophy. 
'The  most  profitable  thing  in  the  world 
for  the  institution  of  human  life  is  his- 
tory,' says  Froissart;  and  the  import- 
ance of  history  to  any  criticism  which 
envisages  life  as  well  as  art  and  letters, 
would  need  no  more  than  mention  were 
it  not  hi  fact  so  frequently  and  so  gener- 
ally overlooked  by  those  who  uncon- 
sciously or  explicitly  take  the  belletrist- 
ic  or  purely  aesthetic  view  of  criticism. 
Since  Taine  such  a  view  seems  curi- 
ously antiquated.  Evidently  however  it 
underlies  much  current  practice,  which 
seems  to  assume  that  current  critical 


CRITICISM 


553 


material  is  the  product  of  spontaneous 
generation  and  that,  accordingly,  even 
its  direct  ancestry,  as  well  as  its  ances- 
tral influences,  is  negligible.  And  the 
same  view  is  apparently  held,  not  only 
in  the  class-room,  but  in  what  we  may 
call  professional  circles,  where  both 
reasoning  and  research  are  so  often 
strictly  confined  within  the  rigid  limits 
of  the  special  branch  of  study  pursued 
or  expounded. 

Art  and  letters  are  nevertheless 
neither  fortuitous  phenomena,  on  the 
one  hand,  to  be  savored  and  tested 
merely  by  the  sharp  senses  of  the  im- 
pressionist, nor,  on  the  other,  technical 
variants  of  an  isolated  evolution.  Poet- 
ry for  instance  is  neither  pure  music 
nor  pure  prosody.  Even  that  of  Blake 
or  Whitman  cannot  be  correctly  judged 
by  the  senses  unilluminated  by  the  light 
which  history  sheds  on  its  conformity 
to  or  deflection  from  the  ideal  laws  to 
which  legitimately  it  is  responsible; 
a  fortiori,  of  course,  in  the  case  of 
poetry  that  is  truly  expressive  instead 
of  melodiously  or  otherwise  explosive. 
But  in  general  the  criticism  which 
either  correctly  estimates  or  success- 
fully contributes  to  art  or  letters  rests 
firmly  on  that  large  and  luminous  view 
of  life  and  the  world  which  alone  fur- 
nishes an  adequately  flexible  standard 
for  measuring  whatever  relates  to  life 
and  the  world,  and  which  is  itself  fur- 
nished by  history  alone.  Of  course  no 
one  would  prescribe  a  minute  know- 
ledge of  the  Carthaginian  constitution 
any  more  than  of  the  reasons  for  the 
disappearance  of  the  digamma  as  a 
necessity  of  critical  equipment,  but  a 
lack  of  interest  in  the  distinctly  cult- 
ural chapters  of  the  book  of  human 
life  witnesses,  one  would  think,  a  lack 
of  even  that  spirit  of  curiosity  char- 
acteristic of  the  dilettante  himself  and 
naturally  leading  him  beyond  the  strict 
confines  of  belles-lettres  and  pure 
aesthetics. 


./Esthetics,  however,  in  their  broader 
aspect  may  be  commended  to  even  the 
purely  literary  critic  as  an  important 
element  of  his  ideal  equipment  at  the 
present  day.  They  constitute  an  ele- 
ment of  cognate  culture  which  imposes 
itself  more  and  more,  and  literary  crit- 
ics who  deem  them  negligible  are  no 
doubt  becoming  fewer  and  fewer.  No 
one  could  maintain  their  parity  with 
history  as  such  an  element,  I  think, 
for  the  reason  that  they  deal  with  a 
more  restricted  field.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  extent  rather  than  the  par- 
ticularity of  this  field  is  now  increas- 
ingly perceived,  and  the  prodigious  part 
played  by  the  plastic  in  the  history  of 
human  expression  is  receiving  a  recog- 
nition long  overdue.  I  remember  once, 
many  years  ago,  a  number  of  us  were 
wasting  time  in  playing  one  of  those 
games  dear  to  the  desultory,  consist- 
ing of  making  lists  of  the  world's  great- 
est men.  We  had  discussed  and  ac- 
credited perhaps  a  dozen,  when  Homer 
Martin,  being  asked  to  contribute,  ex- 
claimed, '  Well,  I  think  it 's  about  time 
to  put  in  an  artist  or  two.'  The  list 
was  revised,  but  less  radically,  I  imag- 
ine, than  it  would  be  to-day. 

In  France  to-day  no  literary  critic 
with  a  tithe  of  Sainte-Beuve's  author- 
ity would  be  likely  to  incur  the  genuine 
compassion  expressed  for  Sainte-Beuve 
when  he  ventured  to  talk  about  art 
by  theGoncourts  in  their  candid  Diary. 
In  England  such  a  critic  as  Pater  owes 
his  reputation  quite  as  much  probably 
to  his  sense  for  the  plastic  as  to  his 
Platonism.  In  Germany  doubtless  the 
importance  of  aesthetics  as  a  constitu- 
ent of  general  culture  has  been  gener- 
ally felt  since  Lessing's  time,  and  could 
hardly  fail  of  universal  recognition  in 
the  shadow  of  Goethe.  With  us  in 
America,  progress  in  this  very  vital  re- 
spect has  notoriously  been  slower,  and  it 
is  not  uncommon  to  find  literary  critics 
who  evince,  or  who  even  profess,  an 


554 


CRITICISM 


ignorance  of  art  that  is  more  or  less 
consciously  considered  by  them  a  mark 
of  more  concentrated  literary  serious- 
ness. And  if  an  Academy  of  Arts  and 
Letters  should  contribute  in  the  least 
to  remove  this  misconception  it  would 
disclose  one  raison-d'etre  and  justify 
its  modest  pretensions.  For  so  far  as 
criticism  is  concerned  with  the  aes- 
thetic element,  the  element  of  beauty, 
in  literature  a  knowledge  of  aesthetic 
history  and  philosophy,  theory  and 
practice  serves  it  with  almost  self- 
evident  pertinence. 

The  principles  of  art  and  letters  being 
largely  identical,  aesthetic  knowledge  in 
the  discussion  of  belles-lettres  answers 
very  much  the  purpose  of  a  diagram  in  a 
demonstration.  In  virtue  of  it  the  critic 
may  transpose  his  theme  into  a  plastic 
key,  as  it  were,  and  thus  get  nearer  to 
its  essential  artistic  quality  by  looking 
beyond  the  limitations  of  its  proper 
technic.  Similarly  useful  the  art  critic 
of  any  distinction  has  always  found 
literary  culture,  and  if  this  has  led  him 
sometimes  to  overdo  the  matter,  it  has 
been  due  not  to  his  knowledge  of  liter- 
ature but  to  his  ignorance  of  art.  But 
this  ignorance  is  measurably  as  inca- 
pacitating to  the  critic  of  belles-lettres, 
whose  ability  to  deal  with  the  plastic 
that  can  only  be  felt  must  manifestly 
be  immensely  aided  by  an  education 
in  the  plastic  that  can  be  seen  as  well. 
And  for  the  critic  of  thought  as  well  as 
of  expression,  the  critic  who  deals  with 
the  relations  of  letters  to  life,  the  cult- 
ure that  is  artistic  as  well  as  literary 
has  the  value  inherent  in  acquaintance 
with  the  history  and  practice  of  one  of 
the  most  influential,  inspiring,  and  il- 
luminating fields  that  the  human  spirit 
has  cultivated  almost  from  the  begin- 
ning of  time. 

Finally,  since  nothing  in  the  way  of 
cognate  knowledge  comes  amiss  in  the 
culture  pertinent  to  criticism,  to  the 
history  and  aesthetics  of  the  critic's 


equipment,  a  tincture  at  least  of  philo- 
sophic training  may  be  timidly  pre- 
scribed. I  am  quite  aware  that  this 
must  be  sparingly  cultivated.  Its  pe-r 
culiar  peril  is  pedantry.  Drenched  in 
philosophy,  the  critical  faculty  is  al- 
most certain  to  drown.  This  faculty, 
when  genuine,  however,  is  so  consti- 
tuted that  a  "mattering  of  philosophy 
makes  a  saturated  solution  for  it.  And 
such  training  in  the  realm  of  abstract 
thought,  as  some  practice  with  its 
terms  and  processes  involves,  will  help 
the  critic  in  his  thinking  —  which  is, 
after  all,  his  main  business.  It  will 
serve  to  coordinate  his  analysis,  and  it 
will  purge  his  constructive  expression 
of  inconsistencies  even  if  it  endue  this 
with  no  greater  cogency,  and  supply  it 
with  no  additional  energy.  For  crit- 
icism, dealing,  as  I  have  said,  with  the 
abstract,  —  though  with  the  abstract 
held  as  closely  to  the  concrete  as  a 
translation  to  the  original,  —  the  gram- 
mar of  the  abstract  is  as  useful  as 
its  rhetoric  is  in  general  superfluous. 
What  it  needs  is  the  ability  to  '  play 
freely 'with  such  of  its  elements  as 
it  can  use,  avoiding  sedulously  the 
while  contagion  from  the  petrifaction 
of  its  systems  in  which  the  concrete, 
which  is  the  constant  preoccupation 
of  criticism,  disappears  from  the  view. 
Duly  on  his  guard  against  its  insidious 
attractions,  the  critic  may  surely  justify 
himself  in  his  endeavor  to  make  the 
abstract  serve  him  by  such  examples 
as  Aristotle,  Longinus,  Goethe,  and 
Coleridge,  not  to  mention  Arnold,  who 
with  less  training  in  it  would  have 
attacked  it  with  far  less  success.  It  is 
at  all  events,  in  whatever  degree  it  may 
prove  adequate  or  become  excessive, 
thoroughly  pertinent  to  a  matter  so  ex- 
plicitly involving  the  discussion  of  prin- 
ciples as  well  as  of  data. 

Examples  in  abundance  fortify  the 
inherent  reasonableness  of  this  general 
claim  for  what  I  have  called  cognate 


CRITICISM 


555 


culture.  The '  cases '  confirm  the  theory, 
which  of  course  otherwise  they  would 
confute.  The  three  great  modern  critics 
of  France  show  each  in  his  own  way  the 
value  of  culture  in  the  critical  equip- 
ment. Sainte-Beuve's  criticism  is  what 
it  is  largely  because  of  his  saturation 
with  literature  in  general,  not  belles- 
lettres  exclusively;  of  the  sensitiveness 
and  severity  of  taste  thus  acquired,  or 
at  least  thus  certified  and  invigorated; 
and  of  the  instinctive  ease,  and  almost 
scientific  precision,  with  which  he  was 
thus  enabled  to  apply  in  his  own  art 
that  comparative  method  already  es- 
tablished in  the  scientific  study  of  lin- 
guistics and  literary  history.  Thus,  too, 
he  was  enabled  to  add  perhaps  his 
most  distinguished  contribution  to  the 
practice  of  criticism  —  the  study,  sym- 
pathetic but  objective,  of  character, 
namely,  the  personality  of  the  author 
which  informs  and  explains  his  pro- 
ductions, and  in  which  his  productions 
inevitably  inhere  so  far  as  they  have 
any  synthetic  value,  or  significant  pur- 
pose. Such  study  can  only  be  pursued 
in  the  light  of  standards  furnished  by 
the  sifting  of  innumerable  examples, 
and  illustrated  in  the  work  of  the  sur- 
viving fittest.  Moreover  the  range 
within  which  Sainte-Beuve's  exquisite 
critical  faculty  operated  so  felicitously 
acquired  an  extension  of  dignity  and 
authoritativeness,  quite  beyond  the 
reach  of  belles-lettres,  in  the  production 
of  his  massive  and  monumental  his- 
tory of  Port  Royal.  His  culture,  in  a 
word,  as  well  as  his  native  bent,  was 
such  as  considerably  to  obscure  the 
significance  of  his  having  'failed'  in 
early  experimentation  as  a  novelist  and 
as  a  poet. 

How  predominant  the  strain  of  schol- 
arship and  philosophic  training  is  in 
the  criticism  of  Taine  it  is  superfluous 
to  point  out;  the  belletristic  fanatics 
have  been  so  tireless  in  its  disparage- 
ment that  at  the  present  time,  probably, 


his  chief  quality  is  popularly  esteemed 
his  characteristic  defect.  It  is  true 
that,  though  serving  him  splendidly, 
his  philosophy  on  occasion  dominates 
him  rather  despotically.  After  all,  the 
critical  faculty  should  preside  in  the 
critic's  reflection,  and  not  abdicate  in 
favor  of  system  —  should  keep  on 
weighing  and  judging,  however  di- 
rected by  philosophy  and  erudition, 
and  not  lapse  into  advocacy  or  admin- 
istration. Poise,  one  of  the  chief  crit- 
ical requirements,  settles  into  immo- 
bility in  Taine.  His  point  of  view  is  so 
systematically  applied  that  his  crit- 
icism certainly,  as  I  think  his  history 
also,  is  colored  by  it.  But  the  colors  are 
brilliant  hi  any  case,  and  if  now  and 
then  untrue,  are  sure  of  correction  by 
contemporary  lenses  which  are  rather 
discreditably  adjusted  to  depreciate  his 
superb  achievements — at  least  among 
English  readers  for  whom  he  has  done 
so  much.  And,  the  apt  consideration 
for  our  present  purpose  is  the  notable 
service  which  his  philosophy  and  history 
have  rendered  a  remarkable  body  of 
criticism,  both  aesthetic  and  literary; 
not  the  occasional  way  in  which  they 
invalidate  its  conclusiveness.  Almost 
all  histories  of  English  literature  are 
inconsecutive  and  desultory,  or  else 
congested  and  casual,  compared  with 
Taine's  great  work —  whose  misappre- 
ciations,  as  I  say,  correct  themselves 
for  us,  but  whose  stimulus  remains 
exhaustless. 

And  one  may  say  that  he  has  es- 
tablished the  criticism  of  art  on  its 
present  basis.  The  Lectures  and  the 
Travels  in  Italy  first  vitally  connect- 
ed art  with  life,  and  demonstrated 
its  title  by  recognizing  it  as  an  ex- 
pression rather  than  an  exercise.  Cer- 
tainly the  latter  phase  demands  inter- 
pretative treatment  also,  and  it  would 
be  idle  to  ignore  in  Taine  a  lack  of 
the  sensuous  sensitiveness  that  gives  to 
Fromentin's  slender  volume  so  much 


556 


CRITICISM 


more  than  a  purely  technical  interest; 
just  as  it  would  be  to  look  in  him  for  the 
exquisite  appreciation  of  personal  idio- 
syncrasy possessed  by  Sainte-Beuve. 
But  in  his  treatment  of  art  as  well  as 
of  literature,  the  philosophic  structure 
around  which  he  masses  and  distributes 
his  detail  is  of  a  stability  and  signi- 
ficance of  design  that  amply  atones  for 
the  misapplication  or  misunderstand- 
ing of  some  of  the  detail  itself. 

Another  instance  of  the  value  of  cult- 
ure in  fields  outside  strictly  literary 
and  aesthetic  confines,  though,  as  I  am 
contending,  strictly  cognate  to  them,  is 
furnished  by  the  Essays  of  Edmond 
Scherer.  To  the  comparative  personal 
and  circumstantial  judgments  of  Sainte- 
Beuve,  to  the  systematic  historical  and 
evolutionary  theory  of  Taine,  there 
succeeded  in  Scherer  the  point  of  view 
suggested  rather  than  defined  in  the 
statement  of  Rod  to  the  effect  that 
Scherer  judged  not  with  his  intelli- 
gence but  with  his  character.  Rod 
meant  his  epigram  as  a  eulogy.  Pro- 
fessor Saintsbury  esteems  it  a  betrayal, 
his  own  theory  of  criticism  being  of  the 
art-for-art's-sake  order,  finding  its  just- 
ification in  that  'it  helps  the  ear  to 
listen  when  the  horns  of  Elf-land  blow,' 
and  denying  to  it,  or  to  what  he  calls 
'pure  literature,'  any  but  hedonistic 
sanctions  —  piquant  philosophy,  one 
may  remark,  for  a  connoisseur  without 
a  palate. 

Character  at  all  events  forms  a  signal 
element  in  the  judgments  of  Scherer's 
austere  and  elevated  criticism,  and 
if  it  made  him  exacting  in  the  pre- 
sence of  the  frivolous,  the  irrespons- 
ible, and  the  insincere,  and  limited 
his  responsiveness  to  the  comic  spirit, 
as  it  certainly  did  in  the  case  of  Moli- 
ere,  it  undoubtedly  made  his  reprehen- 
sions significant  and  his  admirations 
authoritative.  He  began  his  career  as 
a  pasteur,  and  though  he  gradually 
.reached  an  agnostic  position  in  theo- 


logy, he  had  had  an  experience  in  itself 
a  guarantee,  in  a  mind  of  his  intelli- 
gence, of  spirituality  and  high  serious- 
ness in  dealing  with  literary  subjects, 
and  as  absent  from  Sainte-Beuve's  ob- 
jectivity as  from  Taine's  materialistic 
determinism  Without  Renan's  sinuous 
charm  and  truly  Catholic  openmind- 
edness,  this  Protestant-trained  theo- 
logian turned  critic  brings  to  criticism 
not  merely  the  sinews  of  spiritual  cen- 
trality  and  personal  independence,  but 
a  philosophic  depth  and  expertness 
in  reasoning  that  set  him  quite  apart 
from  his  congeners,  and  establish  for 
him  a  unique  position  in  French  liter- 
ature. Criticism  has  never  reached  a 
higher  plane  in  literature  conceived 
as,  in  Carlyle's  words,  'the  Thought 
of  Thinking  Souls';  and  it  holds  it  not 
only  in  virtue  of  a  native  ideality  and 
a  perceptive  penetration  that  atone 
in  soundness  for  whatever  they  may 
lack  in  plasticity,  but  also,  it  is  not  to 
be  doubted,  in  virtue  of  the  severe  and 
ratiocinative  culture  for  which  Geneva 
has  stood  for  centuries. 


in 

Its  equipment  established,  criticism 
calls  for  a  criterion.  Sainte-Beuve  says 
somewhere  that  our  liking  anything 
is  not  enough,  that  it  is  necessary  to 
know  further  whether  we  are  right  in 
liking  it  —  one  of  his  many  utterances 
that  show  how  thoroughly  and  in  what 
classic  spirit  he  later  rationalized  his 
early  romanticism. 

The  remark  judges  in  advance  the 
current  critical  impressionism.  It  in- 
volves more  than  the  implication  of 
Mr.  Vedder's  well-known  retort,  to  the 
time-honored  philistine  boast,  '  I  know 
nothing  of  art,  but  I  know  what  I  like ' : 
'So  do  the  beasts  of  the  field.'  Critical 
impressionism,  intelligent  and  schol- 
arly, such  as  that  illustrated  and  ad- 
vocated by  M.  Jules  Lemaitre  and 


CRITICISM 


557- 


M.  Anatole  France,  for  example,  though 
it  may,  I  think,  be  strictly  defined  as 
appetite,  has  certainly  nothing  gross 
about  it,  but,  contrariwise,  everything 
that  is  refined.  Its  position  is,  in  fact, 
that  soundness  of  criticism  varies  di- 
rectly with  the  fastidiousness  of  the 
critic,  and  that  consequently  this  fas- 
tidiousness cannot  be  too  highly  cult- 
ivated, since  it  is  the  court  of  final 
jurisdiction.  It  is,  however,  a  court 
that  resembles  rather  a  star  chamber 
in  having  the  peculiarity  of  giving  no 
reasons  for  its  decisions.  It  has,  there- 
fore, at  the  outset  an  obvious  disad- 
vantage in  the  impossibility  of  validat- 
ing its  decisions  for  the  acceptance  of 
others.  So  far  as  this  is  concerned,  it 
can  only  say,  'If  you  are  as  well  en- 
dowed with  taste,  native  and  acquired, 
as  I  am,  the  chances  are  that  you  will 
feel  in  the  same  way/ 

But  it  is  of  the  tolerant  essence  of  im- 
pressionism to  acknowledge  that  there 
is  no  certainty  about  the  matter.  And, 
in  truth,  the  material  to  be  judged  is  too 
multifarious  for  the  criterion  of  taste. 
Matthew  Arnold's  measure  of  a  suc- 
cessful translation,  that  is,  the  degree 
in  which  it  produces  the  same  effect  as 
the  original  to  a  sense  competent  to 
appreciate  the  original,  is  an  instance  of 
a  sensible  appeal  to  taste :  first,  because 
the  question  is  comparatively  simple; 
and  secondly,  because  in  the  circum- 
stances there  can  be  no  other  arbiter. 
The  very  fact  that  so  much  matter 
for  criticism  still  remains  matter  of 
controversy  proves  the  proverb  that 
tastes  differ  and  the  corollary  that 
there  is  no  use  in  disputing  about 
them.  It  is  quite  probable  that  M. 
France  would  find  M.  Lemaitre's  plays 
and  stories  insipid,  and  quite  certain 
that  M.  Lemaitre  would  shrink  from 
the  strain  of  salacity  in  M.  France's 
romance.  High  differentiation  and 
the  acme  of  aristocratic  fastidiousness, 
which  both  of  these  critics  illustrate, 


manifestly  do  not  serve  to  unify  their 
taste.  There  is  no  universal  taste.  And 
criticism  to  be  convincing  must  appeal 
to  some  accepted  standard.  And  the 
ami  of  criticism  is  conviction.  Other- 
wise actuated  it  must  be  pursued  on 
the  art-for-art  theory,  which,  in  its  case 
at  least,  would  involve  a  loss  of  iden- 
tity. Recording  the  ad  ventures  of  one's 
soul  among  masterpieces,  which  is 
M.  France's  variant  of  Eugene  Veron's 
definition  of  landscape,  —  the  first  for- 
mal appearance  of  the  idea,  I  think, 
—  'painting  one's  emotions  in  the  pre- 
sence of  nature '  must  be  a  purely 
self-regardant  exercise  unless  the  reader 
has  an  answering  soul  and  can  himself 
authenticate  the  masterpieces. 

Feeling  the  unsatisfactoriness  of  the 
impressionist's  irresponsibility,  the  late 
Ferdinand  Brunetiere  undertook  a 
campaign  in  opposition  to  it.  He  be- 
gan it,  if  I  remember  aright,  in  his 
lectures  in  this  country  a  dozen  years 
ago.  These  lectures  and  the  course  of 
polemic  which  followed  them  excelled 
particularly,  I  think  however  in  attack. 
They  contained  some  very  effective 
destructive  criticism  of  mere  personal 
preference,  no  matter  whose,  as  a  final 
critical  criterion.  Constructively,  on 
the  other  hand,  Brunetiere  was  less  con- 
vincing. In  a  positive  way  he  had  no- 
thing to  offer  but  a  defense  of  academ- 
ic standards.  He  harked  back  to  the 
classic  canon — that  canon  in  accord- 
ance with  which  were  produced  those 
works  designed,  as  Stendhal  says,  'to 
give  the  utmost  possible  pleasure  to 
our  great-grandfathers/ 

The  case  might  perhaps  have  been 
better  stated.  Brunetiere  was  devoted 
to  the  noble  French  literature  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  The  august  had 
no  doubt  a  special  attraction  for  the 
self-made  scholar.  Out  of  reach  the 
aristocratic  always  looks  its  best  — 
the  less  attainable  the  more  admirable. 
But  though  he  became  a  distinguished 


558 


CRITICISM 


scholar,  Brunetiere  retained  the  tem- 
perament of  the  schoolmaster,  which 
was  either  native  to  him  or  the  result 
of  belated  acquaintance,  however  thor- 
ough, with  what  French  impatience 
calls  the  deja-vu.  It  was  because  he 
had  so  explicitly  learned  that  he  wished 
always  to  teach. 

Now  there  is  nothing  strictly  to 
teach  save  the  consecrated  and  the 
canonical.  Criticism  is  a  live  art,  and 
contemporaneousness  is  of  its  essence. 
Once  codified,  it  releases  the  genuine 
critic  to  conceive  new  combinations, — 
the  'new  duties'  taught  by  'new  occa- 
sions,'— and  becomes  itself  either  ele- 
mentary or  obsolete.  It  is  important 
to  know  which,  of  course,  as  Words- 
worth's failure  to  recast  the  catalogue 
of  the  poetic  genres,  noted  by  Arnold, 
piquantly  attests.  Moreover  in  his  de- 
votion to  the  seventeenth,  Brunetiere 
was  blind  to  the  eighteenth  century, 
and  heedless  of  Voltaire's  warning  that 
the  only  bad  style  is  the  style  ennuyeux. 
His  style  alone  devitalized  his  polemic 
in  favor  of  prescription,  finally,  in- 
stead of  winning  adherents  for  him, 
this  ardent  advocacy  of  authority  took 
despotic  possession  of  his  entire  mind 
and  gathered  him  to  the  bosom  of  re- 
ligious and  political  reaction. 

Whatever  our  view  of  criticism,  it  is 
impossible  at  the  present  day  to  con- 
ceive it  as  formula,  and  the  rigidity  of 
rules  of  taste  is  less  acceptable  than  the 
license  permitted  under  the  reign  of 
taste  unregulated,  however  irregular, 
individual,  and  irresponsible.  In  spite 
of  the  logical  weakness  of  the  impres- 
sionist theory,  it  is  to  be  observed  that 
a  high  level  of  taste,  uniform  enough 
to  constitute  a  very  serviceable  arbiter, 
at  least  in  circumstances  at  all  ele- 
mentary, is  practically  attainable;  and 
as  a  matter  of  fact  is,  in  France  at 
least,  often  attained. 

For  in  criticism  as  elsewhere  it  is  true 
that  we  rest  finally  upon  instinct,  and 


faith  underlies  reason.  The  impression- 
ist may  properly  remind  us  that  all 
proof,  even  Euclidian,  proceeds  upon 
postulates.  The  postulates  of  criticism, 
however,  are  apt  unsatisfactorily  to  dif- 
fer from  those  of  mathematics  in  being 
propositions  taken  for  granted  rather 
than  self-evident.  The  distinction  is 
radical.  It  is  not  the  fact  that  every- 
body is  agreed  about  them  that  gives 
axioms  their  validity,  but  their  self- 
evidence.  Postulates  that  depend  on 
the  sanction  of  universal  agreement, 
on  the  other  hand,  are  conventions. 
Universal  agreement  may  be  brought 
about  in  a  dozen  ways.  It  may  be 
imposed  by  authority,  as  in  the  case 
of  classic  criticism,  or  it  may  develop 
insensibly,  illogically,  and  indefensibly; 
it  may  derive,  not  from*  truth  but  from 
tradition,  or  it  may  certainly  be  the  re- 
sult of  general  reaction,  and  promptly 
crystallize  with  a  rigidity  equivalent 
to  that  from  which  it  is  just  emanci- 
pated. Examples  would  be  superflu- 
ous. The  conventions  of  romanticism, 
realism,  impressionism,  symbolism,  or 
what-not,  are  no  more  intrinsically 
valid  than  those  underlying  the  crit- 
icism of  academic  prescription,  as  is 
attested  by  this  variability  of  the 
universal  agreement  which  is  their 
sanction. 

The  true  postulates  of  criticism 
have  hardly  varied  since  Aristotle's 
day,  and  impressionism  itself,  in  im- 
agining its  own  an  advance  upon 
them,  would  be  in  peril  of  fatuity. 
Even  sound  intuitions,  fundamental 
as  they  may  be,  do  not  take  us  very 
far.  Pascal,  who  though  one  of  the 
greatest  of  reasoners  is  always  girding 
at  reason,  was  obliged  to  admit  that 
it  does  the  overwhelming  bulk  of  the 
work.  'Would  to  God,'  he  exclaims, 
'that  we  had  never  any  need  of  it, 
and  knew  everything  by  instinct  and 
sentiment!  But  nature  has  refused  us 
this  blessing;  she  has,  on  the  contrary, 


CRITICISM 


559 


given  us  but  very  little  knowledge  of 
this  kind,  and  all  other  knowledge  can 
only  be  acquired  by  reasoning.'  But  if 
intuitions  had  all  the  importance  claim- 
ed for  them,  it  would  still  be  true  that 
conventions  are  extremely  likely  to  be 
disintegrated  by  the  mere  lapse  of  time 
into  what  every  one  sees  to  have 
been  really  inductions  from  practice 
become  temporarily  and  more  or  less 
fortuitously  general,  and  not  genuine 
intuitive  postulates  at  all.  Still  clearer 
is  the  conventionality  of  the  systems 
erected  upon  them,  beneath  which  as 
a  matter  of  fact  they  customarily  lie 
buried.  All  sorts  of  eccentricity  are  in- 
cident to  elaboration,  of  course,  whether 
its  basis  be  sound  or  unsound. 

So  that,  in  brief,  when  the  impres- 
sionist alleges  that  a  correct  judgment 
of  a  work  of  literature  or  art  depends 
ultimately  upon  feeling,  we  are  quite 
justified  in  requiring  him  to  tell  us  why 
he  feels  as  he  does  about  it.  It  is  not 
enough  for  him  to  say  that  he  is  a  per- 
son of  particularly  sensitive  and  sound 
organization,  and  that  his  feeling, 
therefore,  has  a  corresponding  finality. 
In  the  first  place,  as  I  have  said,  it  is 
impossible  to  find  in  the  judgments 
derived  from  pure  taste  anything  like 
the  uniformity  to  be  found  in  the  equip- 
ment as  regards  taste  of  the  judges 
themselves.  But  for  all  their  fastidi- 
ousness they  are  as  amenable  as  grosser 
spirits  to  the  test  of  reason.  And  it  is 
only  rational  that  the  first  question 
asked  of  them  when  they  appeal  to  the 
arbitrament  of  feeling  should  be:  Is 
your  feeling  the  result  of  direct  intui- 
tive perception,  or  of  unconscious  sub- 
scription to  convention?  Your  true 
distinction  from  the  beasts  of  the  field 
surely  should  lie,  not  so  much  in  your 
superior  organization  resulting  in  su- 
perior taste,  as  in  freedom  from  the 
conventional  to  which  even  in  their 
appetites  the  beasts  of  the  field,  often 
extremely  fastidious  in  this  respect,  are 


nevertheless  notoriously  enslaved.  In 
a  word,  even  if  impressionism  be  philo- 
sophically sound  in  the  impeachment 
of  reason  unsupported  by  intuitive 
taste,  it  cannot  dethrone  reason  as  an 
arbiter  in  favor  of  the  taste  that  is 
not  intuitive  but  conventional.  The 
true  criterion  of  criticism  therefore  is 
only  to  be  found  in  the  rationalizing  of 
taste. 

This  position  once  reached,  it  is 
clear  that  the  only  way  in  which  the 
impressionist,  however  cultivated,  can 
be  at  all  sure  of  the  validity  of  the  feel- 
ing on  which  he  bases  his  judgment 
is  by  the  exercise  of  his  reasoning  fac- 
ulty. Only  in  this  way  can  he  hope 
to  determine  whether  his  'impression' 
originates  in  a  genuine  personal  per- 
ception of  the  relations  of  the  object 
producing  it  to  some  self-evident  prin- 
ciple of  truth  or  beauty,  or  proceeds 
from  habit,  from  suggestion,  from  the 
insensible  pressure  of  current,  which 
is  even  more  potent  than  classic,  con- 
vention. Absolutely  certain  of  achiev- 
ing this  result,  the  critic  can  hardly  ex- 
pect to  be.  Nothing  is  more  insidious 
than  the  conventional.  Civilized  life  is 
continually  paying  it  tribute  in  innum- 
erable ways.  Culture  itself,  so  far  as 
it  is  uncritical,  is  perhaps  peculiarly 
susceptible  to  it.  But  the  critic  can 
discharge  his  critical  duty  only  by 
approximating  this  certainty  as  nearly 
as  possible,  by  processes  of  scrutiny, 
comparison,  and  reflection,  and  in  gen- 
eral that  arduous  but  necessary  and 
not  unrewarding  exercise  of  the  mind 
involved  in  the  checking  of  sensation 
by  thought. 

There  is  nothing  truistic  at  the  present 
time  in  celebrating  the  thinking  power, 
counseling  its  cultivation  and  advo- 
cating its  application  —  at  least  within 
the  confines  of  criticism  where  the  sen- 
sorium  has  decidedly  supplanted  it  in 
consideration.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  there  anything  recondite  in  so  doing. 


560 


CRITICISM 


It  is  as  true  as  it  used  to  be  remembered 
that  it  is  in  'reason'  that  a  man  is 
'  noble,'  in  '  faculty '  that  he  is  '  infinite,' 
in  'apprehension'  that  he  is  'like  a 
god.'  The  importance  of  his  exquisite 
sensitiveness  to  impressions  is  a  post- 
Shakespearean  discovery.  I  certainly 
do  not  mean  to  belittle  the  value  of 
this  sensitiveness,  in  suggesting  for 
criticism  the  advantages  of  its  control 
by  the  thinking  power,  and  in  noting 
the  practical  disappearance  of  the  latter 
from  the  catalogue  of  contemporary 
prescription.  If  my  topic  were  not  crit- 
icism, but  performance  in  the  field  of 
American  imaginative  activity,  to  be- 
little taste  would  at  the  present  tune 
be  unpardonable.  The  need  of  it  is  too 
apparent.  The  lack  of  it  often  cheap- 
ens our  frequent  expertness,  ruptures 
the  relation  between  truth  and  beauty, 
and  is  responsible  for  a  monotonous 
miscellaneity  that  is  relieved  less  often 
than  we  could  wish  by  works  of  en- 
during interest. 

It  cannot,  however,  be  maintained 
that  the  standard  of  pure  taste  is  a 
wholly  adequate  corrective  for  this 
condition  even  in  the  field  of  per- 
formance. At  least  it  has  been  tried, 
and  the  results  have  not  been  com- 
pletely satisfactory.  We  have  in  liter- 
ature more  taste  than  we  had  in  days 
when,  perhaps,  we  had  more  talent. 
(I  exclude  the  domain  of  scholarship 
and  its  dependencies,  in  which  we  have 
made,  I  should  suppose,  a  notable  ad- 
vance.) But  its  very  presence  has 
demonstrated  its  insufficiency.  In 
literature,  indeed,  if  its  presence  has 
been  marked,  its  effect  is  not  very 
traceable,  because  it  has  been  mainly 
exhibited  in  technic.  For  though,  no 
doubt,  concentration  upon  technic  con- 
tributes to  sterility  in  the  sphere  of 
ideas,  our  literature  is  not  in  that 
sphere  the  marvel  of  fecundity  it  is 
in  others.  In  that  sphere  it  has,  in 
proportion  to  its  productiveness,  very 


considerably  dispensed  with  taste;  and, 
in  truth,  taste  cannot  fairly  be  called 
on  to  originate  ideas.  In  two  of  the 
arts,  however,  taste  has  long  had  full 
swing — I  mean  architecture  and  sculp- 
ture; and  the  appreciation  it  has  met 
with  in  these  is,  though  general,  not 
rarely  of  the  kind  that  confuses  the 
merits  of  the  decorative  with  those 
of  the  monumental,  and  the  virtues  of 
adaptation  with  those  of  design.  A  ra- 
tional instead  of  a  purely  susceptible 
spirit,  dictating  constructive  rather 
than  merely  appreciative  and  assimil- 
ative activity,  might  have  been  more 
richly  rewarded  in  these  fields — might 
even  have  resulted  in  superior  taste. 

In  the  restricted  field  of  criticism, 
at  all  events,  which  is  my  theme,  the 
irresponsibility  of  pure  temperament 
seems  currently  so  popular  as  to  im- 
ply a  general  belief  that  reasoning  in 
criticism  died  with  Macaulay  and  is  as 
defunct  as  Johnson,  having  given  place 
to  a  personal  disposition  which  perhaps 
discounts  its  prejudices  but  certainly 
caresses  its  predilections  as  warrant  of 
'insight'  and  'sympathy.'  Yet  our  few 
star  examples  in  current  criticism  are 
eminently  critics  who  give  reasons  for 
the  hope  that  is  in  them;  and  certain- 
ly American  literature  has  one  critic 
who  so  definitely  illustrated  the  value 
of  the  thinking  power  in  criticism  that 
he  may  be  said  almost  to  personify 
the  principle  of  critical  ratiocination. 
I  mean  Poe.  Poe's  perversities,  his  cav- 
iling temper,  his  unscrupulousness  in 
praise  if  not  in  blame,  his  personal  ir- 
responsibility, invalidate  a  great  deal 
of  his  criticism,  to  say  nothing  of  its 
dogmatic  and  unspeculative  charac- 
ter; but  at  its  best  it  is  the  expression 
of  his  altogether  exceptional  reasoning 
faculty.  His  reasons  were  not  the  result 
of  reflection,  and  his  ideas  were  often 
the  crotchets  Stedman  called  them; 
but  he  was  eminently  prolific  in  both, 
and  his  handling  of  them  was  expert- 


CRITICISM 


561 


ness  itself.  His  ratiocination  here  has 
the  artistic  interest  it  had  in  those  of 
his  tales  that  are  based  on  it,  and  that 
are  imaginative  as  mathematics  is 
imaginative.  And  his  dogmas  were  no 
more  conventions  than  his  conclusions 
were  impressions.  His  criticism  was 
equally  removed  from  the  canonical 
and  the  latitudinarian.  If  he  stated  a 
proposition  he  essayed  to  demonstrate 
it,  and  if  he  expressed  a  preference  he 
told  why  he  had  it. 

Poe's  practice  is,  indeed,  rather  bald- 
ly ratiocinative  than  simply  rational, 
and  its  felicity  in  his  case  does  not,  it 
is  true,  disguise  its  somewhat  stark,  ex- 
clusive, and  exaggerated  effect.  I  do  not 
cite  M.  Dupin  as  an  example  of  the  per- 
fect critic.  There  is  something  debased 
— not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it — 
in  the  detective  method  wherever  used. 
It  is  not  merely  subtle,  but  serpentine 
—  too  tortuous  and  too  terrene  for  the 
ampler  upper  air  of  examination,  analy- 
sis, and  constructive  comment.  Reason 
is  justified  of  her  children,  not  of  her 
caricaturists.  But  if  the  answer  to  the 
question  Why?  which  I  have  noted  as 
her  essential  monopoly  (since  prescrip- 
tion precludes  and  impressionism  scouts 
the  inquiry),  be  challenged  as  an  ad- 
vantage to  criticism,  I  think  its  value 
can  be  demonstrated  in  some  detail. 

The  epicurean  test  of  the  impres- 
sionist, let  me  repeat,  is  of  course  not 
a  standard,  since  what  gives  pleasure 
to  some  gives  none  to  others.  And 
some  standard  is  a  necessary  postu- 
late, not  only  of  all  criticism,  but  of 
all  discussion  or  even  discourse.  With- 
out one,  art  must  indeed  be  'receiv- 
ed in  silence,'  as  recommended  by  the 
taciturn  Whistler.  In  literature  and 
art  there  are,  it  is  true,  no  longer  any 
statutes,  but  the  common  law  of  prin- 
ciples is  as  applicable  as  ever,  and  it  be- 
hooves criticism  to  interpret  the  cases 
that  come  before  it  in  the  light  of  these. 
Its  function  is  judicial,  and  its  business 

VOL.  107 -NO.  4 


to  weigh  and  reason  rather  than  merely 
to  testify  and  record.  And  if  it  belongs 
in  the  field  of  reason  rather  than  in  that 
of  emotion,  it  must  consider  less  the 
pleasure  that  a  work  of  art  produces 
than  the  worth  of  the  work  itself.  This 
is  a  commonplace  in  ethics,  where  con- 
duct is  not  approved  by  its  happy  re- 
sult but  by  its  spiritual  worthiness. 
And  if  art  and  literature  were  felt  to  be 
as  important  as  ethics,  the  same  dis- 
tinction would  doubtless  have  become 
as  universal  in  literary  and  art  critic- 
ism. Which  is  of  course  only  another 
way  of  stating  Sainte-Beuve's  conten- 
tion that  we  need  to  know  whether  we 
are  right  or  not  when  we  are  pleased. 
And  the  only  guide  to  that  knowledge 
—  beyond  the  culture  which,  however 
immensely  it  may  aid  us,  does  not 
automatically  produce  conformity  or 
secure  conviction  —  is  the  criterion  of 
reason  applied  to  the  work  of  ascer- 
taining value  apart  from  mere  attract- 
iveness. The  attractiveness  takes  care 
of  itself,  as  happiness  does  when  we 
have  done  our  duty. 

At  all  events,  aside  from  its  superior 
philosophic  satisfactoriness,  thus  indi- 
cated, a  rational  —  rather  than  either 
an  academic  and  authoritative  or  an 
impressionist  and  individual  —  critic- 
ism is  especially  useful,  I  think,  at  the 
present  time,  in  two  important  particu- 
lars. It  is,  in  the  first  place,  especially 
fitted  to  deal  with  the  current  phase  of 
art  and  letters.  Of  this  phase,  I  take  it, 
freedom  and  eclecticism  are  the  main 
traits.  Even  followers  of  tradition  ex- 
ercise the  freest  of  choices,  tradition 
itself  having  become  too  multifarious 
to  be  followed  en  bloc.  On  the  other 
hand,  those  who  flout  it  and  pursue 
the  experimental,  illustrate  naturally 
still  greater  diversity.  Both  must  ulti- 
mately appeal  to  the  criterion  of  rea- 
son, for  neither  can  otherwise  justify  its 
practice  and  pretensions.  Prescription 
is  a  practical  ideal  if  it  is  coherent;  it 


562 


CRITICISM 


loses  its  constituting  sanction  the  mo- 
ment it  offers  a  choice.  And  experiment 
attains  success  only  when  through  proof 
it  reaches  demonstration.  In  either  case 
a  criterion  is  ultimately  addressed  which 
is  untrammeled  by  precedent  and  un- 
moved by  change;  which  is  strict  with- 
out rigidity,  and  seeks  the  law  of  any 
performance  within  and  not  outside  it; 
which  demands  no  correspondence  to 
any  other  concrete,  but  only  to  the  ap- 
propriate abstract;  which,  in  fact,  sub- 
stitutes for  a  concrete  ideal  a  purely 
abstract  one  of  intrinsic  applicability 
to  the  matter  in  hand.  It  exacts  titles, 
but  they  may  be  couched  in  any  form, 
or  expressed  in  any  tongue  but  that 
of  irrationality.  No  more  the  slave  of 
schools  than  the  sponsor  of  whim,  it 
does  not  legislate,  but  judges  perform- 
ance, in  its  twofold  aspect  of  concep- 
tion and  execution,  in  accordance  with 
principles  universally  uncontested. 

In  the  next  place,  no  other  criterion 
is  competent  to  deal  critically  with  the 
great  question  of  our  day  in  art  and 
letters  alike,  namely,  the  relation  of 
reality  to  the  ideal.  No  other,  I  think, 
can  hope  to  preserve  disentangled  the 
skein  of  polemic  and  fanaticism  in 
which  this  question  tends  constantly 
to  wind  itself  up  into  apparently  in- 
extricable confusion.  Taste,  surely, 
cannot.  Taste,  quite  comprehensibly, 
I  think,  breathes  a  sigh  of  weariness 
whenever  the  subject  of  'realism'  is 
mentioned.  Nevertheless,  'realism'  is 
established,  entrenched,  and  I  should 
say  impregnable  to  the  assaults  of  its 
more  radical  and  numerous  foes,  more 
particularly  those  of  the  art-for-art's- 
sake  army.  It  is  too  fundamentally 
consonant  with  the  current  phase  of 
the  Time-Spirit  to  be  in  any  present 
danger.  But  it  is  only  reason  that  can 
reconcile  its  claims  with  those  of  its 
censors  by  showing  wherein,  and  to 
what  extent, '  realism '  is  really  a  cath- 
olic treatment  of  reality,  and  not  a 


protestant  and  polemic  gospel  of  the 
literal. 

Reality  has  become  recognized  as  the 
one  vital  element  of  significant  art,  and 
it  seems  unlikely  that  the  unreal  will 
ever  regain  the  empire  it  once  possessed. 
Its  loss,  at  all  events,  is  not  ours,  since 
it  leaves  us  the  universe.  But  it  is  ob- 
vious that '  realism '  is  often  in  practice, 
and  not  infrequently  in  conception, 
a  very  imperfect  treatment  of  reality, 
which  indeed  not  rarely  receives  more 
sympathetic  attention  in  the  romantic 
or  even  the  classic  household.  Bal- 
zac is  a  realist,  and  the  most  artificial 
of  great  romancers.  George  Sand  is  a 
romanticist,  and  a  very  deep  and 
fundamental  reality  not  rarely  under- 
lies her  superficial  extravagances.  Fun- 
damentally, truth — which  is  certain- 
ly none  other  than  reality  —  was  her 
inspiration,  as,  fundamentally,  it  cer- 
tainly was  not  always  Balzac's.  'Re- 
alism' has  made  reality  our  touch- 
stone. But  it  is  not  a  talisman  acting 
automatically  if  misapplied.  To  mis- 
take the  badge  for  the  credentials  of 
a  doctrine  is  so  frequent  an  error  be- 
cause it  is  irrational,  and  close- think- 
ing, being  difficult,  is  exceptional.  Ex- 
ponents of  'realism,'  such  as  that  most 
admirable  of  artists,  Maupassant,  are 
extraordinarily  apt  in  practice  to  re- 
strict the  field  of  reality  till  the  false 
proportion  results  in  a  quintessentially 
unreal  effect.  Every  detail  is  real,  but 
the  implication  of  the  whole  is  fan- 
tastic. Why?  Because  the  ideal  is 
excluded.  The  antithesis  of  reality  is 
not  the  ideal,  but  the  fantastic. 

This  is,  I  think,  the  most  important 
distinction  to  bear  in  mind  in  con- 
sidering the  current  realistic  practice 
in  all  the  arts.  I  refer  of  course  to  what 
we  characterize  as  the  ideal  in  general 
—  not  to  the  particular  ideal  whose  in- 
terpenetration  with  the  object  consti- 
tutes the  object  a  work  of  art  and  mea- 
sures it  as  such.  But  for  that  matter 


CRITICISM 


563 


the  ideal  in  general  may  be  conceived 
as  having  a  similar  relation  to -reality. 
Since  it  is  a  part  of  the  order  of  the  uni- 
verse, —  of  reality,  that  is  to  say,  —  it 
is  obviously  not  antithetic  to  it.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  fantastic  is  essen- 
tially chaotic  by  definition  though 
often  speciously,  attractively,  and  at 
times  poetically  garbed  in  the  raiment 
of  order  —  the  poetry  of  Coleridge  or 
the  compositions  of  Blake,  for  example. 
The  defect  of  this  kind  of  art  is  its  lack 
of  reality,  and  its  consequent  compar- 
ative insignificance.  But  it  is  no  more 
ideal  for  that  reason  than  Lear  or  the 
Venus  of  Melos.  This  is  still  more  ap- 
parent in  the  less  artistic  example  of 
Hawthorne's  tales,  where  in  general 
the  fantasticality  consists  in  the  garb 
rather  than  the  idea,  and  where  ac- 
cordingly we  can  more  readily  per- 
ceive the  unreality  and  consequent 
insignificance,  the  incongruous  being 
more  obvious  in  the  material  than  in 
the  moral  field.  But  it  is  the  special 
business  of  criticism  at  the  present 
time  of '  realistic '  tyranny  to  avoid  con- 
fusing the  ideal  with  the  fantastic,  to 
avoid  disparagement  of  it  as  opposed 
to  reality,  and  to  disengage  it  from  ele- 
ments that  obscure  without  invalidat- 
ing it. 

Ivanhoe,  for  example,  is  fantastic  his- 
tory, but  the  character  of  the  Tem- 
plar is.  a  splendid  instance  of  the 
ideal,  inspiring,  informing,  intensify- 
ing, incontestable  reality.  In  Le  Pere 
Goriot,  on  the  other  hand,  in  which  the 
environment  and  atmosphere  are  real- 
istic to  the  last  degree,  the  protagonist 
is  the  mere  personification  of  a  pas- 
sion. These  are,  no  doubt,  subtleties. 
But  they  are  not  verbal  subtleties. 
They  are  inseparable  from  the  business 
of  criticism.  And  they  impose  on  it 
the  criterion  of  reason  rather  than  that 
of  feeling,  which  cannot  be  a  standard, 
or  that  of  precedent  and  prescription, 
which  is  outworn. 


Finally,  —  and  if  I  have  hitherto 
elaborated  to  excess,  here  I  need  not 
elaborate  at  all,  —  no  other  than  a  ra- 
tional criterion  so  well  serves  criticism 
in  the  most  important  of  all  its  func- 
tions, that  of  establishing  and  deter- 
mining the  relation  of  art  and  letters 
to  the  life  that  is  their  substance  and 
their  subject  as  well. 


IV 

And  a  rational  criterion  implies  a 
constructive  method.  In  itself  analy- 
sis reaches  no  conclusion,  which  is  the 
end  and  aim  of  reason.  Invaluable  as 
is  its  service  in  detail,  some  rational 
ideal  must  underlie  its  processes,  and 
if  these  are  to  be  fruitful  they  must 
determine  the  relations  of  the  matter 
in  hand  to  this  ideal,  and  even  in  dis- 
section contribute  to  the  synthesis 
that  constitutes  the  essence  of  every 
work  of  any  individuality.  The  weak 
joint  in  Sainte-Beuve's  armor  is  his 
occasional  tendency  to  rest  in  his  ana- 
lysis. It  is  the  finer  art  to  suggest  the 
conclusion  rather  than  to  draw  it,  no 
doubt,  but  one  should  at  least  do  that; 
and  I  think  Sainte-Beuve,  in  spite  of 
his  search  for  the  faculte  maitresse  and 
his  anticipation  of  the  race,  the  milieu, 
and  the  moment  theory  so  hard  worked 
by  Taine,  occasionally  fails  to  justify 
his  analysis  in  this  way,  so  that  his  re- 
sult is  both  artistically  and  philosoph- 
ically inconclusive.  Now  and  then  he 
pays  in  this  way  for  his  aversion  to 
pedantry  and  system,  and  the  excessive 
disinterestedness  of  his  curiosity. 

It  would  certainly  be  pedantry  to 
insist  on  truly  constructive  criticism  in 
every  causerie  du  lundi  in  which  a  great 
critic  may  quite  pardonably  vary  his 
more  important  work  with  the  play  for 
which  he  has  a  penchant.  But  on  the 
other  hand  truly  constructive  criticism 
does  not  of  necessity  involve  rigidity.  It 
implies  not  a  system,  but  a  method  — 


564 


CRITICISM 


to  employ  the  distinction  with  which 
Taine  defended  his  procedure,  but 
which  assuredly  he  more  or  less  con- 
spicuously failed  to  observe.  It  pre- 
scribes, in  every  work  of  criticism,  a 
certain  independence  of  its  subject,  and 
imposes  on  it  the  same  constructive  ob- 
ligations that  it  in  turn  requires  of  its 
theme.  A  work  of  criticism  is  in  fact  as 
m  uch  a  thesis  as  its  theme,  and  the  same 
thematic  treatment  is  to  be  exacted  of 
it.  And  considered  in  this  way  as  a 
thesis,  its  unity  is  to  be  secured  only 
by  the  development  in  detail  of  some 
central  conception  preliminarily  es- 
tablished and  constantly  referred  to, 
however  arrived  at,  whether  by  intui- 
tion or  analysis.  The  detail  thus  treated 
becomes  truly  contributive  and  con- 
structive in  a  way  open  to  no  other 
method.  We  may  say  indeed  that  all 
criticism  of  moment,  even  impression- 
ist criticism,  has  this  synthetic  aspect 
at  least,  as  otherwise  it  must  lack  even 
the  appearance  of  that  organic  qual- 
ity necessary  to  effectiveness.  And 
when  we  read  some  very  interesting 
and  distinguished  criticism  —  such  as 
the  agglutinate  and  amorphous  essays 
of  Lowell,  for  example  —  and  compare 
it  with  concentric  and  constructive 
work,  —  such  as  par  excellence  that  of 
Arnold, — we  can  readily  see  that  its 
failure  in  force  is  one  of  method  as  well 
as  of  faculty. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  constructive 
method  is  peculiarly  liable  to  excess. 
If  the  central  conception  it  is  concerned 
with  is  followed  out  in  detail  without 
the  checks  and  rectifications  of  analy- 
sis —  the  great  verifying  process  —  we 
have  the  partisanship  of  Carlyle,  the 
inelasticity  of  Taine,  the  prescriptive 
formulary  of  Brunetiere.  The  spirit 
of  system  stifles  freedom  of  perception 
and  distorts  detail.  Criticism  becomes 
theoretic.  And  though  theoretic  crit- 
icism may  be,  and  in  fact  is  not  unlikely 
to  be,  artistically  effective,  it  is  fatally 


untrustworthy,  because  it  is  bent  on 
illustrating  its  theory  in  its  analysis,  in- 
stead of  merely  verifying  such  features 
of  its  central  conception  as  analysis 
will  confirm.  Against  such  intuitive 
extravagance  as  Carlyle's  the  advant- 
ages of  remarkable  insight  may  fairly 
be  set  off.  The  academic  prescriptions 
of  Brunetiere,  too,  have  a  distinct  edu- 
cational value  —  the  results  of  a  high- 
class  literary  scholiast  are  always  tech- 
nically instructive,  however  lacking 
they  may  be  in  the  freedom  and  im- 
pressionability sanctioned  by  a  criteri- 
on less  rigid  for  being  purely  rational, 
and  committed  to  no  body  of  doctrine, 
traditional  or  other. 

It  is,  however,  the  historical  method 
of  criticism  that  chiefly  illustrates  con- 
structive excess.  This  method  has  at 
present  probably  the  centre  of  the 
stage ;  and  though  there  is  in  France  a 
distinct  reaction  from  the  supremacy 
of  Taine  and  in  favor  of  Sainte-Beuve's 
sinuous  plasticity,  the  method  itself 
maintains  its  authority.  Taine  was  an 
historian  and  a  philosopher  rather  than 
a  critic,  and  his  criticism  is  accordingly 
not  so  much  criticism  illuminated  by 
history  and  philosophy  as  philosophic 
history.  The  data  of  literature  and 
art  under  his  hand  become  the  'docu- 
ments '  of  history,  of  which  in  a  scien- 
tific age  we  hear  so  much.  His  thesis 
once  established,  however,  as  historical 
rather  than  literary  or  aesthetic,  too 
much  I  think  can  hardly  be  said  for 
his  treatment.  Classification  has  the 
advantage  of  clearing  up  confusion, 
and  the  value  of  a  work  like  the  His- 
tory of  English  Literature  appears  when 
one  recognizes  its  paramount  merit  as 
resident  in  the  larger  scope  and  general 
view  of  history  in  which  of  necessity 
purely  individual  traits  are  to  some  ex- 
tent blurred  if  not  distorted.  These  in- 
deed may  very  well  be  left  to  pure  crit- 
icism whose  precise  business  they  are. 
But  the  historic  method  in  pure  crit- 


CRITICISM 


565 


icism  is  held  quite  independently  of 
Taine's  authority.  Scherer,  for  example, 
arguing  against  'personal  sensations' 
in  criticism,  maintains  that  'out  of  the 
writer's  character  and  the  study  of  his 
age  there  spontaneously  issues  the 
right  understanding  of  his  work.'  This 
is  excellent  prescription  for  the  impres- 
sionist, although  Scherer  doubtless 
means  by  'personal  sensations,'  pers- 
onal judgment  also,  and  thus  minimizes 
or  indeed  obliterates  perhaps  the  most 
essential  element  of  all  in  criticism, 
the  critic's  own  personality.  Scherer's 
practice,  precisely  owing  to  his  person- 
ality, far  excelled  his  theory,  as  to  which 
Arnold  reminded  him  of  Macaulay, 
who  certainly  knew  his  writers  and 
their  period,  but  in  whose  mind  a  right 
understanding  of  their  works  occasion- 
ally failed  spontaneously  to  issue. 

In  fine,  the  historic  method,  great  as 
have  been  its  services  to  criticism  and 
truly  constructive  as  it  is,  has  two  er- 
roneous tendencies.  It  tends  gener- 
ally to  impose  its  historical  theory  on 
the  literary  and  aesthetic  facts,  to  dis- 
cern their  historical  rather  than  their 
essential  character;  and,  as  inelastic- 
ally  applied,  at  all  events,  it  tends 
specifically  to  accept  its  'documents' 
as  final  rather  than  as  the  very  subjects 
of  its  concern.  Taine  furnishes  a  strik- 
ing instance  of  the  latter  practice.  I 
have  never  myself  been  able  to  agree 
with  those  of  his  opponents,  who,  like 
Brunetiere,  rested  in  the  comfortable 
assurance  that  his  whole  theory  was 
overthrown  by  the  fact  that  the  ordin- 
ary Venetian  gondolier  of  the  period 
was  the  product  of  the  influences  that 
also  produced  Tintoretto.  One  might 
as  well  hold  that  immunity  in  some 
cases  is  not  the  result  of  the  vaccine 
that  fails  to  take  in  others;  the  causes 
of  such  differences  in  either  physiology 
or  history  being  perhaps  too  obscure 
for  profitable  discussion  compared  with 
the  causes  of  resemblances.  But  from 


the  critical  point  of  view  it  is  a  legiti- 
mate objection  to  his  rigorous  applica- 
tion of  his  method  that  he  is  led  by 
it  to  consider  so  disproportionately 
causes,  which  are  the  proper  subject 
of  history,  rather  than  characteristics, 
which  are  the  true  subject  of  criticism; 
to  deem  the  business  finished,  so  to  say, 
when  it  is  explained,  and,  comparative- 
ly speaking,  to  eschew  its  estimation. 

As  to  the  other  tendency,  that  of 
imposing  historical  theory  on  critical 
data,  it  is  a  commonplace  that  history 
itself,  which  has  been  luminously  called 
philosophy  teaching  by  examples,  some- 
times suffers  from  the  submergence  of 
its  examples  by  its  philosophy.  In  crit- 
icism the  result  is  more  serious  because, 
viewed  in  the  same  light,  its  examples 
have  a  far  more  salient  importance. 
They  are  themselves  differen  tiated  phil- 
osophically in  a  high  degree,  and  it  is 
correspondingly  difficult  successfully  to 
treat  them  merely  as  pieces  of  some 
vaster  mosaic.  On  large  lines  and  in  an 
elementary  way,  this  may  of  course  be 
usefully  done,  but  the  work  belongs  in 
general  I  think  rather  to  the  classroom 
than  to  the  forum  of  criticism.  In  the 
latter  place  their  traits  call  for  a  treat- 
ment at  once  more  individually  search- 
ing and  more  conformed  to  an  ab- 
stract, ideal,  independent,  and  rational 
standard  —  for  the  application  to  the 
data  they  furnish  of  the  ideas  they  sug- 
gest, not  the  theory  they  fit. 

Now,  in  the  true  critical  field  of  in- 
dependent judgment,  however  enlight- 
ened by  culture  and  fortified  by  philo- 
sophic training,  we  know  very  well 
that  theory  means  preconception.  And, 
carried  into  any  detail  of  prescription, 
preconception  is  as  a  matter  of  fact 
constantly  being  confuted  by  perform- 
ance. Divorced  from  the  ideas  proper 
to  each  performance,  reposing  on  a  for- 
mula derived  in  its  turn  from  previous 
performance  become  accepted  and  con- 
secrate, it  is  continually  disconcerted. 


566 


CRITICISM 


New  schools  with  new  formulae  arise 
as  if  by  some  inherent  law,  precisely 
at  the  apogee  of  old  ones.  In  history, 
so  far  as  it  is  organic  narrative,  the  pro- 
positions are  necessarily  concrete  ex- 
pressions of  the  abstract.  In  criticism, 
as  I  have  said,  the  reverse  is  true.  It 
elicits  from  the  concrete  its  abstract 
significance.  In  art  at  least  no  estab- 
lished theory  ever  antedated  practice. 
Theory  is  indeed  but  the  formulation  of 
practice,  and  in  the  transformations 
of  the  latter,  based  as  it  perforce  is 
upon  some  former  crystallization  of  the 
diverse  and  undulating  elements  of 
artistic  expression,  is  logically  inappli- 
cable at  any  given  time  —  except  as  it 
draws  its  authority  from  examples  of 
permanent  value  and  enduring  appeal. 
It  may  be  said,  to  be  sure,  that  philo- 
sophically this  degrades  criticism  to  an 
essentially  ancillary  station — the  busi- 
ness of  merely  furnishing  data  for  an 
historical  synthesis.  But  I  am  disin- 
clined to  accept  this  implication  until 
the  possibility  of  an  historical  synthe- 
sis at  all  comparable  in  exactness  with 
the  critical  determination  of  the  data 
for  it  is  realized  or  shown  to  be  realiz- 
able. The  monument  that  Sainte- 
Beuve's  critical  essays  constitute  is,  in 
spite  of  their  disproportionate  analy- 
sis, far  otherwise  considerable  than  the 
fascinating  historical  and  evolutionary 
framework  within  which  Taine's  bril- 
liant synthesis  so  hypnotizes  our  crit- 
ical faculty. 

In  detail,  however,  it  is  itself  marked- 
ly synthetic,  showing  in  general  at  the 
same  time  that  the  wiser  business  of 
criticism  is  to  occupy  itself  with  exam- 
ples, not  with  theories.  For  with  exam- 
ples we  have  unity  '  given ' ;  it  is  actual, 
not  problematical.  And — general  pro- 
positions of  wider  scope  aside  —  in 
criticism  of  the  larger  kind  as  distinct 
from  mere  reviewing  or  expert  com- 
mentary, by  examples  we  mean,  prac- 
tically, personalities.  That  is  to  say, 


not  Manfred,  but  Byron,  not  the  Choral 
Symphony,  but  Beethoven.  I  mean, 
of  course,  so  far  as  personality  is  ex- 
pressed in  work,  and  do  not  suggest  in- 
vasion of  the  field  of  biography  except 
to  tact  commensurable  with  that  which 
so  notably  served  Sainte-Beuve.  There 
is  here  ample  scope  for  the  freest  ex- 
ercise of  the  synthetic  method,  without 
issuing  into  more  speculative  fields. 
For  personality  is  the  most  concrete 
and  consistent  entity  imaginable,  mys- 
teriously unifying  the  most  varied  and 
complicated  attributes.  The  solution 
of  this  mystery  is  the  end  of  critical 
research.  To  state  it  is  the  crown  of 
critical  achievement. 

The  critic  may  well  disembarrass  him- 
self of  theoretical  apparatus,  augment 
and  mobilize  his  stock  of  ideas,  sharpen 
his  faculties  of  penetration,  and  set  iit 
order  all  his  constructive  capacity,  be- 
fore attacking  such  a  complex  as  any 
personality,  worthy  of  attention  at  all, 
presents  at  the  very  outset.  If  he  takes 
to  pieces  and  puts  together  again  the 
elements  of  its  composition,  and  in  the 
process  or  in  the  result  conveys  a  cor- 
rect judgment  as  well  as  portrait  of  the 
original  thus  interpreted,  he  has  accom- 
plished the  essentially  critical  part  of 
a  task  demanding  the  exercise  of  all 
his  powers.  And  I  think  he  will  achieve 
the  most  useful  result  in  following  the 
line  I  have  endeavored  to  trace  in  the 
work  of  the  true  masters  of  this  branch 
of  literature,  the  born  critics  whose 
practice  shows  it  to  be  a  distinctive 
branch  of  literature,  having  a  func- 
tion, an  equipment,  a  standard,  and 
a  method  of  its  own.  This  practice 
involves,  let  me  recapitulate,  the  in- 
itial establishment  of  some  central  con- 
ception of  the  subject  gained  from 
specific  study  illuminated  by  a  gen- 
eral culture,  followed  by  an  analysis 
of  detail  confirming  or  modifying  this, 
and  concluding  with  a  synthetic  pre- 
sentation of  a  physiognomy  whose 


CRITICISM 


567 


features  are  as  distinct  as  the  whole 
they  compose  —  the  whole  process  in- 
terpenetrated by  an  estimate  of  value 
based  on  the  standard  of  reason,  judg- 
ing it  freely  after  the  laws  of  the  sub- 
ject's own  projection,  and  not  by  its 
responsiveness  to  either  individual 
whim  or  formulated  prescription.  This, 
at  all  events,  is  the  ideal  illustrated, 
with  more  or  less  closeness,  by  not  only 
such  critics  as  Sainte-Beuve,  Scherer, 
and  Arnold,  but  such  straightforward 
apostles  of  pure  good  sense  as  Sarcey 
and  fimile  Faguet. 

How  the  critic  conducts  his  criticism 
will  of  course  depend  upon  his  own  per- 
sonality, and  the  ranks  of  criticism  con- 
tain perhaps  as  great  a  variety  of  types 
and  individuals  as  is  to  be  found  in  any 
other  field  of  artistic  expression.  For, 
beyond  denial,  criticism  is  itself  an  art; 
and,  as  many  of  its  most  successful  pro- 
ducts have  been  entitled  'portraits,' 
sustains  a  closer  analogy  at  its  best 
with  plastic  portraiture  than  with  such 
pursuits  as  history  and  philosophy, 
which  seek  system  through  science. 
One  of  Sainte-Beuve's  studies  is  as  de- 
finitely a  portrait  as  one  of  Holbein's; 
and  on  the  other  hand  a  portrait  by 
Sargent,  for  example,  is  only  more  ob- 
viously and  not  more  really,  a  critical 
product  than  are  the  famous  portraits 
that  have  interpreted  to  us  the  genera- 
tions of  the  great.  More  exclusively 


imaginative  art  the  critic  must,  it  is 
true,  forego.  He  would  wisely,  as  I 
have  contended,  confine  himself  to 
portraiture  and  eschew  the  panorama. 
In  essaying  a  '  School  of  Athens '  he  is 
apt,  rather,  to  produce  a  'Victory  of 
Constantino. '  His  direct  aim  is  truth 
even  in  dealing  with  beauty,  forget- 
ting which  his  criticism  is  menaced 
with  transmutation  into  the  kind  of 
poetry  that  one  'drops  into'  rather 
than  attains. 

I  have  dwelt  on  the  aesthetic  as  well 
as  the  literary  field  in  the  province  of 
criticism,  and  insisted  on  the  aesthetic 
element  as  well  as  the  historic  in  the 
culture  that  criticism  calls  for,  because 
in  a  very  true  and  fundamental  sense 
art  and  letters  are  one.  They  are  so  at 
all  events  in  so  far  as  the  function  of 
criticism  is  concerned,  and  dictate  to 
this  the  same  practice.  Current  philo- 
sophy may  find  a  pragmatic  sanction 
for  a  pluralistic  universe,  but  in  the 
criticism  of  art,  whether  plastic  or 
literary,  we  are  all  'monists.'  The  end 
of  our  effort  is  a  true  estimate  of  the 
data  encountered  in  the  search  for  that 
beauty  which  from  Plato  to  Keats  has 
been  identified  with  truth,  and  the 
highest  service  of  criticism  is  to  secure 
that  the  true  and  the  beautiful,  and  not 
the  ugly  and  the  false,  may  in  wider 
and  wider  circles  of  appreciation  be 
esteemed  to  be  the  good. 


WHY  NOT? 


BY   ELLWOOD   HENDRICK 


No  prospective  change  in  social  con- 
ditions indicates  any  decrease  in  the 
sanctity  of  property.  Concerning  the 
sanctity  of  the  ownership  of  property 
we  may  be  growing  more  easy  and  less 
dogmatic  in  our  views ;  but  as  for  pro- 
perty itself,  we  are  growing  more  and 
more  dogmatic  in  claiming  that  it 
should  be  conserved,  and  that  it  should 
not  be  destroyed. 

I  think  the  foregoing  premise  is  cor- 
rect. Of  this  which  follows  I  am  cer- 
tain: it  is  man's  nature  to  fight.  It  is 
his  merit  to  fight  for  what  he  believes 
to  be  right.  Courage  and  bravery  are 
not  achieved  by  hiring  a  lawyer.  A 
man  who  is  not  willing  to  fight  to  the 
death  for  the  right  or  for  his  own  is  not 
as  good  or  complete  a  man  as  one 
who  is  willing.  But  opinions  about  this 
are  not  so  important  as  the  fact  that 
it  is  man's  nature  to  fight,  and  that 
neither  resolutions  nor  legislation  nor 
provision  to  get  over  all  kinds  of 
trouble  in  any  other  way  than  by 
fighting  will  avail. 

I  claim  that  we  cannot  change  hu- 
man nature  in  this  respect,  and  that 
whether  we  like  the  idea  or  not  we  shall 
always  have  wars  occasionally.  At 
least,  we  shall  have  them  for  more  gen- 
erations than  any  of  us  has  fingers  and 
toes;  and  that  is  long  enough.  It  is, 
therefore,  properly  our  business  so  to 
modify  war  that  it  shall  not  be  so  de- 
structive to  life  and  property;  and  if 
we  do  this  we  shall  have  made  a  great 
step  in  advance.  To  meet  together,  a 
few  of  us,  the  ladies  with  their  smell- 
ing-salts and  we  gentlemen  with  our 

568 


twinges  of  rheumatism,  and  to  resolve 
that  we  do  not  countenance  war,  may 
give  us  satisfaction,  but  it  does  not  do 
anything  else.  The  nations  continue 
to  build  dreadnoughts,  to  train  men  to 
war,  and  to  invent  engines  to  destroy 
life  and  property. 

War  is  now  carried  on  in  an  unciviliz- 
ed manner.  It  is  fought  as  if  all  parti- 
cipants were  savages.  What  is  politely 
called  strategy  is  taking  the  enemy 
unawares  and  not  giving  him  a  fair 
show.  Formerly,  when  two  men  had 
a  quarrel  they  settled  their  differences 
in  the  way  of  modern  warfare.  But 
now,  whenever  one  man  stabs  another 
in  the  back,  or  men  shoot  each  other 
at  sight  because  of  a  grievance  or  an 
agreement  that  they  are  enemies,  we 
justly  say  that  they  are  uncivilized; 
and  in  the  measure  that  they  fall  upon 
one  another  like  wild  beasts,  we  de- 
clare that  they  render  uncivilized  the 
communities  in  which  they  live.  On 
the  other  hand,  where  the  Code  Duello 
exists,  and  the  civilization  is  of  a  high 
order,  there  is  a  Court  of  Honor  to 
determine  among  gentlemen  of  similar 
connections,  whether  the  challenge  is 
justified  or  not,  and  something  of  the 
conditions  under  which  the  fight  shall 
take  place.  Unfair  conditions  are  not 
allowed,  seconds  and  an  umpire  are 
insisted  upon,  as  well  as  the  presence 
of  surgeons,  to  prevent  unnecessary  loss 
of  life.  A  duel,  fought  under  the  code, 
is  a  more  civilized  proceeding  than  a 
Kentucky  shooting.  Let  us  see  if  civil- 
ization might  not  invent  similar  amen- 
ities for  a  fight  between  nations. 


WHY  NOT? 


569 


We  must  first  take  for  granted  a 
material  advance  over  our  present  civ- 
ilization, —  enough  to  provide  greater 
comity  among  nations.  The  Hague 
Tribunal  would  need  to  be  an  efficient 
court,  and  to  this  should  be  added  an 
International  Police  Force,  equipped 
with  every  implement  of  modern  war- 
fare, with  unlimited  powers  of  destruc- 
tion and  stronger  than  the  war  force 
of  any  single  nation.  Now,  it  would  not 
be  reasonable  for  an  International 
Police  Force  to  be  intrusted  with  such 
powers  unless  the  nations  maintaining 
it  were  to  have  the  right  to  settle  their 
affairs  among  themselves.  Otherwise, 
whichever  nation,  royal  house,  coterie, 
junta,  or  band  should  gain  control  of 
the  International  Police  would  have 
too  much  power  and  would  be  suscept- 
ible to  the  world-old  disease  of  wanting 
to  own  the  earth.  The  only  business 
of  the  International  Police  would  be 
to  protect  property  and  to  maintain 
order. 

The  procedure  in  case  of  war  would 
then  be  somewhat  as  follows.  Sup- 
pose the  people  of  Arcadia  were  jealous 
of  those  of  Barcadia  for  one  reason  or 
another,  or  suppose  some  question  of 
immigration  were  to  arise  between 
them,  so  that  the  Arcadians  were  angry 
with  the  Barcadians,  and  they  should 
insult  one  another  so  insistently  that 
they  could  no  longer  live  without  fight- 
ing; in  short,  suppose  a  condition  im- 
mediately precedent  to  war  to  exist 
between  them.  Then,  if  the  army  of 
one  country  were  to  invade  the  domain 
of  the  other,  the  International  Police 
would  straightway  interfere  on  the 
ground  that  property  was  being  de- 
stroyed, and  that  the  interest  of  all 
nations  in  the  conservation  of  property 
made  its  destruction  a  crime.  The 
army  would  have  to  withdraw  before 
the  International  Police,  the  stronger 
body.  But  except  as  to  maintaining 
order,  the  International  Police  would 


have  no  further  duties.  Now,  imagine 
the  feeling  of  the  Arcadians  and  the 
Barcadians!  What  anger,  what  hatred, 
what  desire  to  cut  one  another's  hearts 
out!  Then  must  they  fight,  —  and 
they  will  in  one  way  or  another. 

Therefore,  the  one  nation  would 
challenge  the  other  to  war  before  the 
International  Court  of  Honor,  and 
this  challenge  would  either  be  accepted 
or  declined.  If  declined,  the  Court  of 
Honor  would  determine  whether  the 
nation  which  refused  to  fight  was  war- 
ranted in  so  doing,  and  if  it  were  wrong 
in  refusing  to  back  up  its  own  actions 
with  the  sword,  the  Court  of  Honor 
would  have  the  power  to  inflict  a  pen- 
alty in  lands  or  money.  An  unjusti- 
fied challenge  would  also  be  thrown 
out  and  a  like  penalty  inflicted.  It  is 
unlikely,  however,  that  a  nation  would 
refuse  to  fight  if  such  an  act  might  give 
reason  for  the  charge  of  cowardice. 
Such  a  reputation  would  be  harmful. 

Granted,  then,  that  Arcadia  and 
Barcadia  are  resolved  upon  war,  it 
should  be  provided  that  this  take  place 
only  upon  the  International  Battle- 
field, —  a  level  park  specially  provided 
by  the  Court  of  Honor,  possibly  some- 
where in  Holland  or  Belgium.  Any 
infringement  of  this  order  would  con- 
stitute a  breach  of  the  International 
Peace,  to  be  stopped  immediately  by 
the  International  Police.  Each  nation 
would  then  send  five  thousand  of  its 
picked  men,  trained  in  swordsmanship. 
Less  than  five  thousand  would  hardly 
constitute  a  national  body  of  men,  and 
luck  would  play  too  great  a  part  with 
a  smaller  number.  Dynamite,  explos- 
ives of  every  kind,  guns,  pistols,  or,  in 
short,  any  weapon  or  agency  of  offense 
or  defense,  excepting  the  sword,  would 
be  prohibited.  The  purpose  is  to  civil- 
ize warfare  by  giving  an  equal  chance 
to  each  side. 

Firearms,  as  now  constructed,  with 
projectiles  that  penetrate  a  number  of 


570 


WHY   NOT? 


men,  render  a  battle  fought  with  them 
a  matter  of  advantage  and  chance,  and 
it  would  not  be  right  to  leave  a  na- 
tion's honor  to  chance.  It  should  be 
determined  by  the  valor  of  her  sons. 
Now,  before  the  opposing  armies  were 
drawn  up  on  the  battlefield,  the  Court 
of  Honor  would  determine  the  outcome 
of  the  war  in  the  event  of  either  win- 
ning. The  contentions  of  the  opposing 
nations,  which  they  refuse  to  solve  in 
court  and  which  are  to  be  settled  by 
the  sword,  would  be  fully  considered 
and  the  outcome  determined,  with  one 
result  if  the  Arcadians  win,  and  the 
other  if  victory  is  to  the  Barcadians. 

Then,  with  the  preliminaries  ar- 
ranged and  the  armies  ready,  at  the 
word  of  the  Umpire  the  two  opposing 
forces,  armed  with  swords  and  stripped 
to  the  waist,  attack  each  other.  They 
strike,  thrust,  disembowel,  and  fight  to 
kill.  There  is  neither  truce  nor  pause 
until  one  side  or  the  other  is  driven 
from  the  field,  lies  down,  or  surrenders. 
In  respect  to  those  who  do  the  actual 
fighting,  war  would  be  more  terrible 
than  it  is  now.  Nothing  would  count 
but  swordsmanship  and  courage.  So- 
cial distinctions  between  officers  and 
common  soldiers  would  disappear. 
Snobbery  would  meet  its  death-blow. 
And  no  property  would  be  destroyed; 
the  savings  of  mankind,  humanity's 
collective  goods,  would  be  conserved. 

Neither  should  we  be  compelled  to 
give  up  our  heroes,  under  this  bene- 
ficent civilization  of  warfare.  The  war 
spirit  which  we  have  in  us  so  long  as 
we  are  young,  would  not  be  choked  or 
suppressed,  with  the  hazard  of  setting 
loose  more  dangerous  passions.  It 
would  be  a  great  honor  to  be  counted 
among  a  nation's  warriors,  and  every 
town  and  village  would  have  its  young 
men  training  in  athletics  to  qualify.  In 
the  event  of  war,  every  man  that  died 


would  be  a  hero,  and  the  incentive  to 
the  native  town  of  each  hero  to  build 
a  beautiful  monument  to  him  alone 
would  be  as  great  as  if  there  were  hun- 
dreds of  names  to  be  inscribed  upon  the 
monument. 

Training  and  practicing  among  the 
young  men  would  encourage  athletics 
and  temperate  living.  And  those  se- 
lected might  well  expect  to  find  favor 
in  the  sight  of  young  women  —  a  fact 
which  by  general  agreement  seems  to 
make  life  more  attractive. 

In  short,  by  the  introduction  of  the 
International  Code  Duello,  war  would 
cease  to  cause  the  destruction  of  pro- 
perty; the  cost  of  standing  armies  and 
navies  would,  in  time,  disappear,  with 
the  exception  of  the  quota  of  each  na- 
tion to  the  support  of  the  International 
Police;  human  nature  would  not  be 
perverted  by  the  inhibition  of  one  of 
the  normal  instincts  of  man,  namely, 
the  fighting  instinct;  and  war,  which 
cannot  be  averted,  would  involve  more 
valor  and  fewer  deaths.  It  would  be  a 
step  in  advance. 

To  those  to  whom  the  word  duel  is 
offensive,  it  may  be  said  that  to  coun- 
tenance duels  between  nations  does 
not  warrant  duels  between  men.  The 
standards  are  different.  '  Modern  War- 
fare '  with  its  strategy,  its  mines,  and  its 
sneaking  murder,  would  not  be  counten- 
anced between  individuals  anywhere 
on  earth,  with  a  few  exceptions,  as,  for 
instance,  in  some  parts  of  Italy  and  the 
Feud  Districts  of  the  United  States. 
Nevertheless,  despite  the  protestations 
of  the  Peace  Societies,  we  are  all  of  us 
preparing  to  do  this  same  thing  in  a 
wholesale  way;  to  prosecute  'modern 
warfare'  between  nations.  Why  not 
take  a  step  in  advance  and  provide 
that  our  fighting  shall  be  ordered  so 
that  it  shall  be  fair,  and  that  true  cour- 
age and  valor  may  prevail? 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


A  GENTLEMAN  ADVENTURER 

AT  the  very  moment  when  British 
patresfamilias  were  reading  American 
Notes  aloud,  with  scornful  approval, 
in  the  domestic  circle,  their  sons  were 
cherishing  a  secret  wild  enthusiasm  for 
America.  Little  boys  felt  it  burning 
like  a  blue  flame  beneath  their  round- 
abouts —  young  men  riding  steeple- 
chase found  it  tugging  at  their  boots 
and  shouting  in  their  ears. 

On  the  other  side  the  world  you're  overdue! 

Their  elders  might  look  coldly  upon 
us  as  mere  sayers  of  'I  guess,'  £nd  im- 
bibers of  ice- water;  but  to  these  gener- 
ous youth  we  were  all  potential  Deer- 
slayers  and  Mohicans,  and  spent  our 
holiday  lives  lassoing  buffalo. 

Such  was  the  view  of  us  entertained 
in  Liverpool  in  the  fifties  by  a  whole 
shipping-office-full  of  young  Raleighs 
—  prospective  La  Salles  and  Magel- 
lans.  Among  them  was  a  fair  and  curly 
Scottish  youth,  from  the  valley  of  the 
Rule,  the  Border  battle-ground.  He 
had  from  childhood  a  great  longing  to 
'tread  where  no  white  man  had  ever 
trod  before.'  Old  and  thoroughly  ex- 
plored countries  had  no  attraction  for 
him.  Ships  might  go  forth  under  his 
hand,  as  it  were,  to  India  or  China; 
they  left  him  fancy-free.  But  let  a 
cable  slip  for  the  westward,  and  the 
young  Roxburghshireman  was  off  in 
spirit  on  that  deck,  with  half  a  dozen 
of  his  fellow  clerks  about  him,  all  out- 
ward bound  on  the  'trail  that  is  always 
new.' 

It  was  in  the  Kangaroo,  in  1858,  that 
he  achieved  his  first  voyage  to  America. 
Fate  was  pleased  when  he  came,  and 


threw  adventures  in  his  way  as  a  de- 
coy to  bring  him  back.  For  possessions 
and  belongings  were  no  more  to  this 
young  man  than  to  Socrates,  when 
'seeing  great  store  of  precious  stuffs 
carried  through  the  city,  "Oh,  how 
many  things,"  cried  he,  "do  I  not  de- 
sire!" —  But  if  it  were  a  sin  to  covet 
adventure,  — 

He  was  the  most  offending  soul  alive. 

He  made,  like  Hudson,  four  voyages 
to  these  shores.  On  that  famous  first 
one,  he  was  in  a  rousing  storm  off  New- 
foundland, when  the  boots  and  boxes 
of  the  passengers  were  washed  up  and 
down  the  corridors,  and  hurled  violent- 
ly against  their  cabin  doors.  Thus  ush- 
ered into  the  New  World  (at  a  port  for 
which  he  had  not  sailed),  he  lost  no  time 
in  beginning  that  series  of  assorted  ad- 
ventures which  he  was  so  well  qualified 
to  adorn .  Most  of  these  were  of  a  Lewis- 
Carrollish,  or  Stocktonesque  descrip- 
tion. J.  D.  C.,  for  example,  was  never  a 
soldier;  yet  he  was  once  invited  to  join 
a  scouting  party,  the  members  of  which 
'  rather  expected '  to  be  'picked  off  oc- 
casionally by  an  enterprising  sharp- 
shooter.' He  was  a  member  of  a  com- 
mittee chosen  to  present  a  stand  of 
colors  to  the  hare-brained '  Scotch  Regi- 
ment of  Chicago '  at  the  opening  of  the 
Civil  War;  and  managed  on  that  occa- 
sion to  ride  a  borrowed  war-horse '  with 
no  mean  eclat'  through  a  narrow  and 
rickety  '  triumphal  arch,'  —  as  great 
a  feat,  I  think,  as  his  escape  from  the 
lampless  octagonal  room  in  the  strange 
hotel,  when  a  midnight  fire  was  raging. 

Fires  many  and  tragical  have  pur- 
sued the  hero  of  this  Odyssey.  There 
was  a  fire  not  above  seven  years  ago 

571 


572 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


in apolis,  where  he,  dashing  back 

into  the  blazing  tinder-box  to  rescue 
his  tent  and  camera,  discovered  and 
saved  a  sleeping  boy.  Tents,  fishing- 
rods,  and  cameras,  by  some  odd  coin- 
cidence, are  always  saved  from  fires 
which  consume  this  gentleman's  other 
worldly  goods.  It  was  an  invariable 
answer,  when  I  was  young,  to  all  in- 
quiries after  this  or  that  picture-book, 
or  piece  of  furniture  (as,  'Whatever 
became,  J.,  of  that  old  mahogany  desk 
that  you  had  in  Texas?'),  — 

'Why,  don't  you  remember?  that 
was  burned  up  in  the  fire  at  Madison 

—  no,  I  mean  the  first  fire  after  we  were 
married.' 

I  have  sometimes  thought  of  cata- 
loguing J.  D.  C.'s  adventures  some- 
what on  the  following  plan :  — 

A.  By  train :  as  when  the  insane  man 
chased  the  passengers  into  the  freight 
car,  and  stood  guard  over  them  with  a 
revolver; 

B.  Adventures  at  World's  Fairs:  as 
when  the  Buffalo  expressman  sent  his 
trunk  by  mistake  to  a  house-party  in 
the  country,  leaving  a  lady's  Saratoga 
in  its  place; 

C.  Camping  adventures,  in  which  I 
should  list  the  Chicago  fire  (on  what  I 
may  call  the  librarian's  or  encyclopae- 
dian,    principle  —  'Chicago    fire;    see 
Camping  Adventures').    For  he  was 
camping  in  a  wild  spot  near  that  city 
when  the  historic  cow  overturned  the 
lantern;  and  a  friend  came  out  to  join 
him  in  a  hunt,  and  only  over  the  camp- 
fire  at  night  bethought   himself,  and 
said,  — 

'  Oh,  by  the  bye,  I  forgot  to  tell  you 

—  Chicago  is  all  burned  up!' 

'And  my  warehouses  with  it!'  cried 
J.  D.  C. 

There  is  a  touch  of  such  nonchalance 
in  all  the  adventures  he  ever  recounted 
to  me,  on  those  walks  round  '  the  inlet ' 
on  summer  afternoons,  when  he  is  in 
his  best  narrating  mood.  Who  ever 


heard  a  series  of  accidents  by  flood  and 
field  reported  by  the  principal  with 
such  entire  absence  of  megalomania? 
His  modest  humor  plays  all  over  them 
like  lightning  on  the  hills  at  home  in  a 
spring  thunderstorm.  That  hurricane, 
in  particular,  when  he  was  obliged  to 
brace  the  flimsy  door  to  keep  the  house 
about  his  head,  always  appeared  to  him 
in  a  humorous  light.  So  did  the  haying 
runaway,  when  the  loose  load  slipped 
off  in  bales  to  left  and  right,  the  en- 
deared adventurer  balancing  perilous- 
ly on  top,  as  the  mad  beasts  careened 
down  the  uneven  field.  So  did  the  roof 
toboggan,  when  he  slid  down  the  steep 
and  slippery  shingles  of  our  Wisconsin 
house,  with  fast  increasing  momentum, 
until  the  eaves-trough,  holding  fast 
against  his  terrific  onset,  stayed  and 
saved  him  from  the  marble  steps  below. 

These  all  belong  in  my  list  under  the 
heading  'Adventures  at  Home.'  They 
are  the  most  numerous,  the  most  in- 
genious, and  the  most  blood-curdling 
of  all.  Shall  I  ever  forget  the  dreadful 
day  when  the  pole  of  the  barn-door  fell 
on  his  head?  We  children  huddled  near 
in  frightful  certainty  that  he  was  lost 
to  us.  Lost  those  morning  romps — 
those  scrambling  games  of  Creepy- 
crabby  —  those  tid-bits,  surreptitious 
from  my  mother,  of  cake  and  jam  — 
lost,  in  brief,  the  dearest,  best  play-fel- 
low children  ever  had !  Thank  heaven, 
we  were  mistaken. 

Last  summer  I  went  with  this  cap- 
tain of  companions  to  a  remote  spot  on 
a  reef  of  Long  Island.  We  kept  house 
in  a  bungalow,  and  bathed  in  a  thun- 
dering surf  not  far  from  our  front  door. 
In  the  midst  of  our  stay  a  storm  and 
flood  came  on,  the  marshes  behind  our 
reef  were  submerged,  the  Sound  came 
in  at  the  inlet,  the  surf  rolled  up  over 
the  sandy  ridge  in  front;  the  waters 
met  beneath  our  fragile  floor.  The  first 
billow  to  reach  us  from  the  open  sea 
rolled  in  at  dusk  on  a  Sunday  evening, 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


573 


and  for  half  that  night  J.  and  I,  at  in- 
tervals of  an  hour,  measured  with  an 
inverted  broom  the  depth  of  the  loud 
wash  beneath  us.  At  daybreak  we 
looked  out  upon  such  a  waste  of  waters 
as  Miss  Ingelow  describes  in  the  'High 
Tide':  — 

And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

I  was  very  much  alarmed.  I  made  a 
little  will  bequeathing  my  Bible,  MSS., 
and  Oxford  Book.  Once  I  glanced  over 
my  bequests  at  J.  D.  C.  and  saw  a  look 
of  great  contentment  in  his  eye. '  He 
was  ever  at  home  '  in  perils  of  robbers, 
in  perils  in  cities,  in  perils  in  the  sea.' 
The  bright  face  of  danger  had  smiled 
on  him  in  his  cradle.  His  life  has  been 
more  full  than  most  men's  of  cares  and 
affections,  yet  he  has  managed  through- 
out to  keep  the  gypsy  maxim  of  Mon- 
taigne :  — 

Lead  thou  thy  life  in  the  open  air, 
And  in  affairs  full  of  despair. 


RAIN 

Is  there  any  other  force  in  nature 
that  has  so  varied  and  changing  a  beau- 
ty as  rain?  Anywhere  in  town  or  coun- 
try one  can  take  sheer  delight  in  watch- 
ing those  drifting,  swaying  threads  of 
liquid  which  make  all  sorts  of  fantas- 
tic angles.  Sometimes  the  heavy  rains 
come  down  with  perpendicular  direct- 
ness, falling  insistently  in  exact  paral- 
lels; sometimes  the  lines  are  slanting 
and  follow  the  direction  of  the  wind 
with  singularly  plastic  movement, 
veering  and  shifting  until  they  are  al- 
most vertical ;  sometimes  all  uniformity 
of  movement  vanishes,  and  the  rain 
is  blown  in  sharp  gusts  until  its  deli- 
cate filaments  become  entangled  in 
intricate,  bewildering  complexities  of 
moisture. 

Rain  keeps  to  the  straight  line  and 
to  the  angle  when  in  action;  it  seldom, 
if  ever,  yields  to  the  curve.  It  is  only 


when  rain  ceases  and  becomes  mere 
drops  that  linger  on  the  eaves,  or  fall 
with  inconceivable  slowness  from  the 
edge  of  glistening  green  leaves,  that  we 
see  gracious  and  trembling  curves.  The 
size  of  a  raindrop  may  vary  from  a 
tiny  bead  of  light  to  the  more  palpable 
globes  in  which  one  could  easily  study 
liquid  geometry.  I  have  seen,  on  icy 
days,  raindrops  clinging  to  bare  bushes, 
making  them  in  the  distance  look  like 
pussy-willows. 

Rain  has  color.  The  Quaker  gray  of 
a  hard  rain  has  a  soft  vanishing  quality 
far  less  durable  and  tangible  than  the 
filmy  cobweb.  Sometimes  almost  white, 
often  blue,  most  frequently  rain  re- 
sponds with  unusual  sensitiveness  to 
its  environment,  and  shadows  back  the 
green  of  apple-tree  leaves  or  the  sombre 
brown  of  a  dusty  highway.  Most  beau- 
tiful is  the  silvery  sheen  of  rain  on  warm 
summer  days  when  the  descent  is  in- 
termittent and  one  has  the  pleasure  of 
speculating  on  the  quality  of  the  rain 
to  be.  The  poets  have  a  great  deal  to 
say  about  golden  rain,  but  that  falls 
only  in  the  Golden  Age;  we  see  only 
that  clear  crystalline  rainfall  against 
a  glowing  golden  sunset  in  April. 

All  the  world  knows  the  poignant 
smell  accompanying  a  summer  shower, 
when  dust  is  moistened,  when  parched 
grass  yields  a  certain  acrid  scent  under 
the  stress  of  storm.  The  fresh  vigor 
and  brilliancy  of  roses  and  of  yellow 
lilies,  after  rain,  is  proverbial;  but  for 
exquisite  beauty  of  fragrance  I  know 
nothing  that  compares  with  the  aro- 
matic, mystical  influence  of  a  blossom- 
ing balm-of-gilead,  rain-swept. 

The  soft  thud  and  patter  of  rain  up- 
on the  roof  are  as  musical  to  the  imag- 
inative listener  as  is  any  symphony. 
Monotonous  dripping  on  thick-leaved 
trees  soothes  one's  weariness,  and  makes 
the  importunities  of  life  seem  easily 
resisted.  One  can  be  lulled  to  fair  vis- 
ions during  a  transient  spring  shower, 


574 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


and  gain  the  sense  of  sharing  the  de- 
stiny of  nature.  But,  sometimes,  the 
storm  brings  moods  far  from  serene 
when  it  sweeps  along  with  a  kind  of 
fury.  Heavy  clouds  make  noon  as  dark 
as  night,  the  air  is  thick  and  ominous, 
rain  pours  in  sheets  of  gray  that  gusts 
of  wind  shake  into  fine  mist.  Trees 
bow  to  the  ground  under  the  rush  of 
the  whirlwind,  and  thunder  reverber- 
ates continually,  while  often  a  sharp 
flash  of  lightning  gives  a  sudden  golden 
tint  to  the  heavy  rain  and  shows  the 
blackness  of  the  sky.  There  is  some- 
thing startling  and  fearful  in  the  tu- 
mult of  the  storm;  it  is  as  if  the  laws  of 
nature  had  broken  loose  and  left  the 
titanic  elements  to  have  full  swing. 
Still  it  is  beautiful,  a  picture  in  chiar- 
oscuro, illuminated  by  the  unearthly 
flame  of  lightning.  There  is  a  wild  and 
awful  sublimity  in  the  tremendous 
power  which  has  wrought  such  dark- 
ness and  floods  of  water,  such  breath- 
less silence  and  responding  crash  and 
whirl. 


HOW  DOTH 


THE  most  romantic  feature  of  Break- 
neck Hill,  always  excepting  the  mort- 
gage, was  an  ancient  hive  of  bees.  It 
was  not  Jacobean  in  its  architecture, 
merely  mid-Victorian ;  not  such  a '  skip ' 
of  thatch  as  decorates  with  gilded 
pomp  the  saving  banks,  suggesting 
that  the  only  way  to  withdraw  de- 
posits is  to  brimstone  the  trustees ;  but 
it  was  so  venerable  that  its  occupants 
held  title  by  adverse  possession.  No 
living  man  knew  how  to  'rob'  them. 
Nemo  me  impune  lacessit  seemed  writ- 
ten on  its  front.  Its  denizens  had  a  way 
of  ruffling  about  the  entrance  like 
young  Guelphs  daring  the  approach  of 
any  Ghibelline.  Its  former  owner  had 
long  contemplated  writing  a  book 
on  Bees  through  an  Opera  Glass.  He 
showed  me  a  mud-hole  of  Nepenthean 


efficacy  in  the  surcease  of  sorrows  of 
him  who  strayed  within  a  furlong  of  his 
fiefs.  'Do  they  ever  swarm?'  I  asked. 
He  smiled  sadly.  'Sometimes.  It  is 
then  that  I  most  recommend  the  mud 
bath.' 

I  decided  that  KO  self-respecting  bee 
should  be  asked  to  live,  even  rent-free, 
in  such  a  tenement.  My  paper  on  '  The 
Response  of  the  Worker  to  Betterment 
of  Environment'  had  been  much  ad- 
mired. Here  was  a  chance  to  put  its 
theories  into  practice.  I  bought  a  new 
patent  hive,  dipped  into  Maeterlinck, 
and  acquired  a  cheery  little  brochure 
which  deserves  the  attention  of  every 
student  of  the  picaresque  in  fiction. 
Draping  myself  in  mosquito-netting 
and  protected  by  huge  gloves,  I  saunt- 
ered to  the  tragedy,  which  Prise  ilia 
now  calls,  '  Guelphville,  or  the  Fatal 
Tryst.'  Never  did  the  sun  shine  more 
brightly.  Never  did  Nanny-Donk,  with 
premonitory  claims  of  kinship,  bray 
more  melodiously. 

'The  simplest  method  of  transfer- 
ence,' I  read,  'is  to  invert  the  old  hive, 
superimpose  the  new  one,  and  then 
drum  vigorously  on  the  old  one.  The 
bees,  with  charming  intelligence,  will 
then  pass  into  their  new  home.  Be  sure 
that  the  queen  is  among  them,  as  your 
success  depends  upon  her  migration.' 
Be  sure  that  one  bee  is  among  ten  le- 
gions !  '  Be  sure,  dear,  to  look  up  Mrs. 
Jones  at  the  Yale-Harvard  game!' 
Something  whispered  within  of  coming 
evil. 

Inverting  the  House  of  Guelph,  I 
reared  the  new  home  on  its  founda- 
tions. Great  crevices  yawned  on  every 
side.  I  drummed.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's pause.  The  warriors  could  not 
believe  the  wantonness  of  the  insult. 
Then  was  my  last  clear  chance  of  safety. 
In  the  distance  Nanny-Donk  brayed 
fraternally.  I  drummed  again.  Im- 
mediately a  great  roaring  arose,  as  the 
sound  of  many  waters.  From  every 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


575 


sally-port  they  flew.  Then  first  I  learn- 
ed the  war-cry  of  the  angry  swarm. 
The  gauntlets  of  my  gloves  afforded, 
as  the  playwrights  say,  a  'practicable 
door.'  Those  who  were  too  late  in  the 
rush  to  find  standing-room  on  my 
wrists  did  not  despair  but  bided  their 
turn.  Others  found  an  abundant  en- 
trance through  my  veil  and  settled  to 
their  predestined  task. 

My  reactions  have  been  carefully 
tested  and  I  am  normally  responsive  to 
external  stimuli.  Anticipating  swift  ^Eo- 
lus  in  his  flight,  I  reached  the  mud-hole 
in  ten  leaps.  A  famous  athlete,  under 
only  the  stimulus  of  an  unattainable 
ideal,  has  since  done  it  in  twelve. 

There  are  moments  when  it  is  most 
seemly  to  leave  the  soul  alone  to  wrestle 
with  its  misfortunes.  I  always  thought 
that  the  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrows  for 
Herakles,  when  he  was  trying  to  ac- 
climatize himself,  under  the  Attic  sun, 
to  Phrygian  underwear,  was  the  pre- 
sence of  the  Chorus.  Even  this  grief 
was  not  spared  me.  Priscilla,  alarmed 
by  my  cries,  spurred  on  by  that  com- 
bination of  sympathy  and  curiosity 
known  as  Wifely  Love,  came  dashing 
to  her  doom.  Carlyle  says  that  life  is 
a  fraction,  and  that  the  way  to  lessen 
sorrows  is  to  decrease  one's  denominat- 
or. My  better  half  relieved  me  of  some 
hundreds  of  mine  —  at  least  I  think 
she  did,  for  by  this  time  my  life-mask 
was  complete  and  I  only  heard  the 
diminuendo  of  her  retreating  shrieks. 

But  the  gentle  queen  was  still  un- 
identified. The  bees  refused  to  exer- 
cise their  charming  intelligence.  The 
hive  was  still  vainly  superimposed.  I 
was  content  that  another  should  reap 
the  glory.  And  he  did.  I  blush  to  write 
that  my  gentle  neighbor  soothed  and 
transferred  the  colony  with  placid  skill. 
How  did  he  do  it?  I  turned  sadly  to 
my  hand-book.  Then  first  I  saw  that 
it  was  written  by  a  woman.  The  all- 
important  secret  lay  concealed  with 


devilish  ingenuity  in  a  foot-note,  like 
Truth  at  the  bottom  of  the  well.  'Of 
course,  before  adopting  this  method,  the 
bees  should  be  thoroughly  subdued  by 
smoke,  and  two  or  three  combs  of  their 
brood  should  be  placed  in  the  new  hive. 
Bees  are  like  humans  and  will  not  de- 
sert the  cradles  of  their  young.' 

Of  course !  Of  course !  But  why  did 
hysteron  proteron  seize  the  author's 
rhetoric  at  this  fatal  point?  Did  she 
think  that  Exposition,  like  Epigram, 
like  the  Bee  itself,  should  have  its  sting 
in  its  tail? 

THE    WISDOM   OF    FOOLISHNESS 

HAS  enough  been  said  about  the  fool- 
ishness of  friendship,  —  not  the  fool- 
ishness of  being  friends,  but  the  wis- 
dom of  being  sometimes  foolish  friends? 
To  Maeterlinck's  saying  that  we  can- 
not know  each  other  until  we  dare  to  be 
silent  together,  one  would  add,  and  to 
be  foolish  together ;  for  many  of  us  hoard 
as  gold  the  remembered  nonsense  that 
seemed  to  test  our  fitness  for  the  twi- 
light hour  when  hearts  were  uncovered 
and  life  plumbed  to  the  depths.  It  is 
with  the  companion  of  the  hour  that 
we  talk  of  the  world,  of  heaven,  per- 
haps even  of  ourselves;  but  with  our 
friend  we  may  be  silent  or  absurd, 
with  safety  and  profit  to  both ;  and  then 
in  the  moment  of  self-revelation,  he 
helps  us  to  see  further,  to  judge  more 
sanely,  to  know  more  surely,  than  all 
the  masters  of  intellect  could  do. 

The  little  jokes  of  a  friendship  are 
treasured  through  the  years,  and  give 
it  a  vocabulary  of  its  own.  A  word  of 
flying  allusion,  and  the  ludicrous  scene 
of  a  distant  time  comes  back  to  give  us 
new  delight;  certain  cherished  stories 
have  become  familiar  symbols  for  the 
happenings  of  a  duller  day:  when  we 
should  do  some  thankless  task,  we  say 
we  must  go  nutting;  or,  when  gay,  we 
mention  Truro  Corners.  So,  to  the  un- 


576 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


initiated,  we  babble  of  nothing;  but 
we,  the  elect,  know  more  precisely  what 
is  meant  than  finest  rhetoric  could  tell 
us,  and  dear  old  stories  gather  moss 
through  the  years  until  they  mean  not 
only  themselves,  but  all  that  train  of 
sunny  days  where  they  have  had  a  part. 

It  is  a  question  whether  a  friend  is 
entirely  beloved  unless  we  can  '  let  our- 
selves go'  with  him;  we  demand  of  him 
the  intimacy  of  relaxation;  our  very 
soul  rebels  against  being  kept  cease- 
lessly to  any  pitch,  no  matter  how  clear 
and  sonorous  the  tone  may  be.  We  may 
admire  his  wit  and  intellectual  power, 
we  may  lean  upon  his  sympathy  and 
sound  judgment;  yet  it  is  his  moment 
of  giving  way  to  unconsidered  mirth, 
his  sudden  drop  to  sheer  nonsense,  that 
endears  him  to  us.  But  our  taste  in  fun 
must  match.  If  your  jest  be  dull  to  me, 
if  mine  be  coarse  to  you,  there  is  the 
sign-post  which  marks  a  dangerous 
road.  And  perhaps  we  shall  find  it  use- 
less to  patch  up  a  comradeship  for  the 
sake  of  this  quality  or  that;  for  whether 
we  will  or  no,  we  must  some  time  travel 
by  diverging  paths  where  labor  would 
be  wasted  trying  to  make  a  cross-cut. 

And  so  it  may  all  come  back  to  the 
importance  of  foolishness  as  a  test,  — 
happy  augury,  perhaps,  that  in  heaven 
the  pure  pleasure  of  companionship 
shall  endure  beyond  the  interchange 
of  minds,  —  and  it  is  as  if  some  at- 
tribute of  the  subconscious  creature 
marked  the  play  of  temperament  that 
proves  us  kin.  For  mere  intellect,  the 
output  of  our  perishable  brains,  is  less 
than  nothing  if  ourselves  be  not  even 
cousins-german.  And  what  havoc  we 
may  make  when  a  close  relationship  is 
founded  chiefly  upon  a  likeness  of  in- 
tellectual tastes !  One  day  the  bound  is 
crossed  to  the  spirit's  domain,  when  the 
chance  is  that  warring  temperaments 
wreck  the  light  fabric,  and  we  go  forth 
cursing  the  brains  that  tricked  us  into 
hailing  an  alien  as  our  own. 


With  this  friend  we  may  be  serious, 
with  another  gay;  one  ponders  upon 
life  and  art,  while  the  other,  charming 
playmate  of  an  hour,  is  full  of  quip  and 
jest.  But  the  ideal  friend  must  have 
a  light  touch  and  a  stride  that  mates 
with  ours,  and  it  is  his  life  and  ours, 
viewed  by  the  light  of  universal  day, 
which  bespeaks  his  interest.  And  then 
perhaps  a  pretty  atmosphere  of  fun 
creates  a  glamour  where  the  best  of  us 
may  bloom.  By  the  flash  of  his  wit,  he 
shows  us  our  highest  reach,  and  in  the 
mild  warmth  of  his  humor,  where  there 
can  be  no  blight  of  self-appraising,  we 
grow  and  thrive.  So  it  may  not  be  all 
idleness,  but  like  the  sparkle  of  tiny 
waves  on  a  sunny  day  it  marks  the 
steady  progress  of  the  tide. 

There  should  be  a  tolerance  in  friend- 
ship that  gives  us  room,  a  very  lack  of 
demanding  that  we  be  this  or  that  which 
makes  it  natural  to  do  our  prettiest. 
And  when  we  know  we  have  been 
cowards,  when  we  know  we  have  gone 
down  a  step  or  two,  to  be  met  by  some 
gentle  jest  instead  of  the  rebuke  we  had 
richly  earned  melts  our  ready  defiance, 
and  we  are  eager  to  climb  again  to  that 
place  near  him  which  we  had  left.  He 
has  not  told  us  that  we  have  fallen  be- 
low his  hope,  he  would  not  affront 
friendship  by  anything  so  crude  as 
spoken  forgiveness;  but  in  that  ex- 
quisite ignoring  of  the  hurt,  we  recog- 
nize our  chance.  We  know  in  the 
depths  we  are  at  one;  but  diversity 
of  fancy,  the  light  sparring  of  con- 
tending wit,  may  weave  a  fabric  that 
gives  color  to  our  day,  and  it  is  often 
the  whimsical  side  of  an  affection 
which  makes  its  charm.  Here  is  the 
pleasant  garden  which  lies  about  the 
solid  structure  of  our  friendship,  where 
we  may  play  with  poppy  dolls  and  bur- 
dock cradles,  while  we  know  the  shel- 
tering roof  is  near  when  we  would  have 
the  quiet  of  shaded  rooms  or  refuge 
from  the  storm. 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


MAY,  1911 


PREPARE  FOR  SOCIALISM 


BY   J.   N.    LAKNED 


INDIFFERENCE  to  the  modern  social- 
istic movement  is  fast  becoming  an  im- 
possible attitude  of  mind.  Friendliness 
or  hostility  to  it,  in  some  degree,  must 
come  into  the  feeling  of  everybody  who 
gives  the  slightest  heed  to  the  auguries 
of  our  time;  for  the  movement  has  now 
gathered  a  momentum  that  will  carry 
it  surely  to  some  vital  and  momentous 
outcome  of  change  in  the  economic  or- 
ganization of  society.  If  this  is  not  to 
be  calamitous,  but  is  to  realize  in  any 
measure  the  good  equalities  and  satis- 
factions which  Socialists  expect,  that 
happy  result  can  arrive  only  in  com- 
munities which  have  forethoughtfully 
safeguarded  themselves,  with  all  the 
wisdom  they  possess,  against  ruinous 
recklessness  or  perfidy  in  the  working- 
out  of  so  critical  a  change.  It  is  no- 
where too  soon  to  take  serious  thought 
of  what  we  need  to  be  doing  in  such 
preparation. 

Our  first  thought  in  that  direction 
must  be  of  the  several  forces  which 
enter  into  the  problem  we  deal  with. 
These,  in  the  main,  are  the  forces  of 
opinion  which  act  on  the  propositions 
of  Socialism  from  different  dispositions 
of  mind. 

The  possible  attitudes  of  thought 
and  feeling  on  the  subject  are  six  in 
number,  to  wit:  — 
VOL.  107-NO.S 


1.  That  of  the  radical  disciples  of 
Karl   Marx,  —  the  organized   '  Social 
Democrats '  of  many  countries,  —  who 
represent  most  logically  the  doctrines 
of  modern  Socialism  as  formulated  by 
Marx;  who  regard  their  undertaking 
as  a  class-revolt  (of  the  wage- workers), 
and  who  contemplate  the  desired  trans- 
fer of  capital  from  individual  to  col- 
lective ownership  and  management  as 
an  achievement  of  revolution,  which 
may  be  violent  if  violence  is  necessary, 
when  adequate  power  shall  have  been 
secured. 

2.  That  of  others  in  the  same  wage- 
earning  class  who  have  not  answered 
the  socialistic  call,  nor  openly  assent- 
ed to  its  dogmas,  but  whose  circum- 
stances must  incline  them  to  be  wistful 
listeners  to  its  promises  and  appeals. 

3.  That  of  people  who  approve  on 
principle  the  social  rearrangements  con- 
tended for  by  Marx  and  his  followers, 
regarding  them  as  desirable   because 
just;  but  who  would  seek  to  attain 
them  by  cautious  and  gradual  pro- 
cesses, and  would  give  no  support  to 
any  programme  of  hasty  revolution. 

4.  That  of  people  who  are  or  hope 
to  be  gainers  personally  from  the  exist- 
ing economic  system,  with  its  limitless 
opportunities  of  profit  to  individuals 
of  the  capitalized  class,  and  who  see 


578 


PREPARE  FOR  SOCIALISM 


nothing  but  a  wicked  attack  on  their 
personal  rights  in  the  proposed  limita- 
tion of  private  capital  and  its  gains. 

5.  That  of  people  who  are  not  thus 
biased  against  the  socialistic  project 
by  a  personal  interest  in  present  eco- 
nomic arrangements,  but  who  do  not 
believe  that  productive  industries  and 
exchanges  can  be  operated  with  suc- 
cess in  the  mode  proposed,  and  who 
fear  failure  in  the  attempt,  with  seri- 
ous wreckage  of  the  social  fabric  and 
much  demoralization  of  mankind. 

6.  That  of  people  who  have  not  yet 
given  enough  attention  to  the  social- 
istic movement  to  have  a  thought  or  a 
feeling  about  it. 

The  first  and  fourth  of  these  groups 
are  the  centres  of  the  antagonism  devel- 
oped by  the  social-economic  doctrines 
of  Marx,  and  the  outcome  of  that 
antagonism  will  depend  on  the  action 
of  forces  from  these  two  on  the  other 
four.  At  the  two  sources  of  opposed 
motive,  the  mainsprings  of  energy  are 
nearly  but  not  quite  the  same.  Self- 
interest  may  be  as  dominant  among 
the  Socialist  workingmen  as  among 
their  capitalistic  opponents;  and  it 
may  be  tempered  on  one  side  by  solic- 
itude for  the  general  welfare  as  much 
as  by  sympathetic  class-feeling  on  the 
other;  but  the  self-interest  of  the  capi- 
talist, whose  ample  means  of  living  are 
secure,  has  a  very  different  spur  from 
that  of  the  workingman,  whose  daily 
wants  are  tethered  by  his  daily  wage. 
In  the  needs,  the  desires,  the  hopes,  the 
fears,  the  uncertainties  of  the  social- 
istic wage-worker,  there  is  an  animus 
which  the  mere  appetite  of  capital  for 
its  own  increment  can  never  excite. 

In  their  intensity,  therefore,  the 
opposing  influences  that  work  in  this 
contention  are  unevenly  matched;  and 
there  is  still  more  disparity  between 
them  in  the  compass  of  their  action. 
All  of  the  wage-workers  of  the  world 
are  possible  recruits  to  be  won  for  So- 


cialism, and  they  outnumber  all  other 
divisions  of  civilized  mankind.  They 
make  up  the  first  and  second  orders  of 
the  classification  set  forth  above,  and 
the  second  of  these  stands  plainly  in 
the  relation  of  a  waiting-list  to  the  first. 
In  Continental  Europe  its  constitu- 
ents are  passing  over  in  always  swell- 
ing numbers  to  the  party  which  claims 
and  expects  to  secure  them  all.  In  Great 
Britain  and  America  the  draft  into 
Socialism  from  the  ranks  of  labor  is 
slower;  but,  even  as  indicated  in  social- 
istic political  organization  and  voting 
(which  must  be  far  short  of  a  showing 
of  the  whole  movement),  it  goes  on 
with  persistent  increase. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  issue,  while 
the  people  who  have  a  personal  stake 
in  the  capitalistic  system  form  a  numer- 
ous body,  it  does  not  compare  in  num- 
bers with  the  opposing  host.  It  exer- 
cises powers,  at  present,  which  are  far 
beyond  measurement  by  its  numbers, 
but  they  are  powers  created  by  the 
economic  conditions  of  to-day,  and 
dependent  on  states  of  feeling  which 
have  no  fortitude  or  staying  quality  in 
them,  but  which  can  be  broken  into  cow- 
ardly panic  by  the  most  trifling  alarm. 
For  resistance  to  an  undertaking  of 
social  revolution,  nothing  weaker  than 
a  capitalistic  party  could  be  made  up. 
Its  strength  in  the  pending  contest  with 
Socialism  is  practically  the  strength 
of  the  alliances  it  can  form.  It  may 
seem  to  have  an  assured  body  of  import- 
ant allies  in  the  fifth  group  defined 
above;  but  how  far  is  that  assured? 
The  people  of  the  group  in  question 
are  essentially  disinterested  and  open- 
minded,  and  their  judgment  in  this 
grave  matter  is  subject  to  change. 
Their  number  appears  to  have  been 
greater  a  few  years  ago  than  now.  Many 
who  belonged  to  it  once  have  gone  over 
into  the  company  of  the  third  group, 
persuaded  that  hopes  from  the  justice 
of  the  socialistic  project  are  more  to 


PREPARE   FOR  SOCIALISM 


579 


be  considered  than  fears  of  its  adven- 
turesomeness,  if  the  venture  be  care- 
fully made.  How  these  people  will  be 
moved  hereafter  is  most  likely  to  de- 
pend on  the  direction  which  the  social- 
istic movement  takes,  —  whether  to- 
ward revolutionary  rashness,  under 
the  control  of  the  radical  Marxians, 
or  along  the  Fabian  lines  projected  by 
prudent  Socialists  of  our  third  group. 
At  all  events,  there  is  no  certainty  of 
persistent  opposition  to  Socialism  from 
any  large  part  of  this  fifth  class;  and 
obviously  there  is  nothing  to  be  count- 
ed on,  for  either  side,  from  that  re- 
mainder of  thoughtless  folk  who  know 
nothing,  and  care  nothing  as  yet,  about 
this  momentous  question  of  the  day. 

All  considered,  the  appearances  as  I 
see  them  are  distinctly  favorable  to  the 
socialistic  movement,  thus  far.  It  is 
a  movement  which  moves  continuously, 
with  no  reactionary  signs.  The  influ- 
ences in  it  are  active  on  the  greater 
masses  of  people,  and,  whether  selfish 
or  altruistic,  they  have  the  stronger 
motive  force.  It  is  a  movement  of  such 
nature,  in  fact,  as  seems  likely  to  break 
suddenly,  some  day,  into  avalanches 
and  floods. 

What  then?  Suppose  the  spread  of 
socialistic  opinion  to  be  carried  in  this 
country  to  the  point  of  readiness  for 
taking  control  of  government,  and  that 
we  then  find  awaiting  it  the  same  polit- 
ical conditions  that  exist  to-day!  The 
Socialist  party,  in  that  case,  would 
simply  take  the  place  of  our  Repub- 
lican or  our  Democratic  party,  as  '  the 
party  in  power,'  and  would  exercise 
its  power  in  the  customary  party  modes. 
The  keen-scented  fortune-hunters  and 
professional  experts  of  politics  would 
already  have  swarmed  to  it  from  the 
old  parties;  would  have  wormed  them- 
selves into  its  counsels  and  perfected 
its  'organization,'  with  a  full  equip- 
ment of  the  most  approved  'machines.' 
Then  the  nationalizing  and  the  munic- 


ipalizing of  productive  industries,  and 
the  taking-over  of  capital  from  private 
to  collective  ownership,  would  begin. 
Some  Croker  or  Murphy  would  be 
found  to  '  boss '  the  management  of  the 
operation  in  New  York,  some  Quay  in 
Pennsylvania,  some  Gorman  in  Mary- 
land, and  so  on,  throughout  the  land. 

This  is  no  wild  fancy  as  to  what  must 
occur,  if  the  projects  of  Socialism  are 
to  be  carried  out  while  political  con- 
ditions —  political  habits  in  the  coun- 
try and  the  make  and  character  of 
parties  —  remain  as  they  now  are.  If 
the  experiment  of  Socialism  was  to  be 
undertaken  to-day,  it  would  have  its 
trial  under  that  sort  of  handling,  and 
by  no  possibility  could  it  haveany  other. 
Nor  indeed  can  it  ever  have  any  other, 
unless  the  whole  theory  and  practice 
of  party  politics  in  the  United  States 
are  recast,  with  a  new  and  strong  in- 
jection into  them  of  conscience  and 
rationality. 

In  other  words,  if  we  are  pushed,  by 
the  spread  of  socialistic  opinion,  into 
attempts  at  a  governmental  ownership 
and  management  of  productive  indus- 
tries, without  a  previous  reformation 
of  our  political  system,  we  shall  inevit- 
ably be  carried  to  a  disaster  so  great 
that  imagination  can  hardly  picture  it 
to  one's  mind.  No  sane  Socialist,  how- 
ever firm  his  faith  in  the  workability 
of  the  social-industrial  scheme,  can 
dream  of  its  working  otherwise  than 
disastrously  in  the  hands  of  party 
managers,  as  parties  are  now  organized 
and  managed  with  the  consent  and 
connivance  of  the  people  who  make 
them  up.  Nor  can  he  reasonably  be- 
lieve that  a  Socialist  party  can  grow  up 
side  by  side  with  the  parties  of  our 
present  politics,  play  the  game  of  poli- 
tics with  them,  win  the  prize  of  politi- 
cal power  from  them,  and  then  use  that 
power  as  the  theory  of  Socialism  re- 
quires it  to  be  used,  —  without  parti- 
san spoliation  or  personal  'graft.' 


580 


SOCIALISM  AND   NATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


It  comes,  then,  to  this:  if  possibil- 
ities of  good  to  society  are  in  the  social- 
istic scheme,  they  are  obviously  and 
absolutely  dependent  on  the  discretion, 
the  honesty,  the  social  sincerity  and 
good  faith,  with  which  it  is  carried  into 
effect.  A  reckless  and  knavish  corrup- 
tion of  the  undertaking  so  to  revolution- 
ize the  social  economy  could  produce 
nothing  else  than  the  worst  wreckage 
that  civilized  society  has  known.  Hence 
the  question  between  possibly  bene- 
ficent and  inevitably  calamitous  results 
from  the  undertaking  is  a  question 
of  character  in  the  government  to 
which  it  is  trusted.  The  present  char- 
acter of  government  in  our  country, 
throughout  its  divisions,  controlled  as 
it  is  by  self-seeking  professional  man- 
agers of  political  parties,  is  not  to  be 


thought  of  as  one  which  could  work  the 
socialistic  experiment  to  any  other 
than  the  destructive  result.  The  con- 
ditions that  give  this  character  to  our 
political  parties,  and  through  them  to 
the  government  which  they  control 
alternately,  will  surely  give  the  same 
character  to  a  socialistic  party,  if  it 
grows  up  under  their  action,  and  ap- 
proaches an  attainment  of  power  while 
they  prevail. 

But  it  is  so  growing,  and  seems  more 
than  likely  to  arrive  at  power  to  con- 
trol some,  at  least,  of  our  divisions  of 
government  at  no  far  distant  day. 
Therefore,  the  most  urgent  of  all  rea- 
sons for  a  resolute,  radical,  and  im- 
mediate reformation  of  parties  and  the 
politics  they  embody  is  found  in  the 
progress  of  socialistic  belief. 


SOCIALISM  AND  NATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


BY   J.   O.    FAGAN 


CONTRARY  to  popular  anticipation, 
individualism  in  America — its  theoret- 
ical support  at  any  rate — seems  now 
to  be  taking  on  a  new  lease  of  life.  To 
a  great  extent  this  satisfactory  result 
must  be  attributed  to  the  widespread 
attention  that  is  now  being  paid  to  all 
matters  relating  to  social  and  industrial 
efficiency.  It  is  true  the  machine  in 
modern  civilization  still  holds  the  cen- 
tre of  the  stage,  but  from  all  appear- 
ances, and  before  long,  the  individual 
also  will  be  called  upon  to  give  a  strict- 
er account  of  himself. 

Some  time  ago  a  very  able  and  con- 


vincing article  on  'Our  Lost  Individ- 
uality '  was  printed  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  and  attracted  no  end  of  at- 
tention. So  far  as  American  individ- 
ualism in  art,  literature,  scientific  re- 
search, and  industry  is  concerned,  the 
last  nail  was  driven  by  this  writer  into 
the  national  coffin.  Without  exagger- 
ation of  any  kind,  the  process  by  means 
of  which  every  form  of  American  in- 
dividualism has  been  fully  uprooted 
and  scattered  to  the  winds,  was  carefully 
described  and  scientifically  accounted 
for.  The  destroying  principles  at  work 
were  shown  to  be  Socialism,  commer- 
cialism, and  self-centred  materialism. 
As  for  the  future,  in  the  opinion  of  the 


SOCIALISM  AND   NATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


581 


critic  referred  to,  there  was  simply 
nothing  in  sight  for  individualism  in 
America,  with  all  its  splendid  traditions 
and  monuments,  but  a  sort  of  comfort- 
able slide  down-hill. 

On  the  whole,  reading  between  the 
lines  of  this  article,  one  is  compelled 
to  recognize  a  very  regretful,  yet,  as  it 
would  seem,  an  unavoidable  state  of 
affairs,  by  no  means  modified  or  bright- 
ened by  this  final  reflection,  'Facilis 
descensus  Averni.' 

From  the  point  of  view  of  the  his- 
torian, taking  his  cue  from  countless 
external  manifestations  and  from  the 
tendencies  and  demands  of  public 
opinion,  it  is  indeed  very  difficult  to 
find  a  flaw  in  these  general  conclusions. 
But  growth  is  a  great  disturber  of  cal- 
culations, and  besides,  public  opinion 
in  America,  which  is  inclined  to  put 
individualism  on  the  shelf  in  this  way, 
is  for  the  most  part  politically  man- 
aged and  vote-ridden.  At  best  it  is  but 
the  outer  voice  of  the  people.  Under 
discipline  of  a  stronger  and  a  deeper 
force,  it  is  frequently  called  upon  to 
change  its  face  in  a  day.  This  all-pow- 
erful and  directing  principle  in  Ameri- 
can life  is  private  opinion,  or  the  inner 
voice.  This  is  the  final  court  of  appeal. 
Private  opinion  in  America  is  individ- 
ualistic to  the  core.  To  verify  this  state- 
ment, one  has  only  to  separate  the 
workman,  the  manager,  the  minister,  or 
the  politician  from  his  material  necessi- 
ties for  the  time  being.  These  people 
have  private  opinions  which  to  a  great 
extent,  and  very  naturally,  wait  upon 
their  necessities .  Questioning  these  men 
at  work  or  in  business,  in  nine  cases  out 
of  ten  we  find  them  to  be  individual- 
ists at  heart,  but  in  the  waiting  stage. 
Some  day  they  expect  to  be  able  to  live 
up  to  their  private  opinions.  The 
prospects  of  democracy  in  America 
are  stowed  away  in  this  significant 
state  of  affairs. 

Meanwhile  conditions  are  improving 


universally,  incessantly,  and  private 
opinion  in  places  is  coming  cautiously 
out  of  its  retirement.  It  works  psycho- 
logically. It  is  forever  biding  its  time. 
It  comes  forward,  settles  a  question, 
and  goes  into  hiding  again.  Sooner  or 
later  emergency  calls  upon  it  to  come 
to  the  rescue,  and  then  it  is  always  dis- 
covered that  these  inner  promptings 
and  instincts  are,  after  all,  the  arbiters 
and  shapers  of  the  national  destiny. 

The  awakening  of  private  opinion 
to  a  sense  of  its  responsibility  for  the 
behavior  and  character  of  the  units  of 
society,  at  the  present  day,  is  unmis- 
takable. People  in  America  have  come 
to  that  point  in  their  history  when  they 
can  actually  afford  to  pause  and  give 
much  thought  to  fundamentals  and  to 
the  significance  of  current  events  in  re- 
lation to  them. 

Regardless  of  politics  and  wages, 
people  are  now  finding  time  to  talk 
about  individuality  and  Socialism  in 
relation  to  efficiency  in  schools,  in 
business  life,  in  religion,  and  in  indus- 
try. They  are  beginning  to  see  the  in- 
consistency of  preaching  one  thing  and 
practicing  another.  Against  the  cur- 
rent of  their  inner  wishes  they  are  be- 
ing driven  by  public  opinion  toward 
Socialism,  while  at  the  same  time, 
prompted  by  private  opinion,  they 
continue  to  glorify  the  American  stand- 
ard-bearers who  in  the  past  have  con- 
ducted the  democratic  principle  from 
pinnacle  to  pinnacle  of  achievement. 
Cutting  loose  from  the  tyranny  of  their 
present  environment,  some  of  them, 
once  in  a  while,  perhaps,  may  even 
open  their  Shakespeares  and  read :  — 

'  What  a  piece  of  work  is  a  man !  how 
noble  in  reason  !  how  infinite  in  faculty! 
in  form  and  moving  how  express  and 
admirable!  in  action  how  like  an  angel! 
in  apprehension  how  like  a  God ! ' 

To  the  average  reader  this  recital  of 
human  possibilities  should  be  extremely 
satisfactory.  But  from  this  prospect, 


582 


SOCIALISM  AND   NATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


if  he  turns  to  his  socialistic  programme, 
this  spiritual  panorama  will  at  once 
lose  its  significance.  What  indeed  has 
Socialism  to  do  with  infinite  faculties? 
No  stunted  growth  can  ever  be  ex- 
pected to  climb  these  heights  and  work 
out  this  splendid  vision.  For  after  all 
has  been  said,  civilization  in  every  age 
must  stand  the  spiritual  test.  'With- 
out soul  man  is  common,  with  it  he  is 
distinct.  In  art,  it  gives  him  tempera- 
ment, in  faith,  insight  into  the  divine.' 
Socialism  avoids,  because  it  cannot 
stand,  this  spiritual  test.  It  reaches 
out  sometimes  laterally,  for  the  most 
part  downwards.  Individualism,  on  the 
other  hand,  has  its  eye  fixed  on  the  hori- 
zon. It  makes  no  apology  for  its  ideal- 
ism. It  points  the  way  to  the  stars. 

But  to  the  everyday  citizen,  as  well 
as  to  the  student  of  affairs,  the  contrast 
between  Socialism  and  individualism 
should  not  merely  be  a  recital  of  un- 
derlying principles.  From  their  spirit- 
ual aspects  one  turns  to  their  practical 
and  workable  properties.  While  in  the 
opinion  of  the  writer,  individualism  as 
a  working  force  in  the  natural  evolu- 
tion of  society  is  bound  to  reassume  its 
intrinsic  importance,  there  are,  never- 
theless, a  number  of  practical  issues 
in  the  situation  at  the  present  day  that 
must,  in  the  mean  time,  be  diligently 
sifted  and  discussed. 

As  it  appears  to  the  writer  of  this 
article,  then,  Socialism  takes  issue  with 
efficiency  in  modern  society  in  three 
very  distinctive  ways.  It  attacks  the 
character  and  competency  of  the  work- 
ing classes,  crippling  the  manager  and 
the  employee,  cheapening  religion,  and 
finally  materializing  the  ideals  of  the 
people  as  a  whole.  A  somewhat  dis- 
cursive treatment  of  these  topics  is  un- 
avoidable. 

ii 

To  begin  with,  the  individualist  ac- 
knowledges the  tremendous  importance 


of  the  social  and  industrial  problems, 
in  the  solution  of  which  the  public 
mind  is  now  so  seriously  and  unceas- 
ingly interested.  During  the  past  few 
years  great  advance  has  been  made  in 
the  practical  application  of  social  sci- 
ence in  its  various  phases.  In  times  past, 
the  science  itself  was  supposed  by  peo- 
ple in  general  to  be  very  indefinite  in  its 
meaning  and  application.  It  is  now 
recognized  as  a  practical  living  science, 
whose  function  it  is  to  report,  in  de- 
finite and  scientific  terms,  on  the  ways 
and  means  by  which  civilization  in  the 
future  shall  be  steered  and  encouraged. 

In  the  working-out  of  these  problems, 
both  social  and  industrial,  individual- 
ism is  profoundly  and  rightfully  inter- 
ested. It  must  be  clearly  understood, 
however,  that  the  individualist  at  the 
present  day  is  neither  narrow-minded 
nor  intolerant.  He  recognizes  the  fact 
that  progress  depends  upon  compro- 
mise and  the  clashing  of  opinions,  con- 
sequently he  claims  kinship  with  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  as  well  as 
representation  in  every  phase  of  our 
advancing  civilization.  Individualism, 
then,  is  by  no  means  a  nostrum  or  a 
panacea.  It  is  not  a  platform  with  a 
dozen  planks  for  the  guidance  of  poli- 
ticians or  legislatures.  It  is  simply 
a  personal  campaign,  universal  in  its 
scope,  that  is  carried  on  for  the  purpose 
of  defining  and  regulating  the  relation- 
ship that  should  exist  and  be  main- 
tained between  vital  principles  and 
conditions  of  living.  In  other  words, 
individualism  is  the  leaven  in  human 
society  that  dignifies  labor,  that  dis- 
tinguishes art  from  imitation,  litera- 
ture from  scribbling,  and  religion  from 
a  habit.  Lacking  its  recognition  and 
influence,  human  effort  of  every  de- 
scription becomes  stale,  flat,  and  un- 
profitable. 

With  this  honesty  of  purpose  and 
breadth  of  view,  it  follows  that  the  in- 
dividualist at  times  finds  himself  in 


SOCIALISM  AND  NATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


583 


agreement  with  the  Socialist.  In  many 
directions  he  frankly  recognizes  the 
necessity  of  collective  methods  and  ac- 
tion; nevertheless,  through  all  and  over 
all,  he  has  his  own  peculiar  interests 
at  stake,  which  he  proposes  to  cham- 
pion and  which  he  is  convinced  the 
American  people^are  not  yet,  by  any 
means,  willing  to  overlook  or  resign. 

Now,  the  distinguishing  character- 
istic of  hosts  of  thoughtful  and  pro- 
gressive people  nowadays  is  mental 
receptiveness.  While  to  a  great  extent 
the  minds  of  these  people  are  centred 
on  problems  relating  to  social  and  in- 
dustrial conditions,  there  are  really 
few  fixed  principles  or  ideas  of  progress 
which  they  now  implicitly  believe  in, 
or  are  determined  resolutely  to  defend. 
From  every  conceivable  point  of  view 
they  have  studied  the  situation,  and  in- 
numerable weak  spots  relating  to  faith 
and  works  have  been  discovered.  Sum- 
ming up,  these  thoughtful,  progressive, 
and  successful  people  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  most  of  their  old-time 
ideas  and  principles  are  not  so  much 
out  of  place  or  unimportant  as  out  of 
order.  That  there  is  certainly  some- 
thing very  significant  and  very  inspir- 
ing in  the  old-time  methods  and  stand- 
ards by  means  of  which  they  themselves 
climbed  the  thorny  road  to  material 
and  spiritual  success,  they  are  willing 
to  admit;  but  prosperity  and  other 
influences  have  changed  and,  as  tit 
were,  softened  their  understanding  of 
the  laws  of  progress,  and  they  are  now 
coming  round  to  the  idea  that  these 
principles,  so  satisfactory  in  their  own 
cases,  cannot  and  must  not  be  applied 
to  the  situation  as  it  now  confronts 
them  in  the  twentieth  century.  That  is 
to  say,  at  this  point  public  and  private 
opinion  break  ranks  and  adopt  opposing 
theories  of  progress. 

Consequently,  while  unavoidably 
congratulating  themselves  on  their  own 
personal  work  and  the  achievement 


connected  with  it,  these  thoughtful 
and  successful  people,  in  alliance  with 
masses  of  comparatively  unsuccessful 
people,  are  now  busily  racking  their 
brains  in  an  effort  to  devise  ways  and 
means  to  enable  the  present  and  future 
generations  to  climb  the  same  ladder 
and  secure  the  same  satisfactory  results 
in  a  quicker,  easier,  and  withal  hi  a 
more  scientific  manner. 

Beating  about  the  bush  in  this  way, 
and  bringing  their  theories  and  con- 
clusions into  contact  with  conditions 
as  they  are  to-day  in  the  social  and  in- 
dustrial world,  Americans  of  the  most 
thoughtful  type  and  of  the  most  suc- 
cessful class  have  put  and  are  putting 
aside  their  defensive  armor,  consisting 
for  the  most  part  of  logical  conclusions 
derived  from  the  past,  and  are  now 
freely  assimilating  a  new  order  of  ideas 
and  impressions  which  they  propose 
to  put  into  practical  operation  in  the 
different  branches  of  social  and  indus- 
trial service.  These  people  have  not 
openly  joined  the  ranks  of  the  Social- 
ists, but  they  are  continually  borrowing 
from  their  platform. 

The  general  policy  of  this  widespread 
movement  in  modern  society  is  dis- 
tinctly socialistic  in  its  nature.  Practi- 
cally speaking,  it  is  a  movement  for  the 
improvement  of  conditions  at  the  ex- 
pense of  principles.  Called  upon  to  ex- 
press itself  definitely  in  legislation  and 
otherwise,  it  is  now  giving  the  country 
to  understand  that  under  stress  of  un- 
satisfactory social,  industrial,  and  men- 
tal conditions,  the  hitherto  generally 
accepted  fundamentals  of  progressive 
and  healthy  civilization  must,  for  the 
present  at  any  rate,  go  by  the  board. 

But  there  is  a  strange  delusion  con- 
nected with  this  socialistic  movement 
for  the  regeneration  of  human  society. 
The  Socialists  and  their  assistants 
propose  to  accomplish  their  ends  in 
general  by  the  restriction  of  individual 
initiative,  and  by  abolishing  private 


584 


SOCIALISM  AND  NATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


property  and  the  existing  competitive 
system.  In  other  words,  the  individual 
as  owner  and  director  of  brains  and 
property  must  go. 

But  the  Socialist  does  not  intend  to 
deprive  the  individual  and  his  work  of 
a  certain  face  value.  His  virtues  and 
reputation  may  still  be  used  for  deco- 
rative or  descriptive  purposes;  and 
right  here  the  delusion  comes  in.  For 
in  some  mysterious  way  the  Socialist 
has  persuaded  himself  that  the  energy, 
the  inspiration,  and  the  character,  that 
are  bound  up  in  the  freedom  and  initi- 
ative of  the  individual,  are  playthings, 
over  which,  in  the  future,  his  control  is 
certain  to  be  absolute.  He  imagines 
that  these  all-necessary  and  vital  char- 
acteristics, ruthlessly  discouraged  and 
trampled  upon  by  the  terms  of  his  pre- 
sent propaganda,  will  eventually  re- 
assert themselves  and  reassume  their 
basic  importance,  under  the  stimulat- 
ing influence  of  the  socialistic  legisla- 
tion, with  which  it  is  now  proposed 
to  inoculate  the  social  and  industrial 
life  of  the  nation. 

Applied  to  the  rest  of  the  world  and 
to  the  measures  people  in  general  are 
compelled  to  take  to  improve  condi- 
tions, this  contention  or  prophecy  is 
absolutely  correct,  that  is  to  say,  pri- 
vate opinion  is  bound,  sooner  or  later, 
to  straighten  things  out;  but  applied  to 
the  Socialist  and  his  programme,  it  is 
a  ridiculous  delusion.  For  the  rest  of 
the  world  has  a  deep-down  private 
opinion  with  a  spiritual  background,  — 
the  Socialist  has  nothing  of  the  kind. 
He  has  a  bill  of  fare,  but  no  conscience 
in  the  spiritual  sense,  for  a  conscience 
is  the  seat  of  the  competitive  method, 
and  breeds  all  sort  of  individualisms. 
The  Socialist  has  little  faith  in  spirit- 
ual direction  and  solution  of  practical 
problems.  His  mind  runs  unswervingly 
in  the  rut  of  material  conditions.  His 
social  and  industrial  eggs  are  all  de- 
posited in  one  material  basket,  conse- 


quently he  cannot  anticipate  either 
assistance  or  results  in  the  future  from 
influences  which  he  has  consistently 
scorned  in  the  past. 

Furthermore,  a  brief  consideration 
of  results  already  accomplished,  and 
of  tendencies  and  indications  which, 
under  socialistic  treatment,  are  even 
now,  here  and  there,  coming  to  the  sur- 
face, should  be  sufficient  to  dispel  any 
lingering  doubts  on  this  subject. 

For  one  thing,  it  is  absolutely  fatal 
to  good  government,  as  well  as  to  hu- 
man progress  in  general,  to  separate  the 
individual  from  his  personal  responsi- 
bility. The  substitution  of  collective 
interest  and  responsibility  for  personal 
responsibility  and  personal  interest  in 
a  business  establishment,  on  a  railroad, 
or  in  human  affairs  of  any  description, 
must  always  be  looked  upon  as  a  change 
for  the  worse.  Applied  to  society,  it  is 
simply  a  return  to  the  principle  of  the 
soulless  corporation.  Yet  this  is  the 
central  idea  of  the  up-to-date  doctrine 
and  programme  of  the  Socialist.  For 
the  Socialists,  the  labor-unions,  and 
their  sympathizers,  are  now  saying  to 
American  workers  in  general,  and  to 
railroad  men  in  particular,  to  the  men 
in  the  shops  and  in  the  offices  as  well 
as  to  those  on  the  road,  — 

'Exchange  your  individuality  for  your 
pay-roll  and  your  conditions.  Take 
no  thought  for  the  morrow.  Look  to 
your  unions  and  to  society  for  every- 
thing. Society  is  getting  ready  in  boun- 
tiful measures  to  pension  your  veter- 
ans, to  recompense  you  for  injuries,  to 
surround  you  with  a  healthy  and  com- 
fortable environment,  and  to  see  to  it 
that  you  are  well  clad,  well  fed,  and  well 
housed,  and  that  your  religion  even  is 
adapted  and  made  to  harmonize  with 
your  socialistic  or  unionized  condition. 
All  this  and  more  of  a  similar  and  praise- 
worthy nature  is  to  be  secured  on  the 
distinct  understanding  that  you  must 
not  interfere  with  these  plans  of  the 


SOCIALISM  AND  NATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


585 


Socialists,  of  your  uniyns  and  of  society 
in  your  behalf,  by  taking  any  personal 
share  or  responsibility  in  the  proceed- 
ings. Society  is  willing  to  shoulder  all 
the  risk  and  take  all  the  responsibility.' 


in 

To  a  considerable  extent  this  may 
truthfully  be  said  to  be  a  fair  concep- 
tion of  the  trend  of  affairs  in  modern 
industrial  life.  The  Massachusetts 
Commission  on  Compensation  for 
Industrial  Accidents  gives  us  an  illus- 
tration of  the  abandonment  of  per- 
sonal responsibility  and  interest  in  a 
proposed  'Compensation  Act,'  which 
provides  compensation  in  cases  of  ac- 
cidents to  employees.  Recovery  is  to 
be  allowed  in  all  cases  from  the  em- 
ployer, irrespective  of  negligence.  The 
entire  responsibility  is  to  be  placed 
upon  the  employer,  without  qualifica- 
tion, and  the  employee  is  expressly 
prohibited  from  contributing  in  any 
way  toward  providing  a  fund  for  his 
own  protection. 

These  ideas  and  measures,  tending 
to  separate  the  individual  from  his 
personal  responsibility,  have  taken  a 
very  practical  turn  on  the  railroads  of 
the  country.  Here,  as  perhaps  nowhere 
else,  can  the  elimination  of  personal 
responsibility  be  studied  in  the  light 
of  results  that  are  being  meted  out  to 
the  public  every  day  in  terms  of  acci- 
dents and  destruction  of  property.  In 
face  of  all  manner  of  safeguards  and 
systems  of  discipline,  the  general  posi- 
tion that  a  man  is  not  personally  re- 
sponsible for  mistakes  and  negligence 
is  becoming  more  and  more  evident. 
The  history  of  the  railroad  business, 
and  of  public  opinion  in  relation  to  it, 
goes  to  show  that  if  a  mistake  is  made 
it  is  not  the  man,  but  the  conditions, 
that  are  to  blame  for  it.  The  cure  is 
supposed  to  consist  in  making  the 
worker  healthier,  wealthier,  and  happi- 


er, and  in  removing  opportunity  and 
temptation  from  his  path.  In  this  way, 
personal  responsibility  in  American 
industrial  life  is  resolving  itself  into 
something  that  resembles  a  hunt  for 
germs. 

Some  time  ago  a  sort  of  symposium 
of  the  opinion  of  railroad  managers  on 
the  subject  was  printed  in  the  Railway 
Age  Gazette.  No  names  were  signed 
to  the  opinions,  so  these  opinions  are 
all  the  more  likely  to  be  truthful  and 
accurate.  The  conclusions  of  the  great 
majority  of  these  men  were  voiced  as 
follows :  — 

'  The  efficiency  of  labor  on  railroads 
is  decreasing  because  the  individual 
is  losing  his  identity  and  becoming 
a  mere  unit  in  an  organization.  The 
men  have  shown  no  spirit  towards  in- 
creasing their  own  efficiency;  higher 
pay  seems  to  result  in  lower  efficiency, 
both  actually  and  per  dollar  of  pay; 
and  they  resent  bonus  methods,  the 
piece-work  system,  and  other  plans  de- 
signed to  obtain  higher  efficiency.' 

This  state  of  affairs  illustrates  the 
sacrifice  of  principles  for  conditions. 
Look  where  we  will,  in  labor  organiza- 
tions and  elsewhere,  this  is  the  game 
that  is  universally  being  played  by 
Socialism  and  the  Socialist,  and  the 
results  of  the  campaign  are  by  no  means 
confined  to  the  rank  and  file  of  the 
workers.  The  employer,  the  manager, 
and  the  politician,  are  all  more  or  less 
entangled  in  the  meshes  of  this  basic 
industrial  understanding.  Consequent- 
ly, and  mysteriously  here  and  there, 
we  find  the  employer  and  the  Socialist 
pulling  together  in  the  same  direction. 
To  account  for  this  we  must  bear  in 
mind  the  menace  of  the  politician  at 
the  present  day,  and  the  tyranny  of 
the  manipulated  labor  vote.  On  the 
workingman  as  well  as  on  the  man- 
ager and  the  employer  the  general  ef- 
fect of  this  social  and  industrial  under- 
standing is  the  same.  It  standardizes 


586 


SOCIALISM  AND  NATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


their  movements,  limits  their  mental 
output,  and  tends  to  obliterate  their 
personality. 

Just  how  this  matter  is  looked  upon 
by  men  of  wide  influence  and  know- 
ledge of  industrial  life  at  the  present 
day,  makes  interesting  reading.  One 
of  these  well-informed  observers  has 
this  to  say  on  the  subject:  — 

'No  one  is  so  well  informed  as  the 
railroad  president  or  manager  on  this 
socialistic  trend  in  modern  industrial 
life.  In  every  guise,  subtly  or  bluntly, 
the  schemes  of  Socialism  confront  and 
perplex  us.  Forced  by  circumstances 
to  deal  with  single  concrete  cases,  we 
can  do  little  to  fend  off  the  socialistic 
programme  as  a  whole.  At  times  still 
more  regrettable,  it  is  our  inevitable 
lot  to  side  with  communistic  proposals, 
lest  a  worse  befall.  Under  pressure  of 
this  kind  we  are  continually  called  upon 
to  recognize,  and  even  at  times  to  pre- 
scribe, all  sorts  of  "drowsy  syrups  of 
the  east"  to  put  individual  initiative 
and  responsibility  to  sleep.  From  above 
and  below,  this  indiscriminate  assault 
on  principles  in  favor  of  conditions 
continues  to  perplex  the  employer  and 
manager.  Certain  extensions  of  the 
power  of  the  Interstate  Commerce 
Commission,  for  example,  while  admit- 
tedly hampering  the  free  play  of  indi- 
vidualism and  tending  unmistakably 
towards  inefficiency  of  service,  were 
favored  by  the  railroads  as  against 
heterogeneous  regulations  that  the  sev- 
eral states  might  impose.' 

Face  to  face  with  problems  relating 
to  the  public  interests,  and  to  efficiency 
of  service  from  the  national  standpoint, 
brought  about  by  the  socialistic  trend 
of  labor  organizations  and  the  labor 
vote  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  perplex- 
ities of  the  employer  and  the  manager 
on  the  other,  the  federal  government, 
taking  the  bull  by  the  horns,  is  now 
assuming  the  control  and  direction  of 
affairs.  The  policy  of  the  government 


is  summed  up  in  the  single  word  regu- 
lation. Just  what  this  word  means, 
and  its  method  of  application,  has  been 
strikingly  enunciated  by  ex-President 
Roosevelt,  in  an  article  which  was  pub- 
lished a  short  time  ago  in  the  Outlook. 
In  regard  to  the  efficiency  of  labor, 
Mr.  Roosevelt  has  taken  his  stand  as 
follows :  — , 

'  He,  the  workingman,  ought  to  join 
with  his  fellows  in  a  union,  or  in  some 
similar  association  for  mutual  help  and 
betterment,  and  in  that  association  he 
should  strive  to  raise  higher  his  less 
competent  brothers;  but  he  should  pos- 
itively decline  to  allow  himself  to  be 
dragged  down  to  their  level,  and  if  he 
does  thus  permit  himself  to  be  dragged 
down  the  penalty  is  the  loss  of  indi- 
vidual, of  class,  and  finally  of  national 
efficiency.' 

Now,  whether  generally  understood 
or  not,  this  leveling  process  which  Mr. 
Roosevelt  so  emphatically  condemns 
is  written  either  by  implication  or  ac- 
tual affirmation  into  the  constitution 
of  practically  every  labor  union  and 
socialistic  platform  in  the  country.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  however,  Mr.  Roosevelt 
not  only  detects  these  indications  of 
social  and  industrial  paralysis,  but  con- 
fidently points  to  the  remedy.  He  af- 
firms, — 

'  We  should  consistently  favor  labor 
organizations  when  they  act  well,  and 
as  fearlessly  oppose  them  when  they 
act  badly.  I  wish  to  see  labor  organiza- 
tions powerful;  and  the  minute  that 
any  organization  becomes  powerful,  it 
becomes  powerful  for  evil  as  well  as 
for  good;  and  when  organized  labor 
becomes  sufficiently  powerful  the  state 
will  have  to  regulate  the  collective  use  of 
labor,  just  as  it  must  regulate  the  col- 
lective use  of  capital.' 

The  italics  are  the  present  writer's. 
Mr.  Roosevelt,  however,  is  clearly 
reckoning  without  his  host.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  neither  the  socialistic  pro- 


SOCIALISM  AND  NATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


587 


paganda  nor  the  organization  or  prin- 
ciples of  union  labor  are  amenable  to 
state  or  any  other  regulation.  True,  you 
may  bring  the  industrial  horse  to  this 
particular  brook,  but  you  cannot  force 
him  to  drink.  The  state  can  regulate 
the  railroad,  the  capitalist,  and  the 
manager,  because  it  can  block  their 
progress  and  compel  them  to  do  as  the 
law  directs  in  their  public  capacities  as 
caterers  to  the  public  service.  But  the 
teachings  of  Socialism  and  the  unwrit- 
ten laws  and  influences  of  organized 
labor  are  not  subject  to  legislation  of 
any  kind.  The  leveling  process  in 
modern  industry,  the  blocking  of  indi- 
vidual ambition  and  initiative,  and  the 
elimination  of  personal  responsibility, 
are  beyond  the  reach  of  human  laws. 

As  Mr.  Roosevelt  correctly  affirms, 
these  influences  threaten  the  founda- 
tion of  national  efficiency.  At  this 
problem  of  national  efficiency  the  writer 
of  this  article  has  from  the  beginning 
leveled  his  arguments  and  illustrations. 
As  he  looks  at  it,  Socialism  and  nation- 
al inefficiency  are  synonymous.  Some 
of  the  dangerous  tendencies  that  threat- 
en society  in  this  respect  have  been 
noted.  But,  contrary  to  Mr.  Roosevelt's 
ideas  on  the  subject,  the  remedy  must 
come  from  within,  and  not  from  with- 
out. The  key  to  the  situation  lies  in  the 
inevitable  outbreak  of  what  is  at  pre- 
sent latent  private  opinion.  The  reality 
of  this  force  at  the  root  of  American 
civilization  is  not  open  to  doubt.  Among 
the  workers  themselves  it  is  awake  and 
awakening.  To  think  that  any  class 
in  the  community,  with  the  exception 
of  the  most  radical  socialists,  will  con- 
sent in  the  long  run  to  national  inef- 
ficiency, is  the  height  of  absurdity.  The 
question  now  remains,  in  what  man- 
ner and  along  what  lines  can  Socialism 
best  be  discredited,  and  the  universal 
private  opinion  on  the  subject  be 
aroused  to  a  proper  appreciation  of  its 
impending  duties. 


rv 

But  before  a  final  word  is  said  on 
the  nature  and  efficacy  of  American 
private  opinion,  there  are  yet  one  or 
two  shafts  in  the  quiver  of  the  Socialist 
to  which  passing  attention  must  be  di- 
rected. 

For  one  thing  the  Socialist  has  no 
use  for  the  capitalist.  The  individual- 
ist, on  the  other  hand,  does  not  wish 
to  shirk  any  responsibility  in  the  mat- 
ter. He  boldly  pins  his  faith  to  the 
method  and  the  man.  He  believes  in  the 
activities  and  utilities  connected  with 
money,  when  properly  applied,  just  as 
he  believes  in  the  brains  of  the  Socialist 
when  they  are  utilized  in  a  sane  and 
conservative  manner.  Broadly  speak- 
ing, in  the  wholesale  abuse  of  the  Amer- 
ican capitalist,  public  opinion  and  the 
Socialist  join  hands.  Private  opinion  in 
thought,  word,  and  deed  does  nothing 
of  the  kind.  For  the  capitalist  idea  is 
born  with  every  human  creature.  It  is 
at  the  root  of  every  known  and  ap- 
proved educational  and  civilizing  pro- 
cess. Every  man,  woman,  or  child, 
including  Socialists,  who  is  not  a  capit- 
alist, in  thought,  word,  and  deed,  is  a  so- 
cial failure.  A  capitalist,  of  course,  is 
not  only  a  banker,  a  mill-owner,  or  an 
employer  of  groups  of  working  people; 
he  represents,  in  fact,  the  accumulating 
and  distributing  process  by  means  of 
which  in  times  past,  as  well  as  to-day, 
fabulous  fortunes,  the  wonders  of  en- 
gineering skill,  the  progress  of  indus- 
try and  art,  as  well  as  all  that  is  best 
in  national  thought  and  sympathy,  to- 
gether with  many  great  social  wrongs, 
of  course,  have  been  brought  into  being, 
kept  alive,  and  encouraged. 

In  dealing  with  the  capitalist  prin- 
ciple, however,  you  cannot  separate 
the  man  from  the  process.  It  is  im- 
possible to  cut  the  capitalist  or  the 
competitive  principle  into  fractions.  To 
encourage  industry,  thrift,  and  honor- 


588 


SOCIALISM  AND  NATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


able  emulation  in  the  young,  and  then 
refuse  to  manhood  their  natural  ex- 
ercise and  remuneration  is  the  height 
of  social  and  economic  absurdity.  To 
destroy  the  one  is  to  uproot  the  other. 
As  the  individualist  looks  at  it,  then, 
the  capitalist  principle  covers  the 
earth,  upon  the  whole,  with  beneficent 
influence. 

The  capitalist  and  the  competitive 
system,  of  course,  go  hand  in  hand. 
Basking  in  the  sun  of  unprecedented 
success  in  every  branch  of  human  en- 
deavor, the  present  generation  is  apt 
to  lose  sight  of  the  aggressive  nature 
of  the  socialist  campaign  in  America. 
The  Socialist  is  the  most  aggressive 
factor  in  modern  society,  yet  he  scorns 
the  competitive  method.  He  poses  as 
a  lover  of  peace;  he  believes  in  coopera- 
tion, particularly  among  those  who 
accept  the  principles  of  Socialism.  He 
bows  to  the  majority,  although  he  at- 
taches very  little  significance  to  ma- 
jority verdicts  when  they  are  not  in  his 
favor.  As  a  rule,  he  believes  in  peace- 
ful methods  of  adjusting  difficulties 
and  securing  reforms.  When  unable 
to  make  his  point  however,  or  when  he 
is  defeated  at  the  polls,  he  usually  as- 
sumes a  Micawber-like  attitude.  He  is 
willing  to  wait  for  something  to  turn 
up,  —  until  the  intelligence  of  the  peo- 
ple, for  example,  is  able  to  grasp  and 
comprehend  the  beatitudes  contain- 
ed in  his  principles  and  programmes. 
The  attitude  of  Socialists  all  over  the 
world  toward  the  matter  of  war  be- 
tween nations  is  generally  understood. 
The  party  is  receiving  considerable 
credit  for  this  attitude.  Socialists 
would  have  peace  at  any  price.  But, 
although  the  principle  is  the  same,  and 
the  profit-and-loss  is  at  times  some- 
what similar,  industrial  peace  does  not 
seem  to  appeal  to  them  in  the  same 
way. 

At  the  recent  International  Con- 
gress of  the  Socialists,  held  in  Copen- 


hagen, Denmark,  the  proposition  to 
resort  to  a  universal  strike  in  the  event 
of  war  was  seriously  considered  and 
finally  given  to  the  International  Bu- 
reau to  be  studied  and  inquired  into. 
This  congress,  representing  many  mil- 
lions of  able-bodied  men,  took  a  very 
strong  position  in  favor  of  stopping 
war  by  every  means. 

Standing  by  itself,  the  position  of  So- 
cialism in  regard  to  these  modern  wars 
and  armaments  is  entirely  commend- 
able. Cooperation,  brotherly  love,  and 
sufferance  have  their  place  in  modern 
society,  and  glorious  missions  at  that; 
nevertheless,  above  all  and  through  all, 
from  the  progressive  point  of  view, 
the  most  indispensable,  perhaps  the 
greatest,  thing  in  the  world  is  simply 
friction.  Humanly  speaking,  the  prin- 
ciple spreads  itself  out  into  all  manner 
of  life-giving,  life-energizing  undertak- 
ings. All  life  seems  to  have  some  kind 
of  a  frictional  outset.  At  this  point 
the  competitive  system  of  the  universe 
begins  its  career.  The  competitive,  the 
aggressive  principle  is  simply  the  grow- 
ing principle;  and  in  these  days  when 
so  much  that  is  vital  to  the  commun- 
ity is  being  sacrificed  for  the  sake  of 
harmony,  and  when  the  Socialist  is 
making  so  much  capital  out  of  his  paci- 
fic doctrines,  a  few  additional  words 
on  the  nature  of  competition  and  its 
significance  will  not  be  out  of  place. 

Contention  of  every  kind  is,  of  course, 
a  matter  of  degree  and  method.  A  fight 
may  be  the  outcome  of  greed,  hatred, 
or  love.  True,  there  is  a  kind  of  person 
who  has  no  use  for  competition  or  a 
row  in  any  form,  and  by  the  way,  you 
cannot  have  the  former  without  a  sprin- 
kling of  the  latter,  for  the  very  good  rea- 
son that  probably  ninety-five  per  cent 
of  the  people  one  meets  on  the  street, 
Socialists  included,  have  this  competi- 
tive and  aggressive  spirit  tucked  away 
and  in  tapable  form  somewhere  in 
their  anatomies.  But  here  again,  and 


SOCIALISM  AND  NATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


589 


in  a  marked  degree,  public  and  private 
opinion  are  usually  opposed  to  each 
other.  Private  opinion  is  continually 
projecting  peaceful  methods  and  ideas 
into  the  future. 

The  individualist,  however,  merges 
a  good  deal  of  his  idealism  in  the  stern 
logic  of  things  as  they  are  and  as  they 
have  been.  If  we  allow  the  history  of  in- 
dividuals or  of  the  race  to  speak  for  it- 
self, it  will  inform  us  that  progress  on 
the  whole  is  the  result  of  positive  and 
negative  human  batteries.  In  order  to 
start  human  activity  of  any  kind,  a  nat- 
ural contention  between  the'  elements 
is  absolutely  essential.  It  remains  for 
us  to  guide  and  humanize  the  activities 
without  destroying  the  competitive 
nature  of  the  human  battery. 

The  individualist  makes  no  apology 
for  war  under  any  pretense.  He  would 
do  away  with  it  now  and  forever.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  individualist  is  in- 
herently more  pacific  than  the  Socialist, 
in  the  same  way  and  somewhat  for  the 
same  reason  that  an  individual  is  usu- 
ally less  excitable  than  a  crowd.  As  for 
the  past,  the  individualist  can  neither 
defend  the  principle  of  war  nor  account 
for  its  persistent  manifestation  in  every 
age  and  in  almost  every  country  unless 
he  looks  upon  it  as  a  relic  of  barbarism, 
destined  to  be  obliterated,  as  in  fact 
it  is  being  obliterated,  with  the  gradual 
disappearance  of  barbaric  ideas.  To 
give  an  intelligent  reason  for  warfare  in 
ages  gone  by,  it  would  certainly  be 
necessary  to  fathom  and  to  be  versed 
in  the  psychology  of  the  barbaric  mind. 
This  is  beyond  the  ken  or  the  reach  of 
the  historian.  But  in  defending  the 
competitive  method  as  a  whole,  it  is 
pardonable  for  the  individualist  to  take 
note  of  some  of  the  compensations 
which  seem  to  have  accompanied  the 
history  of  warfare  in  all  ages. 

For  one  thing,  successful  warfare  is 
at  all  times  a  personal  matter.  Thus 
a  nation  is  successful  in  war,  not  alto- 


gether because  of  its  well-planned  col- 
lective arrangement,  its  large  army  and 
navy,  or  even  because  its  soldiers  and 
sailors  are  particularly  well-trained, 
but  because  it  has  the  power  of  its 
manhood  and  its  fighting  blood  at  its 
back. 

The  Socialist,  of  course,  will  not  listen 
to  this  argument.  He  has  declared  war 
against  the  competitive  and  capitalist 
systems  from  beginning  to  end,  and 
the  battle  between  the  opposing  forces 
must  now  be  fought  to  a  finish  on 
competitive  planes  in  the  arena  of  life, 
by  modern  methods  of  discussion  and 
experiment. 

But  to  put  a  stop  to  war  between 
nations  is  only  an  incidental  feature  of 
the  Socialist's  programme.  He  desires 
not  only  to  eliminate  competitive  ideas 
and  methods  between  nations  and  in- 
dividuals, but  also  as  much  as  possible 
between  the  individual  and  his  environ- 
ment. Here  he  touches  the  very  heart 
of  things.  The  design  itself  in  all  its 
nakedness,  its  application,  and  manifest 
effect  on  organic  life  has  been  aptly 
illustrated  by  an  experiment  recently 
performed  by  a  German  professor, 
whose  object  was  to  investigate  the 
action  of  the  competitive  method  on 
the  organism.  It  is  not  necessary  to 
agree  with  this  professor  from  begin- 
ning to  end  in  order  to  appreciate  the 
drift  of  his  story.  The  experiment  was 
described  in  the  New  York  Herald 
somewhat  as  follows :  — 

The  professor  started  his  experiment 
with  the  idea  that  eating,  sleeping, 
love-making,  and  warfare  are  the  four 
main  physiological  actions  necessary 
for  the  maintenance  of  the  human  race 
on  this  extremely  slippery  globe.  He 
took  for  his  purpose  a  number  of  frogs 
in  the  embryo  state.  Some  of  these  he 
brought  up  in  a  sterilized  tank,  on  ster- 
ilized food,  giving  them  nothing  but 
sterilized  water  to  swim  in.  No  ills  or 
troubles  could  possibly  affect  them. 


590 


SOCIALISM  AND   NATIONAL  EFFICIENCY 


Each  could,  so  to  speak,  sit  under  his 
own  fig  tree  and  enjoy  the  fruit  of  his 
own  vineyard  without  fear  of  attack 
from  boy  or  microbe.  The  rest  of  the 
frogs  he  brought  up  in  the  natural  way, 
exposing  them  to  all  chances  and  ene- 
mies, especially  microbes.  Now,  what 
happened?  Of  the  unprotected  frogs, 
a  few  died  from  the  diseases  and  se- 
verities to  which  they  were  exposed, 
but  the  remainder  grew  up  into  fine 
healthy  frogs,  a  credit  to  their  class. 
Of  the  protected  frogs,  on  the  other 
hand,  all  grew  to  froghood,  but  they 
had  been  happier  dead,  for  they  were 
miserable  anaemic  creatures,  a  disgrace 
to  their  class.  The  former  had  been 
reared  on  the  individualistic  diet  of 
freedom  and  competition,  the  latter 
upon  the  misdirected  brotherhood  and 
protective  method  of  the  Socialist. 

Reduced  to  concrete  form,  this  illus- 
tration simply  raises  the  question  as  to 
whether  it  is  better,  healthier,  and  wiser 
that  a  given  community  should  be 
constituted  of  about  nine  hundred  and 
fifty  strenuous  individuals,  battling  in 
all  the  ups  and  downs  of  a  competitive 
system  of  progress,  or  of  one  thousand 
listless  creatures,  dreamily  satisfied  and 
inevitably  headed  towards  extinction. 

Finally,  the  individualist  does  not 
propose  silently  to  submit  to  the  dom- 
ination of  public  opinion,  political  for 
the  most  part,  in  these  matters  of  social 
and  industrial  development.  Private 
opinion  is  forever  working  out  into 
higher  standards  of  public  opinion. 
True,  Socialism  is  aggressive  and  has 
many  allies,  but  luckily  the  individual- 
ist also  is  a  born  fighter.  To  have  and 
to  hold  is  his  avowed  slogan.  The  bur- 
den of  ages  is  upon  his  back.  He  be- 
lieves that  when  men  are  as  individuals 
free  to  work,  to  earn,  to  save,  and  use 
their  earnings  as  they  see  fit,  the  cap- 
able, the  industrious,  the  temperate, 
and  the  intelligent,  everywhere  tend  to 
rise  to  prosperity.  The  real  interests 


of  society  are  bound  up,  not  so  much  in 
the  completely  conditioned  individual 
as  in  him,  in  every  walk  of  life,  'that 
overcometh.'  Working  along  these  lines 
the  individualist  has  hitherto  always 
been  looked  upon  as  the  all-necessary 
and  paramount  unit  in  social  and  in- 
dustrial progress.  To-day,  as  never  be- 
fore, he  is  called  upon  to  defend  this 
position  and  reassert  these  principles. 
National  efficiency  itself  is  at  stake. 

Among  other  characteristics  the  indi- 
vidualist has  the  plain-speaking  habit. 
Some  time  ago,  in  a  public  debate, 
Mr.  George  B.  Hugo,  president  of  the 
Employers'  Association  of  Massachu- 
setts, addressed  a  body  of  Socialists  as 
follows :  — 

'Do  you  as  Socialists,'  he  said,  'for 
one  moment  believe  that  the  unjust 
taking  or  confiscating  of  property  by 
the  simple  act  of  the  stroke  of  the  pen 
will  be  accepted  peaceably  by  individ- 
uals who  now  own  property?  Individ- 
ual freedom  and  the  private  ownership 
of  property  will  not '  be  superseded  by 
slavery  and  collective  ownership  with- 
out a  struggle.' 

Mr.  Hugo  is  right,  for  it  is  quite  as 
reprehensible  to  confiscate  the  am- 
bition of  the  worker  as  it  is  to  steal 
the  property  of  the  capitalist.  But  the 
struggle  and  the  constructive  work  in 
the  future  are  to  be  in  the  main,  and  to 
begin  with,  an  internal  movement.  It 
is  to  be  a  revolt  of  American  private 
opinion  against  Socialism  and  national 
inefficiency.  One  of  the  principal  agents 
in  this  revolt  is  likely  to  be  the  enlight- 
ened, well-paid,  well-conditioned,  arid 
well-organized  laboring  man.  Religion, 
industry,  and  political  science  are  all 
vitally  interested  in  the  leveling-up 
process.  In  reality,  they  are  all  of  one 
private  mind  on  the  subject.  The  strug- 
gle in  the  future  will  consist  in  bringing 
these  facts  to  the  surface. 

Personally,  however,  the  present 
writer  has  no  desire  —  probably  no 


THE  TWO  GENERATIONS 


591 


business  —  to  preach  a  sermon  on  the 
principles  and  prospects  of  American 
democracy.  Its  traditions  and  ante- 
cedents are  not  his.  Years  ago  he  ap- 
peared on  the  scene  like  a  ship  on  the 
horizon,  drifting  languidly  on  the  wa- 
ters, with  sails  flapping  in  a  spiritless 
breeze.  Since  then  his  opportunities 
have  been  great;  his  gratitude  is  still 
greater.  He  has  inhaled  the  democrat- 
ic atmosphere,  absorbed  what  he  con- 


sidered to  be  its  spirit,  and  appropri- 
ated to  his  own  use  what  he  could  of  its 
splendid  lessons.  In  his  opinion  it  is  no 
mean  privilege  to  be  even  heir-at-law 
to  such  a  heritage.  He  makes  no  apo- 
logy either  for  his  opinions  or  his  ego- 
tism. The  ship,  meanwhile,  sails  on, 
full-rigged  and  bountifully  freighted; 
no  longer  becalmed  but  with  a  number 
of  'bones,'  socialistic  and  otherwise, 
'in  her  teeth.' 


THE  TWO  GENERATIONS 


BY   RANDOLPH   S.  BOURNE 


IT  is  always  interesting  to  see  our- 
selves through  the  eyes  of  others,  even 
though  that  view  may  be  most  unflat- 
tering. The  recent  'Letter  to  the  Rising 
Generation,'  1  if  I  may  judge  from  the 
well-thumbed  and  underscored  copy 
of  the  Atlantic  which  I  picked  up  in  the 
College  Library,  has  been  read  with 
keen  interest  by  many  of  my  fellows, 
and  doubtless,  too,  with  a  more  em- 
phatic approval,  by  our  elders.  The 
indictment  of  an  entire  generation 
must  at  its  best  be  a  difficult  task,  but 
the  author  of  the  article  has  performed 
it  with  considerable  circumspection, 
skirting  warily  the  vague  and  the  ab- 
stract, and  passing  from  the  judge's 
bench  to  the  pulpit  with  a  facility  that 
indicates  that  justice  is  to  be  tempered 
with  mercy.  The  rather  appalling  pic- 
ture which  she  draws  of  past  genera- 
tions holding  their  breath  to  see  what 
my  contemporaries  will  make  of  them- 
selves suggests,  too,  that  we  are  still 
on  probation,  and  so  before  final  judg- 
1  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  February,  1911. 


ment  is  passed,  it  may  be  pertinent  to 
attempt,  if  not,  from  the  hopeless  na- 
ture of  the  case,  a  defense,  at  least,  an 
extenuation  of  ourselves. 

The  writer's  charge  is  pretty  definite. 
It  is  to  the  effect  that  the  rising  gener- 
ation in  its  reaction  upon  life  and  the 
splendid  world  which  has  been  handed 
down  to  it  shows  a  distinct  softening 
of  human  fibre,  spiritual,  intellectual, 
and  physical,  in  comparison  with  the 
generations  which  have  preceded  it. 
The  most  obvious  retort  to  this  is,  of 
course,  that  the  world  in  which  we  find 
ourselves  is  in  no  way  of  our  own  mak- 
ing, so  that  if  our  reactions  to  it  are  un- 
satisfactory, or  our  rebellious  attitude 
toward  it  distressing,  it  is  at  least  a 
plausible  assumption  that  the  world  it- 
self, despite  the  responsible  care  which 
the  passing  generation  bestowed  upon 
it,  may  be  partly  to  blame. 

But  this,  after  all,  is  only  begging 
the  question.  The  author  herself  ad- 
mits that  we  are  the  victims  of  educa- 
tional experiments,  and,  in  any  event, 


592 


THE  TWO   GENERATIONS 


each  generation  is  equally  guiltless  of 
its  world.  We  recognize  with  her  that 
the  complexity  of  the  world  we  face 
only  makes  more  necessary  our  brac- 
ing up  for  the  fray.  Her  charge  that 
we  are  not  doing  this  overlooks,  how- 
ever, certain  aspects  of  the  situation 
which  go  far  to  explain  our  seemingly 
deplorable  qualities. 

The  most  obvious  fact  which  pre- 
sents itself  in  this  connection  is  that 
the  rising  generation  has  practically 
brought  itself  up.  School  discipline, 
since  the  abolition  of  corporal  punish- 
ment, has  become  almost  nominal; 
church  discipline  practically  nil;  and 
even  home  discipline,  although  retain- 
ing the  forms,  is  but  an  empty  shell. 
The  modern  child  from  the  age  of  ten 
is  almost  his  own  'boss.'  The  helpless- 
ness of  the  modern  parent  face  to  face 
with  these  conditions  is  amusing.  What 
generation  but  the  one  to  which  our 
critic  belongs  could  have  conceived  of 
'mothers'  clubs '  conducted  by  the  pub- 
lic schools,  in  order  to  teach  mothers 
how  to  bring  up  their  children!  The 
modern  parent  has  become  a  sort  of 
Parliament  registering  the  decrees  of 
a  Grand  Monarque,  and  occasional- 
ly protesting,  though  usually  without 
effect,  against  a  particularly  drastic 
edict. 

I  do  not  use  this  assertion  as  a  text 
for  an  indictment  of  the  preceding 
generation;  I  am  concerned,  like  our 
critic,  only  with  results.  These  are  a 
peculiarly  headstrong  and  individualis- 
tic character  among  the  young  people, 
and  a  complete  bewilderment  on  the 
part  of  the  parents.  The  latter  frankly 
do  not  understand  their  children,  and 
their  lack  of  understanding  and  of  con- 
trol over  them  means  a  lack  of  the 
moral  guidance  which,  it  has  always 
been  assumed,  young  people  need  until 
they  are  safely  launched  in  the  world. 
The  two  generations  misunderstand 
each  other  as  they  never  <}id  before. 


This  fact  is  a  basal  one  to  any  compre- 
hension of  the  situation. 

Now  let  us  see  how  the  rising  gener- 
ation brings  itself  up.  It  is  perfectly 
true  that  the  present-day  secondary 
education,  that  curious  fragmentary 
relic  of  a  vitally  humanistic  age,  does 
not  appeal  to  them.  They  will  tell  you 
frankly  that  they  do  not  see  any  use 
in  it.  Having  brought  themselves  up, 
they  judge  utility  by  their  own  stand- 
ards, and  not  by  those  of  others.  Might 
not  the  fact  that  past  generations  went 
with  avidity  to  their  multiplication 
table,  their  Latin  grammar,  and  their 
English  Bible,  whereas  the  rising  gen- 
eration does  not,  imply  that  the  former 
found  some  intellectual  sustenance  in 
those  things  which  the  latter  fails  to 
find?  The  appearance  of  industrial  edu- 
cation on  the  field,  and  the  desperate 
attempts  of  educational  theory  to  make 
the  old  things  palatable,  which  fifty 
years  ago  were  gulped  down  raw,  ar- 
gues, too,  that  there  may  be  a  grain  of 
truth  in  our  feeling.  Only  after  a  serious 
examination  of  our  intellectual  and 
spiritual  viands  should  our  rejection 
of  them  be  attributed  to  a  disordered 
condition  of  our  stomachs. 

The  author's  charge  that  the  rising 
generation  betrays  an  extraordinary 
love  of  pleasure  is  also  true.  The  four 
years'  period  of  high-school  life  among 
the  children  of  the  comfortable  classes, 
is,  instead  of  being  a  preparation  for 
life,  literally  one  round  of  social  gay- 
ety.  But  it  is  not  likely  that  this  is 
because  former  generations  were  less 
eager  for  pleasure,  but  rather  because 
they  were  more  rigidly  repressed  by 
parents  and  custom,  while  their  energy 
was  directed  into  other  channels,  re- 
ligious, for  instance.  But  now,  with 
every  barrier  removed,  we  have  the 
unique  spectacle  of  a  youthful  society 
where  there  is  perfectly  free  inter- 
course, an  unforced  social  life  of  equals, 
jn  which  there  are  bound  to  develop 


THE  TWO   GENERATIONS 


educative  influences  of  profound  signi- 
ficance. Social  virtues  will  be  learned 
better  in  such  a  society  than  they  can 
ever  be  from  moral  precepts.  An  im- 
portant result  of  this  camaraderie  is 
that  the  boy's  and  the  girl's  attitude 
toward  life,  their  spiritual  outlook, 
has  come  to  be  the  same.  The  line  be- 
tween the  two  'spheres'  has  long  dis- 
appeared in  the  industrial  classes;  it  is 
now  beginning  to  fade  among  the  com- 
fortable classes. 

Our  critic  has  not  seen  that  this 
avidity  for  pleasure  is  a  natural  ebulli- 
tion which,  flaring  up  naturally,  within 
a  few  years  as  naturally  subsides.  It 
goes,  too,  without  that  ennui  of  over- 
stimulation;  and  the  fact  that  it  has 
been  will  relieve  us  of  the  rising  genera- 
tion from  feeling  that  envy  which  invar- 
iably creeps  into  the  tone  of  the  pass- 
ing generation  when  they  say,  '  We  did 
not  go  such  a  pace  when  we  were  young.' 
After  this  period  of  pleasure  has  begun 
to  subside,  there  ensues  for  those  who 
have  not  been  prematurely  forced  into 
industry,  a  strange  longing  for  inde- 
pendence. This  feeling  is  most  striking 
among  the  girls  of  the  rising  gener- 
ation, and  crops  up  in  the  most  unex- 
pected places,  in  families  in  the  easiest 
circumstances,  where  to  the  preceding 
generation  the  idea  of  caring  to  do 
anything  except  stay  at  home  and  get 
married,  if  possible,  would  have  been 
inconceivable.  They  want  somehow  to 
feel  that  they  are  standing  on  their 
own  feet.  Like  their  brothers,  they  be- 
gin to  chafe  under  the  tutelage,  nominal 
though  it  is,  of  the  home.  As  a  result, 
these  daughters  of  the  comfortable 
classes  go  into  trained  nursing,  an  oc- 
cupation which  twenty  years  ago  was 
deemed  hardly  respectable;  or  study 
music,  or  do  settlement  work,  or  even 
public-school  teaching.  Of  course,  girls 
who  have  had  to  earn  their  own  living 
have  long  done  these  things;  the  signi- 
ficant point  is  that  the  late  rapid  in- 
701.  W  -  ffO.  f 


crease  in  these  professions  comes  from 
those  who  have  a  comfortable  niche  in 
society  all  prepared  for  them.  I  do  not 
argue  that  this  proves  any  superior 
quality  of  character  on  the  part  of  this 
generation,  but  it  does  at  least  fail  to 
suggest  a  desire  to  lead  lives  of  ignoble 
sloth. 

The  undergraduate  feels  this  spirit, 
too.  He  often  finds  himself  vaguely 
dissatisfied  with  what  he  has  acquired, 
and  yet  does  not  quite  know  what  else 
would  have  been  better  for  him.  He 
stands  on  the  threshold  of  a  career, 
with  a  feeling  of  boundless  possibility, 
and  yet  often  without  a  decided  bent 
toward  any  particular  thing.  One  could 
do  almost  anything  were  one  given 
the  opportunity,  and  yet,  after  all, 
just  what  shall  one  do?  Our  critic  has 
some  very  hard  things  to  say  about 
this  attitude.  She  attributes  it  to  an 
egotistic  philosophy,  imperfectly  ab- 
sorbed. But  may  it  not  rather  be  the 
result  of  that  absence  of  repression  in 
our  bringing-up,  of  that  rigid  mould- 
ing which  made  our  grandfathers  what 
they  were? 

It  must  be  remembered  that  we  of 
the  rising  generation  have  to  work 
this  problem  out  all  alone.  Pastors, 
teachers,  and  parents  flutter  aimless- 
ly about  with  their  ready-made  form- 
ulas, but  somehow  these  are  less  ef- 
ficacious than  they  used  to  be.  I  doubt 
if  any  generation  was  ever  thrown 
quite  so  completely  on  its  own  re- 
sources as  ours  is.  Through  it  all,  the 
youth  as  well  as  the  girl  feels  that  he 
wants  to  count  for  something  in  life. 
His  attitude,  which  seems  so  egotistic- 
al to  his  elders,  is  the  result  of  this  and 
of  a  certain  expansive  outlook,  rather 
than  any  love  of  vain-glory.  He  has 
never  known  what  it  was  to  be  mould- 
ed, and  he  shrinks  a  little  perhaps  from 
going  through  that  process.  The  tra- 
ditional professions  have  lost  some  of 
their  automatic  appeal.  They  do  con- 


594 


ventionalize,  and  furthermore,  the 
youth,  looking  at  many  of  their  repre- 
sentatives, the  men  who  '  count '  in  the 
world  to-day,  may  be  pardoned  if  he 
feels  sometimes  as  if  he  did  not  want 
to  count  in  just  that  way.  The  youth 
'who  would  not  take  special  training 
because  it  would  interfere  with  his  sa- 
cred individuality'  is  an  unfair  carica- 
ture of  this  weighing,  testing  attitude 
toward  the  professions.  The  elder  gen- 
eration should  remember  that  it  is 
no  longer  the  charted  sea  that  it  was 
to  our  grandfathers,  and  be  accord- 
ingly lenient  with  us  of  the  rising  gen- 
eration. 

Business,  to  the  youth  standing  on 
the  threshold  of  life,  presents  a  similar 
dilemma.  Too  often  it  seems  like  a 
choice  between  the  routine  of  a  mam- 
moth impersonal  corporation,  and  chi- 
canery of  one  kind  or  another,  or  the 
living  by  one's  wits  within  the  pale  of 
honesty.  The  predatory  individualist, 
the '  hard-as-nails '  specimen,  does  exist, 
of  course,  but  we  are  justified  in  ignor- 
ing him  here;  for,  however  much  his 
tribe  may  increase,  it  is  certain  that  it 
will  not  be  his  kind,  but  the  more 
spiritually  sensitive,  the  amorphous 
ones  of  the  generation,  who  will  im- 
press some  definite  character  upon  the 
age,  and  ultimately  count  for  good  or 
evil,  as  a  social  force.  With  these  latter, 
it  should  be  noted,  that,  although  this 
is  regarded  as  a  mercenary  age,  the 
question  of  gain,  to  an  increasingly 
large  number,  has  little  to  do  with  the 
final  decision. 

The  economic  situation  in  which  we 
find  ourselves,  and  to  which  not  only 
the  free,  of  whom  we  have  been  speak- 
ing, but  also  the  unfree  of  the  rising 
generation  are  obliged  to  react,  is  per- 
haps the  biggest  factor  in  explaining 
our  character.  In  this  reaction  the 
rising  generation  has  a  very  real  feeling 
of  coming  straight  up  against  a  wall  of 
diminishing  opportunity.  I  do  not  see 


how  it  can  be  denied  that  practical  op- 
portunity is  less  for  this  generation 
than  it  has  been  for  those  preceding 
it.  The  man  of  fifty  years  ago,  if  he  was 
intellectually  inclined,  was  able  to  get 
his  professional  training  at  small  ex- 
pense, and  usually  under  the  personal 
guidance  of  his  elders;  if  commercially 
inclined,  he  could  go  into  a  small,  settled, 
self-respecting  business  house,  practi- 
cally a  profession  in  itself  and  a  real 
school  of  character.  If  he  had  a  broader 
outlook,  there  was  the  developing  West 
for  him,  or  the  growing  industrialism 
of  the  East.  It  looks,  at  least  from  this 
distance,  as  if  opportunity  were  easy 
for  that  generation.  They  had  the 
double  advantage  of  being  more  cir- 
cumscribed in  their  outlook,  and  of 
possessing  more  ready  opportunity  at 
hand. 

But  these  times  have  passed  for- 
ever. Nowadays,  professional  training 
is  lengthy  and  expensive;  independent 
business  requires  big  capital  for  suc- 
cess; and  there  is  no  more  West.  It 
is  still  as  true  as  ever  that  the  excep- 
tional man  will  always  'get  there,'  but 
now  it  is  likely  to  be  only  the  excep- 
tional man,  whereas  formerly  all  the 
able  'got  there,'  too.  The  only  choice 
for  the  vast  majority  of  the  young  men 
of  to-day  is  between  being  swallowed 
up  in  the  routine  of  a  big  corporation, 
and  experiencing  the  vicissitudes  of  a 
small  business,  which  is  now  an  uncer- 
tain, rickety  affair,  usually  living  by 
its  wits,  in  the  hands  of  men  who  are 
forced  to  subordinate  everything  to 
self-preservation,  and  in  which  the 
employee's  livelihood  is  in  constant 
jeopardy.  The  growing  consciousness 
of  this  situation  explains  many  of  the 
peculiar  characteristics  of  our  genera- 
tion. 

It  has  a  direct  bearing  on  the  question 
of  responsibility.  Is  it  not  sound  doc- 
trine that  one  becomes  responsible  only 
by  being  made  responsible  for  some- 


THE   TWO  GENERATIONS 


595 


thing?  Now,  what  incentive  to  respon- 
sibility is  produced  by  the  industrial 
life  of  to-day?  In  the  small  business 
there  is  the  frank  struggle  for  gain  be- 
tween employer  and  employee,  a  con- 
test of  profits  vs.  wages,  each  trying  to 
get  the  utmost  possible  out  of  the  other. 
The  only  kind  of  responsibility  that 
this  can  possibly  breed  is  the  responsi- 
bility for  one's  own  subsistence.  In  the 
big  business,  the  employee  is  simply  a 
small  part  of  a  big  machine;  his  work 
counts  for  so  little  that  he  can  rarely 
be  made  to  feel  any  intimate  responsi- 
bility for  it. 

Then,  too,  our  haphazard  industrial 
system  offers  such  magnificent  oppor- 
tunities to  a  young  man  to  get  into  the 
wrong  place.  He  is  forced  by  necessity 
to  go  early,  without  the  least  training 
or  interest,  into  the  first  thing  which 
offers  itself.  The  dull,  specialized 
routine  of  the  modern  shop  or  office, 
so  different  from  the  varied  work  and 
the  personal  touch  which  created  in- 
terest in  the  past,  is  the  last  thing  on 
earth  that  will  mould  character  or  pro- 
duce responsibility.  When  the  situa- 
tion with  an  incentive  appears,  how- 
ever, we  are  as  ready  as  any  generation, 
I  believe,  to  meet  it. 

I  have  seen  too  many  young  men, 
of  the  usual  futile  bringing-up  and 
negligible  training,  drift  idly  about 
from  one  'job'  to  another,  without 
apparent  ambition,  until  something 
happened  to  be  presented  to  them 
which  had  a  spark  of  individuality 
about  it,  whereupon  they  faced  about 
and  threw  themselves  into  the  task 
with  an  energy  that  brought  success 
and  honor,  —  I  have  seen  too  much 
of  this  not  to  wonder,  somewhat  im- 
piously perhaps,  whether  this  boasted 
character  of  our  fathers  was  not  rather 
the  result  of  their  coming  into  contact 
with  the  proper  stimulus  at  the  proper 
time,  than  of  any  tougher,  grittier 
strain  in  their  spiritual  fibre.  Those 


among  our  elders,  who,  deploring  So- 
cialism, insist  so  strenuously  on  the 
imperfections  of  human  nature,  ought 
not  to  find  fault  with  the  theory  that 
frail  humanity  is  under  the  necessity 
of  receiving  the  proper  stimulus  before 
developing  a  good  character  or  be- 
coming responsible. 

Nor  is  the  rising  generation  any  the 
less  capable  of  effort  when  conditions 
call  it  forth.  I  wonder  how  our  critic 
accounts  for  the  correspondence  schools 
which  have  sprung  up  so  abundantly 
within  the  past  fifteen  years.  They  are 
patronized  by  large  numbers  of  young 
men  and  women  who  have  had  little 
academic  training  and  have  gone  early 
into  industry.  It  is  true  that  the  stu- 
dents do  not  spend  their  time  on  the 
Latin  grammar ;  they  devote  themselves 
to  some  kind  of  technical  course  which 
they  have  been  led  to  believe  will  qual- 
ify them  for  a  better  position.  But  the 
fact  that  they  are  thus  willing  to  devote 
their  spare  time  to  study  certainly  does 
not  indicate  a  lack  of  effort.  Rather, 
it  is  the  hardest  kind  of  effort,  for  it  is 
directed  toward  no  immediate  end,  and, 
more  than  that,  it  is  superimposed  on 
the  ordinary  work,  which  is  usually 
quite  arduous  enough  to  fatigue  the 
youth. 

Young  apprentices  in  any  branch 
where  there  is  some  kind  of  technical 
or  artistic  appeal,  such  as  mechanics  or 
architecture,  show  an  almost  incredible 
capacity  of  effort,  often  spending,  as  I 
have  seen  them  do,  whole  days  over 
problems.  I  know  too  a  young  man 
who,  appointed  very  young  to  political 
office,  found  that  the  law  would  be  use- 
ful to  him,  and  travels  every  evening 
to  a  near-by  city  to  take  courses.  His 
previous  career  had  been  most  inglori- 
ous, well  calculated  by  its  aimlessness 
to  ruin  any  '  character ' ;  but  the  incen- 
tive was  applied,  and  he  proved  quite 
capable  of  putting  forth  a  surprising 
amount  of  steady  effort. 


596 


THE  TWO   GENERATIONS 


Our  critics  are  perhaps  misled  by  the 
fact  that  these  young  men  do  not  an- 
nounce with  a  blare  of  trumpets  that 
they  are  about  to  follow  in  the  footsteps 
of  an  Edison  or  a  Webster.  It  must  be 
admitted  that  even  such  men  as  I  have 
cited  do  still  contrive  to  work  into  their 
time  a  surprising  amount  of  pleasure. 
But  the  whole  situation  shows  conclus- 
ively, I  think,  that  our  author  has 
missed  the  point  when  she  says  that  the 
rising  generation  shows  a  real  soften- 
ing of  the  human  fibre.  It  is  rather  that 
we  have  the  same  reserves  of  ability 
and  effort,  but  that  from  the  complex 
nature  of  the  economic  situation  these 
reserves  are  not  unlocked  so  early  or  so 
automatically  as  with  former  genera- 
tions. 

The  fact  that  our  fathers  did  not  need 
correspondence  schools  or  night  schools, 
or  such  things,  implies  either  that  they 
were  not  so  anxious  as  we  to  count  in 
the  world,  or  that  success  was  an  easier 
matter  in  their  day,  either  of  which 
conclusions  furnishes  a  pretty  good  ex- 
tenuation of  our  own  generation.  We 
cannot  but  believe  that  our  difficulties 
are  greater  in  this  generation;  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  see  that  the  effort  we  put  forth 
to  overcome  these  difficulties  is  not 
proportional  to  that  increase.  I  am 
aware  that  to  blame  your  surroundings 
when  the  fault  lies  in  your  own  char- 
acter is  the  one  impiety  which  rouses 
the  horror  of  present-day  moral  teach- 
ers. Can  it  not  count  to  us  for  good, 
then,  that  most  of  us,  while  coming 
theoretically  to  believe  that  this  eco- 
nomic situation  explains  so  much  of  our 
trouble,  yet  continue  to  act  as  if  our 
deficiencies  were  all  our  own  fault? 

Our  critic  is  misled  by  the  fact  that 
we  do  not  talk  about  unselfishness  and 
self-sacrifice  and  duty,  as  her  genera- 
tion apparently  used  to  do,  into  think- 
ing that  we  do  not  know  what  these 
things  mean.  It  is  true  that  we  do  not 
fuss  and  fume  about  our  souls,  or  tend 


our  characters  like  a  hot-house  plant. 
This  is  a  changing,  transitional  age, 
and  our  view  is  outward  rather  than 
inward.  In  an  age  of  newspapers,  free 
libraries,  and  cheap  magazines,  we 
necessarily  get  a  broader  horizon  than 
the  passing  generation  had.  We  see 
what  is  going  on  in  the  world,  and  we 
get  the  clash  of  different  points  of  view, 
to  an  extent  which  was  impossible  to 
our  fathers.  We  cannot  be  blamed  for 
acquiring  a  suspicion  of  ideals,  which, 
however  powerful  their  appeal  once 
was,  seem  singularly  impotent  now,  or 
if  we  seek  for  motive  forces  to  replace 
them,  or  for  new  terms  in  which  to  re- 
state the  world.  We  have  an  eagerness 
to  understand  the  world  in  which  we 
live  that  amounts  almost  to  a  passion. 
We  want  to  get  behind  the  scenes,  to 
see  how  the  machinery  of  the  modern 
world  actually  works.  We  are  curious 
to  learn  what  other  people  are  think- 
ing, and  to  get  at  the  forces  that  have 
produced  their  point  of  view.  We  dabble 
in  philanthropy  as  much  from  curi- 
osity to  see  how  people  live  as  from  any 
feeling  of  altruism.  We  read  all  sorts  of 
strange  philosophies  to  get  the  person- 
al testimony  of  men  who  are  inter- 
preting the  world.  In  the  last  analysis, 
we  have  a  passion  to  understand  why 
people  act  as  they  do. 

We  have,  as  a  result,  become  impa- 
tient with  the  conventional  explana- 
tions of  the  older  generation.  We  have 
retained  from  childhood  the  propens- 
ity to  see  through  things,  and  to  tell  the 
truth  with  startling  frankness.  This 
must,  of  course,  be  very  disconcert- 
ing to  a  generation,  so  much  of  whose 
activity  seems  to  consist  in  glossing 
over  the  unpleasant  things  or  hiding 
the  blemishes  on  the  fair  face  of  civil- 
ization. There  are  too  many  issues 
evaded  which  we  would  like  to  meet. 
Many  of  us  find,  sooner  or  later,  that 
the  world  is  a  very  different  sort  of 
place  from  what  our  carefully  deodor- 


THE  TWO   GENERATIONS 


597 


izedand  idealized  education  would  have 
us  believe. 

When  we  find  things  simply  not  as 
they  are  painted,  is  it  any  wonder 
that  we  turn  to  the  new  prophets 
rather  than  to  the  old?  We  are  more 
than  half  confident  that  the  elder  gen- 
eration does  not  itself  really  believe 
all  the  conventional  ideals  which  it 
seeks  to  force  upon  us,  and  much  of 
our  presumption  is  a  result  of  the  con- 
tempt we  naturally  feel  for  such  timor- 
ousness.  Too  many  of  your  preachers 
seem  to  be  whistling  simply  to  keep  up 
your  courage.  The  plain  truth  is  that 
the  younger  generation  is  acquiring  a 
positive  faith,  in  contact  with  which 
the  nerveless  negations  of  the  elder 
generation  feel  their  helplessness  with- 
out knowing  just  what  to  do  about  it 
except  to  scold  the  young. 

This  positive  aspect  is  particularly 
noticeable  in  the  religion  of  the  rising 
generation.  As  our  critic  says,  the  re- 
ligious thinking  of  the  preceding  gener- 
ation was  destructive  and  uncertain. 
We  are  demanding  a  definite  faith,  and 
our  spiritual  centre  is  rapidly  shifting 
from  the  personal  to  the  social  in  re- 
ligion. Not  personal  salvation,  but  so- 
cial; not  our  own  characters,  but  the 
character  of  society,  is  our  interest  and 
concern.  We  feel  social  injustice  as  our 
fathers  felt  personal  sin.  Settlement 
work  and  socialist  propaganda,  things 
done  fifty  years  ago  only  by  rare  and 
heroic  souls  like  Kingsley,  Ruskin,  and 
Maurice,  are  now  the  commonplaces  of 
the  undergraduate. 

The  religion  that  will  mean  any- 
thing to  the  rising  generation  will 
be  based  on  social  ideals.  An  essay 
like  ex-President  Eliot's  'Religion  of 
the  Future,'  which  in  a  way  synthe- 
sizes science  and  history  and  these 
social  ideals  and  gives  them  the  re- 
ligious tinge  which  every  age  demands, 
supplies  a  real  working  religious  plat- 
form to  many  a  young  man  and  woman 


of  the  rising  generation,  and  an  inspir- 
ation of  which  our  elders  can  form  no 
conception.  Perhaps  it  is  unfair  to  call 
this  religion  at  all.  Perhaps  it  is  simply 
the  scientific  attitude  toward  the 
world.  But  I  am  sure  that  it  is  more 
than  this;  I  am  sure  that  it  is  the  scien- 
tific attitude  tinged  with  the  religious 
that  will  be  ours  of  the  rising  genera- 
tion. We  find  that  we  cannot  keep 
apart  our  religion,  our  knowledge,  our 
practice,  and  our  hopes  in  water-tight 
compartments,  as  our  ancestors  did. 
We  are  beginning  to  show  an  incor- 
rigible tendency  to  work  our  spiritual 
assimilations  into  one  intelligible,  con- 
structive whole. 

It  is  to  this  attitude  rather  than  to  a 
softening  of  fibre  that  I  think  we  may 
lay  our  growing  disinclination  to  deify 
sacrifice  and  suffering.  A  young  chem- 
istry student  said  to  me  the  other  day, 
'Science  means  that  nothing  must  be 
wasted!'  This  idea  somehow  gets  mixed 
up  with  human  experience,  and  we  come 
to  believe  that  human  life  and  happi- 
ness are  things  that  must  not  be  wasted. 
Might  it  not  be  that  such  a  belief  that 
human  waste  of  life  and  happiness  was 
foolish  and  unnecessary  would  possibly 
be  of  some  avail  in  causing  that  waste 
to  disappear?  And  one  of  the  most 
inspiring  of  the  prophets  to  the  rising 
generation,  William  James,  has  told 
us  that  certain  'moral  equivalents'  of 
these  things  are  possible  which  will  pre- 
vent that  incurable  decaying  of  fibre 
which  the  elder  generation  so  anxiously 
fears. 

Another  result  of  this  attitude  is  our 
growing  belief  in  political  machinery. 
We  are  demanding  of  our  preachers 
that  they  reduce  quality  to  quantity. 
'Stop  talking  about  liberty  and  just- 
ice and  love,  and  show  us  institu- 
tions, or  concerted  attempts  to  model 
institutions  that  shall  be  free  or  just 
or  lovely,'  we  cry.  You  have  been  trying 
so  long  to  reform  the  world  by  making 


598 


THE  TWO  GENERATIONS 


men  'good,'  and  with  such  little  suc- 
cess, that  we  may  be  pardoned  if  we 
turn  our  attention  to  the  machinery 
of  society,  and  give  up  for  a  time  the 
attempt  to  make  the  operators  of  that 
machinery  strictly  moral.  We  are  dis- 
gusted with  sentimentality.  Indeed, 
the  charm  of  Socialism  to  so  many  of 
the  rising  generation  is  just  that  scien- 
tific aspect  of  it,  its  claim  of  historical 
basis,  and  its  very  definite  and  con- 
crete organization  for  the  attainment 
of  its  ends.  A  philosophy  which  gives 
an  illuminating  interpretation  of  the 
present,  and  a  vision  of  the  future,  with 
a  definitely  crystallized  plan  of  action 
with  concrete  methods,  however  un- 
sound it -may  all  be,  can  hardly  be  said 
to  appeal  simply  to  the  combination  of 
'a  weak  head,  a  soft  heart,  and  a  desire 
to  shirk.' 

Placed  in  such  a  situation  as  we  are, 
and  with  such  an  attitude  toward  the 
world,  we  are  as  interested  as  you  and 
the  breathless  generations  behind  you 
to  see  what  destinies  we  shall  work  out 
for  ourselves.  An  unpleasantly  large 
proportion  of  our  energy  is  now  drained 
off  in  fighting  the  fetishes  which  you 
of  the  elder  generation  have  passed 
along  to  us,  and  which,  out  of  some 


curious  instinct  of  self-preservation, 
you  so  vigorously  defend.  We,  on  the 
other  hand,  are  becoming  increasingly 
doubtful  whether  you  believe  in  your- 
selves quite  so  thoroughly  as  you  would 
have  us  think.  Your  words  are  very 
brave,  but  the  tone  is  hollow.  Your 
mistrust  of  us,  and  your  reluctance  to 
convey  over  to  us  any  of  your  author- 
ity in  the  world,  looks  a  little  too  much 
like  the  fear  and  dislike  that  doubt 
always  feels  in  the  presence  of  convic- 
tion, to  be  quite  convincing.  We  be- 
lieve in  ourselves;  and  this  fact,  we 
think,  is  prophetic  for  the  future.  We 
have  an  indomitable  feeling  that  we 
shall  attain,  or  if  not,  that  we  shall 
pave  the  way  for  a  generation  that  shall 
attain. 

Meanwhile  our  constructive  work  is 
hampered  by  your  distrust,  while  you 
blame  us  for  our  lack  of  accomplish- 
ment. Is  this  an  attitude  calculated 
to  increase  our  responsibility  and  our 
self-respect?  Would  it  not  be  better 
in  every  way,  more  constructive  and 
more  fruitful,  to  help  us  in  our  aspira- 
tions and  endeavors,  or,  failing  that, 
at  least  to  strive  to  understand  just 
what  those  aspirations  and  endeavors 
are? 


ANIMAL  INTELLIGENCE 


BY   M.   E.    HAGGERTY 


Go  to  the  ant,  thou  sluggard; 
Consider  her  ways  and  be  wise: 
Which  having  no  guide,  overseer,  or  ruler, 
Provideth  her  meat  in  the  summer, 
And  gathereth  her  food  in  the  harvest. 

FROM  Solomon  to  Roosevelt  and 
John  Burroughs  the  human  race  has 
displayed  an  interest  in  the  habits  of 
animals.  The  most  versatile  of  the 
Greeks  foreshadowed  the  course  of  all 
later  natural  histories.  The  Historia 
Animalium,  written  about  345  B.  c. 
is  bubbling  over  with  the  same  sort 
of  facts  that  one  finds  in  the  books  of 
natural  history  to-day.  'It  is  the  in- 
stinct of  the  hedgehog,'  wrote  Aristotle, 
'to  alter  the  entrance  to  his  burrow 
when  the  wind  changes  from  the  north 
to  the  south,  or  to  change  from  wall 
to  wall  at  the  approach  of  weather 
changes';  'the  woodpecker  has  been 
known  to  place  an  almond  in  a  crack 
of  the  tree  to  prepare  it  for  a  blow  of 
his  bill,  and  in  its  hunt  for  worms  in 
the  bark  of  trees,  it  hollows  them  out 
so  much  as  to  throw  them  down';  'the 
disposition  of  sheep  is  foolish  and  with- 
out sense,  but  many  animals  in  their 
mode  of  life  appear  to  imitate  mankind ' ; 
'  because  the  cuckoo  is  conscious  of  its 
own  timidity,  it  lays  its  eggs  in  the 
nests  of  other  birds  that  its  young  may 
be  cared  for';  and  the  philosopher's 
pigeons  'can  distinguish  ten  different 
varieties  of  hawks.'  The  reader  can 
but  marvel  at  the  wealth  of  material 
which  Aristotle  gathered  together, 
though  he  may  often  be  amused  at  the 
naivete  of  the  interpretations. 

Historically,  animal  psychology  falls 


into  three  main  divisions:  the  natural- 
history  period,  from  Aristotle  to  Dar- 
win; the  critical  period,  including  Dar- 
win, Romanes,  and  Lloyd  Morgan; 
and  the  experimental  period,  which, 
beginning  with  Lloyd  Morgan,  is  now 
in  full  career.  The  Darwinian  period 
differs  from  all  that  went  before  chiefly 
in  a  more  scientific  scrutiny  of  the 
anecdotal  material,  and  a  careful  ar- 
rangement of  this  material  with  a  view 
to  substantiating  a  psychological  the- 
ory: with  Darwin  and  Romanes,  the 
continuity  of  mental  life  throughout 
the  animal  race  including  man;  with 
Morgan  the  dominance  of  instinctive 
behavior  and  accidental  learning. 
The  experimental  period,  taking  its 
cue  from  Morgan,  was  at  first  dom- 
inated by  Morgan's  bias,  but  is  now 
freeing  itself  from  all  presuppositions 
except  that  it  is  worth  while  to  know 
what  animals  do,  and  what  psycholog- 
ical processes  they  have. 

The  recent  interest  in  the  behavior 
of  animals  has  arisen  from  interest  in 
two  other  sciences.  Psychologists, 
stimulated  largely  by  the  writings  of 
William  James,  have  shown  an  in- 
creasing desire  to  know  the  genesis  of 
the  human  mind.  Two  possible  ave- 
nues of  approach  present  themselves : 
the  study  of  the  child,  and  the  study 
of  the  mind  as  it  appears  in  the  ani- 
mal world.  So  for  a  number  of  years 
we  have  had  genetic  psychology  in 
the  schools,  ontogenetic  psychology, 
and  phylogenetic  psychology.  In  ap- 
proaching either  of  these  fields,  how- 
ever, it  was  found  that  the  most  one 

599 


600 


ANIMAL  INTELLIGENCE 


could  do  was  to  speculate  on  the  basis 
of  a  meagre  collection  of  facts.  This 
was  particularly  true  of  phylogenetic 
psychology,  because  all  the  material 
available  consisted  of  the  anecdotes 
collected  from  widely  scattered  sources. 
That  some  of  this  material  was  authen- 
tic no  one  doubted.  Some  of  it  had 
been  gathered  by  such  accurate  scien- 
tists as  Darwin  and  Romanes.  But 
some  of  it  also  came  from  the  hand  of 
such  good  story-tellers  as  Buffon  and 
Brehm.  So  much  of  it  gave  evidence 
of  being  colored  by  the  reporter's  own 
illusions  that  to  separate  the  true  from 
the  imagined  was  an  impossible  task. 
Students  in  the  field  realized  that  if 
we  were  to  have  a  phylogenesis  of 
mind  that  was  in  the  least  degree  reli- 
able we  must  have  new  data  collected 
under  conditions  that  were  accurately 
known.  That  the  collection  of  such 
data  was  to  be  a  slow  task  was  evident 
from  the  start;  the  work  could  only 
be  done  by  men  trained  in  the  meth- 
ods of  science  who  could  devote  large 
amounts  of  time  to  the  work. 

The  movement  began  from  the 
psychological  end  with  the  publica- 
tion in  1898  of  a  monograph  by  Thorn- 
dike  on  Animal  Intelligence,  the  im- 
portant part  of  the  paper  being  the 
report  of  a  series  of  experiments  on 
chickens,  cats,  and  dogs.  This  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  paper  by  Dr.  Small  on  the 
mental  processes  of  the  white  rat. 
Other  papers  followed  from  both  the 
Columbia  and  Clark  laboratories,  and 
before  long  a  number  of  American 
universities  were  conducting  research 
along  similar  lines. 

Almost  contemporaneously  with  this 
movement  downward  along  the  phylo- 
genetic scale,  biological  science  took 
a  new  departure.  Attention  had  long 
been  given  to  morphological  and  struc- 
tural science,  but  for  a  time  at  least  it 
shifted  to  a  study  of  the  processes  of 
nature.  This  movement  has  recently 


been  characterized  by  Professor  Jen- 
nings in  these  words:  'A  new  spirit  has 
permeated  biological  science  in  every 
division,  —  in  brief,  the  desire  to  see 
the  processes  of  nature  occurring,  and 
to  modify  and  control  these  processes, 
—  not  merely  to  judge  what  processes 
must  have  occurred.  In  the  words  of 
the  young  Clerk  Maxwell,  we  wish  "to 
see  the  particular  go"  of  the  processes 
of  nature.  ...  In  the  new  spirit  of  work 
the  desire  is  to  see  the  things  happen- 
ing, not  to  conclude  what  must  have 
happened.  We  wish  to  see  the  process- 
es themselves,  not  merely  the  results 
of  the  processes.'  An  early  result  of 
this  new  biological  spirit  was  the  study 
of  the  behavior  of  simple  organisms. 
It  was  a  study,  not  of  what  organs  an 
animal  has,  how  many  it  has,  and 
where  they  are  located,  so  much  as  a 
study  of  how  an  animal  behaves  under 
changing  environmental  conditions. 

Naturally,  the  genetic  psychologist 
had  much  in  common  with  this  new 
biological  spirit,  and  the  two  sciences 
have  met  in  common  territory.  The 
outcome  has  been  a  collection  and 
grouping  of  facts  that  may  well  lay 
claim  to  being  called  a  new  science,  a 
science  which  in  its  present  intention, 
at  least,  is  essentially  experimental, 
and  which  we  may  call  the  science  of 
animal  behavior. 

When  one  speaks  of  studying  an  ani- 
mal experimentally  it  must  not  be 
understood  that  the  animal  is  to  be 
sliced,  to  be  tortured,  to  be  put  into 
cramped  conditions,  to  be  placed  at  a 
disadvantage.  To  experiment  means 
to  know  and  to  control  the  conditions 
under  which  the  animal  behaves.  To 
draw  one's  finger  across  the  path  of  an 
ant  with  a  view  to  seeing  how  the  be- 
havior of  the  ant  is  changed  is  to  ex- 
periment. The  animal  must  be  free  to 
do  its  best,  it  must  be  kept  in  health 
and  free  from  fear.  It  must  be  given  a 
square  deal,  and  be  allowed  to  display 


ANIMAL  INTELLIGENCE 


601 


every  atom  of  sense-power  or  intelli- 
gence that  it  can  muster.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  all 
the  modifying  conditions  that  play  any 
part  in  the  animal's  behavior  must  be 
known,  and  that  in  successive  experi- 
ments they  must  be  individually  varied 
so  that  the  exact  effect  of  each  will  be 
discovered. 

The  following  will  make  clear  what 
I  mean.  In  the  Harvard  Psychological 
Laboratory  the  writer  was  studying  a 
dog's  power  of  visual  discrimination. 
We  never  can  know  much  about  the 
dog's  intelligence  until  we  know  some- 
thing more  about  his  senses.  Can  a 
dog  see  colors?  Does  he  recognize  per- 
sons by  sight  or  smell  ?  To  what  extent 
can  he  discriminate  between  two  forms  ? 
How  accurately  does  he  distinguish 
varying  shades  of  brightness  ? 

To  test  certain  of  these  matters  a  de- 
vice of  this  sort  was  used :  The  stimuli 
for  reaction  were  two  circles  of  flashed 
opal  glass  through  each  of  which  a 
twenty-five  watt  tungsten  lamp  sent 
its  rays.  The  circles  were  separated 
by  a  wooden  partition  and  the  dog 
must  pass  down  a  four-foot  board  alley 
and  select  one  of  the  two  circles  by 
going  to  one  or  the  other  side  of  the 
partition.  In  case  the  small  circle  was 
selected  a  trap  in  the  bottom  of  the 
alley  was  opened  by  a  sliding  door  and 
the  dog,  a  cocker  spaniel,  was  allowed 
to  get  food.  In  order  that  the  animal 
might  not  be  guided^  by  smell,  similar 
food  cups  were  placecl  on  either  side  of 
the  partition,  and  in  each  of  them  were 
placed  pieces  of  food  of  the  same  size 
and  kind.  That  she  should  not  rely  on 
the  position  of  the  smaller  disc,  the 
circles  of  glass  were  arranged  in  an 
aluminum  slide  which  could  be  shift- 
ed from  right  to  left  and  back.  The 
smaller  disc  thus  appeared  irregularly 
on  the  right  and  left  side  of  the  parti- 
tion. To  prevent  the  dog  choosing  by 
the  brightness  of  the  disc,  the  lights 


were  fastened  to  lamp  carriages  which 
were  mounted  on  tracks.  The  lamps 
could  thus  be  moved  far  away  from  the 
glass  or  brought  close  to  it,  thereby 
altering  the  relative  brightness  of  the 
two  discs.  To  minimize  the  difference 
in  the  amount  of  heat  coming  from  the 
lamps  at  unequal  distances,  water  cells 
for  the  absorption  of  heat  were  placed 
back  of  the  glass.  Further  to  eliminate 
differences  in  light,  the  whole  appara- 
tus was  painted  a  dead  black  and  used 
in  a  dark  room. 

By  thus  ruling  out  smell,  regularity 
of  position,  and  differences  in  shape, 
light,  and  heat,  it  was  intended  to  force 
discrimination  by  a  single  visual  fac- 
tor, namely,  size.  In  later  experiments 
the  sense  for  shape,  position,  heat, 
light,  and  color  could  be  made,  and  fin- 
ally we  could  arrive  at  an  accurate 
knowledge  of  a  dog's  power  of  vision. 
Each  of  the  factors  could  be  varied 
independently  and  the  part  played  by 
each  accurately  determined. 

My  experience  with  the  first  dog 
tried  shows  how  difficult  it  is  to  keep 
tab  on  all  the  factors  involved.  My 
method  was  to  give  the  dog  from  ten  to 
fifty  trials  a  day  until  she  learned  to 
choose  a  three-centimeter  circle  in  pre- 
ference to  a  six-centimeter  circle  at  least 
eighty  or  ninety  per  cent  of  the  time. 
When  this  act  had  been  learned,  a 
three-and-a-half-centimeter  circle  was 
substituted  for  the  smaller  one  and  the 
tests  were  repeated.  I  found  no  dif- 
ficulty in  getting  the  animal  to  go  for- 
ward, and  when  she  chose  correctly  I 
opened  the  slide  door  and  she  got  food. 
It  was  not  so  easy,  however,  to  induce 
the  animal  to  come  back  to  the  start- 
ing place  and  I  was  compelled  to  put  a 
leash  on  her.  This  I  allowed  to  hang 
loosely,  barely  missing  the  floor.  After 
a  very  large  number  of  trials,  the  dog, 
whose  name  was  Dolcy,  began  to 
choose  the  smaller  circle,  and  soon  her 
learning  was  progressing  rapidly.  She 


602 


ANIMAL  INTELLIGENCE 


discriminated  a  three,  a  three-and-a- 
half,  a  four,  and  a  four-and-a-half-cen- 
timeter circle  from  a  six-centimeter  cir- 
cle in  rapid  succession.  In  the  latter 
case  she  learned  the  act  in  fifty  trials, 
finally  discriminating  correctly  one 
hundred  per  cent  of  the  time.  An  im- 
portant feature  of  her  behavior  was 
her  apparent  comparison  of  the  two 
lighted  discs.  She  would  go  straight  to 
one  disc,  thrust  her  head  into  the 
apartment,  stop  a  moment,  step  back, 
look  into  the  other  apartment  while 
standing  with  an  uplifted  forefoot, 
look  again  into  the  first  side,  back  to 
the  other  and  again  to  the  first,  finally 
choosing  the  smaller  circle,  the  experi- 
menter all  the  while  in  interested  sus- 
pense. 

It  can  well  be  imagined  that  after 
the  painstaking  work  necessary  to 
bring  such  a  study  to  fruition,  the  ex- 
perimenter would  be  much  gratified  at 
the  clear  results,  and  the  reader  may 
possibly  imagine  the  chagrin  when  he 
found  that  an  unsuspected  error  had 
crept  into  the  work.  One  day  when 
the  leash  was  removed  during  the  ex- 
periments, the  dog  was  unable  to  find 
the  circle,  the  choosing  of  which  had 
always  brought  her  food.  Repeatedly 
she  essayed  to  choose  and  at  least 
half  the  time  failed.  She  hit  upon  the 
plan  of  going  to  one  side  all  the  time, 
and  from  the  irregular  plan  of  shift- 
ing the  circles  from  one  side  to  the 
other,  she  got  food  a  number  of  times. 
Then  she  was  refused  food  until  she 
went  to  the  other  side,  and  she  resorted 
to  going  to  the  brighter  light.  In  short, 
she  had  to  learn  all  over  again;  she  had 
not  at  any  time  discriminated  between 
the  two  circles.  Instead  of  being 
guided  by  stimuli  in  front  of  her  she 
had  relied  upon  stimuli  from  another 
direction. 

Much  as  I  disliked  to  admit  it,  I 
could  find  no  other  explanation  for 
the  animal's  unexpected  behavior  than 


that  I,  myself,  had  unconsciously  given 
her  the  clue  to  choice.  The  leash  was 
the  source  of  trouble;  holding  the  strap 
in  my  hand  and  interestedly  watching 
the  animal's  movements  I  had  unin- 
tentionally changed  the  tension  of  the 
leash.  How  delicate  must  have  been 
the  dog's  muscular  sense  will  be  real- 
ized when  you  recall  that  the  leash  all 
but  dragged  on  the  floor  of  the  alley. 
Surely  a  good  case  of  muscle-reading! 
That  this  is  the  probable  explanation 
is  evidenced  by  two  facts.  First,  by 
the  fact  that  when  the  leash  was  not 
used  the  dog  quit  making  what  had 
seemed  to  be  comparisons  of  the  two 
stimuli.  She  no  longer  looked  from  one 
side  to  the  other,  but  went  directly  to 
one  of  the  two  circles.  The  other  bit  of 
circumstantial  evidence  was  that  when 
the  leash  was  again  put  on,  the  dog  had 
no  difficulty  in  selecting  the  correct 
circle. 

One  turns  with  a  good  deal  of  skep- 
ticism from  the  deception  of  a  rigidly 
controlled  experiment  like  this  to  the 
wholly  uncontrolled  observations  of 
the  naturalist,  especially  when  the 
naturalist  attempts  a  psychological 
explanation  of  what  he  supposes  him- 
self to  have  seen.  To  sit  back  on  one's 
front  porch  and  watch  a  downy  wood- 
pecker hollowing  out  his  cup  in  the  top 
of  a  chestnut  post,  think  that  'it  may 
have  been  the  first  cavity  of  the  kind 
it  has  ever  made,'  and  then  conclude 
that  the  bird  is  controlled  solely  by  in- 
stinct, is  to  be  content  with  a  crumb  of 
doubtful  fact  when  a  little  ingenuity 
and  a  willingness  to  try  might  give  the 
whole  fact.  However  engrossing  such 
observation  may  be  to  the  naturalist 
himself,  and  however  entertaining  the 
anecdotes  may  be  to  the  popular 
reader,  the  science  of  animal  behavior 
and  comparative  psychology  must  be 
founded  on  something  more  analytic 
and  more  verifiable.  What,  in  detail, 
does  the  naturalist  know  of  the  downy 


ANIMAL  INTELLIGENCE 


603 


woodpecker's  past  experience?  Has  he 
ever  seen  this  bird  before?  Will  he 
ever  see  it  again  and  note  how  differ- 
ently it  may  work  at  another  time? 
How  old  is  it?  What  does  he  know  in 
detail  of  the  bird's  various  sense-pow- 
ers? How  well  can  it  smell  or  see? 
With  what  senses  is  it  endowed  with 
which  the  naturalist  has  no  first-hand 
acquaintance?  How  often  has  it  tried 
this  same  act  and  failed?  Is  it  an  aver- 
age  bird  of  the  species,  or  an  unusual 
one?  What  fortunate  circumstances 
enabled  it  to  invent  a  new  plan  of  ac- 
tion? How  do  the  various  powers  of 
the  animal  develop?  How  stupid  has 
the  pecker  been  in  circumstances  over- 
flowing with  opportunity  for  intelli- 
gent action?  These  and  a  thousand 
other  questions  the  mere  observer  will 
not  answer  in  a  long,  long  time,  and 
until  they  are  answered  we  can  never 
have  a  scientific  study  of  the  animal 
mind. 

No  experimental  student  of  animal 
behavior  would  deny  the  value  of  well- 
authenticated  anecdotes  of  the  doings 
of  animals,  or  the  unspeakably  precious 
contributions  of  naturalists  of  all  time 
to  our  knowledge  of  the  habits  of  the 
wild  folk.  But  the  necessarily  frag- 
mentary character  of  such  material 
will  always  leave  the  animal  mind  a 
region  of  myth  into  which  the  would-be 
comparative  psychologist  can  project 
the  fanciful  conceptions  of  his  own 
mind;  conceptions  which  serve  not 
nearly  so  much  to  illuminate  the  field 
as  the  actual  discovery  of  some  small 
power  of  sense-perception  or  the  exact 
part  imitation  plays  in  animal  learning. 

It  is  to  find  an  answer  to  such  ques- 
tions as  the  naturalist  cannot  answer 
that  the  experimental  method  has 
come  into  being.  Besides  the  discrim- 
ination method  already  set  forth,  in- 
vestigators have  used  three  principal 
modes  of  procedure:  the  puzzle-box 
method,  the  labyrinth  method,  and  the 


method  of  the  salivary  reflex.  The 
simplest  of  these  is  the  labyrinth 
method.  Usually  some  form  of  the 
Hampton  Court  Maze  is  used.  The 
animal  is  placed  at  the  outer  end  of 
the  intricate  network  of  alleys,  and  it 
must  find  its  way  about,  past  openings 
which  lead  into  blind  alleys  to  the 
centre.  Interest  centres  in  the  manner 
in  which  the  animal  learns  to  avoid 
bypaths  and  to  hasten  its  journey  to 
the  end.  Small  first  used  this  device  on 
the  white  rat,  and  numerous  investi- 
gators have  since  employed  it. 

The  puzzle-box  method,  which  re- 
quires the  manipulation  of  a  lock  or 
fastening  in  order  to  get  food,  is  illus- 
trated by  an  experiment  the  writer  per- 
formed with  monkeys.  The  monkey 
was  confined  in  a  cage  approximately 
four  feet  square  and  six  feet  high.  In 
the  back  of  this  cage  near  the  floor  an 
opening  was  made.  This  opening  was 
closed  by  a  glass  door  through  which 
the  monkey  was  allowed  to  see  bananas 
suspended  by  a  cord.  The  glass  door 
could  be  opened  by  a  string  which 
passed  from  the  door  down  under  the 
cage  and  up  a  corner  post  on  the  front 
of  the  cage.  The  end  of  this  string  was 
fastened  to  a  wooden  plug  put  into  the 
corner  post  halfway  up  on  the  inside. 
If  the  monkey  could  learn  to  climb  this 
post  and  pull  out  the  plug,  he  could 
then  get  the  banana  by  going  back 
down  to  the  door. 

The  method  of  the  salivary  reflex  has 
been  used  chiefly  in  the  Physiological 
Institute  at  St.  Petersburg.  A  fistula  is 
formed  by  making  an  incision  in  the 
lip  of  the  dog  to  the  salivary  duct,  and 
diverting  this  duct  from  the  inside  to 
the  outside  of  the  mouth.  The  oper- 
ation is  easily  made,  the  wound  quickly 
heals,  and  the  animal  is  apparently  not 
disturbed  by  the  event.  The  training 
tests  are  then  begun.  The  dog  is  shown 
colors,  and  while  looking  at  one  color, 
say  red,  he  is  given  a  piece  of  meat,  but 


604 


ANIMAL   INTELLIGENCE 


when  looking  at  other  colors  he  is  not 
fed.  In  this  way  an  association  is 
formed  between  the  red  color  and  the 
food.  The  experiment  proper  is  then 
begun  by  showing  the  animal  various 
colors  in  succession.  In  the  training 
tests,  red  had  come  to  call  forth  the 
reflexes  connected  with  the  getting  of 
food,  and  now  when  red  appears  in  the 
series,  the  reflexes  occur  even  though 
no  food  is  present.  One  of  the  most 
important  of  these  reflexes  is  the  secre- 
tion of  saliva.  The  amount  and  quality 
of  the  saliva  secreted  indicates  whether 
the  dog  can  discriminate  a  red  color 
from  another  color  of  the  same  bright- 
ness. The  dog's  sense  of  sight  is  thus 
tested  by  a  chemical  and  physical  ex- 
amination of  its  saliva.  In  this  way 
the  dog's  power  of  discriminating 
sounds,  odors,  and  colors  has  been 
tested. 

In  a  large  part  of  the  work  so  far 
done,  investigators  have  relied  upon 
hunger  as  a  motive  to  induce  animals 
to  work.  It  was  supposed  that  with 
regulated  feeding  you  have  here  a  mo- 
tive of  fairly  constant  intensity.  My 
work  with  the  dog  indicates  that  food 
is  an  unreliable  motive  in  the  work 
with  that  animal.  The  dog  will  fare 
well  on  a  small  amount  of  food  and,  in 
the  case  of  a  very  difficult  task,  his 
hunger  is  not  sufficient  to  make  him 
endure  repeated  failure.  The  dainti- 
ness of  Dolcy's  appetite  and  the  fiction 
of  hunger  being  a  constant  stimulus 
became  evident  in  my  experiments  on 
size-discrimination.  After  each  suc- 
cessful choice  the  animal  was  getting  a 
small  cube  of  corned  beef.  The  dog  did 
very  well,  but  one  morning  was  greatly 
at  sea  in  her  choices;  she  went  to  the 
large  and  small  discs  indiscriminately 
and  failed  so  often  that  she  finally  gave 
up  all  effort  and  sat  still  in  the  alley. 
The  situation  was  perplexing  and  I  was 
about  to  replace  the  small  disc  by  one 
still  smaller  when  I  thought  of  offering 


some  of  the  fragments  of  roast  lamb 
that  I  had  brought  along  that  morning. 
The  instant  the  lamb  was  unwrapped 
Dolcy  became  active  and  could  hardly 
be  kept  inside  her  cage.  When  given 
a  chance  she  went  directly  to  the 
proper  place  and  continued  to  make 
correct  choices  for  some  time.  Such  is 
the  direct  effect  of  roast  lamb  on  animal 
intelligence ! 

The  unsatisfactory  character  of  the 
food  stimulus  caused  Yerkes  to  resort 
to  punishment  for  wrong  choices  in- 
stead of  rewarding  correct  choices.  He 
covered  the  bottom  of  the  discrimina- 
tion box,  in  which  he  was  testing  danc- 
ing-mice, with  small  copper  wire,  and 
when  the  animal  went  the  wrong  way 
it  was  given  a  slight  shock.  It  has  been 
found  that  animals  under  these  cir- 
cumstances learn  much  more  quickly 
than  when  prompted  by  hunger  alone. 

The  results  of  ten  years'  work  in  the 
experimental  study  of  the  animal  mind 
may  be  stated  as  a  widening  of  our 
knowledge  in  two  directions.  We  know 
far  more  than  we  ever  did  about  the 
sensory  experiences  of  animals,  and  we 
know  far  more  than  before  about  their 
methods  of  learning,  with  all  the  col- 
lateral processes  that  go  along  with 
learning.  In  the  former  field  the  lower 
animals  have  been  more  widely  ex- 
plored; in  the  latter  the  higher  animals 
have  received  most  attention. 

Our  knowledge  of  the  sensory  exper- 
iences of  animals  has  developed  both 
by  way  of  limitation  and  by  way  of 
expansion.  We  cannot  conclude  from 
the  mere  presence  of  a  sense-organ  that 
the  animal  sees,  hears,  smells,  or  tastes 
in  the  same  way  as  other  animals  hav- 
ing these  same  organs,  and  certainly 
not  as  the  human  being  does.  Research 
has  also  revealed  the  presence  of 
sensory  reactions  in  animals,  as  in  the 
amoeba,  in  which  there  are  no  specific 
sense-organs.  In  other  animals  there 
have  been  discovered  sensory  reactions 


ANIMAL  INTELLIGENCE 


005 


to  which  there  is  nothing  analogous  in 
the  human  species,  indicating  the  pre- 
sence of  an  entirely  new  sense. 

A  good  example  of  how  experimental 
work  alters  our  understanding  of  these 
matters  is  Watson's  investigation  on 
the  white  rat.  The  normal  man,  seeing 
the  rat  endowed  with  all  the  sense- 
organs  of  man,  concludes  that  they 
rely  upon  their  sense-organs  in  a  way 
similar  to  the  ways  of  man.  Experi- 
mental evidence  points  in  a  contrary 
direction.  Watson  worked  with  rats 
that  were  blind,  rats  that  were  deaf, 
rats  that  could  not  smell,  rats  whose 
vibrissce  had  been  cut  off  and  the  soles 
of  whose  feet  had  been  anaesthetized. 
Not  the  absence  of  vision  nor  of  hear- 
ing nor  of  smell  nor  of  tactual  sensa- 
tion seemed  to  affect  the  rat's  ability 
to  learn  a  labyrinth,  or  to  run  a  maze 
which  had  been  learned  before  the  loss 
of  the  sense  in  question.  The  animals 
seemed  guided  by  some  sense  whose 
organ  is  not  apparent  to  normal  ob- 
servation, and  Watson  concludes  that 
the  process  of  correct  turning  in  the 
maze  is  not  controlled  by  extra-organic 
sensations,  but  by  something  that  goes 
on  in  the  body  of  the  animal  during  the 
experience  of  learning:  muscular  sensa- 
tions, changes  in  the  bodily  organs  due 
to  upright  position,  bodily  balance, 
freedom  of  movement,  etc. 

Unexpected  results  of  this  sort  have 
made  students  experimenting  on  the 
animal  mind  hesitate  to  accept  popular 
beliefs  about  animal  senses  as  true  un- 
til the  supposed  facts  have  been  given 
experimental  verification.  The  work  of 
Pawlow  and  his  students  indicates  that 
the  Russian  wolf  hound  is  color-blind. 
This  raises  a  very  pertinent  question  in 
regard  to  all  other  species  of  dog.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  nocturnal  raccoon, 
to  which  the  color-sense  must  certainly 
be  of  much  less  value  than  to  the  dog, 
discriminates  colors  with  considerable 
.  accuracy.  Sparrows,  cowbirds,  and 


monkeys  seem  to  fall  in  with  the  raccoon 
in  this  matter  of  color- vision,  as  do  also 
certain  kinds  of  fish  and  amphibians. 
The  frog  seems  able  to  recognize  the 
light  waves,  not  only  through  the  eye, 
but  also  by  means  of  the  skin.  In  many 
of  the  experiments,  however,  the  ap- 
paratus used  has  not  been  such  as  cer- 
tainly to  separate  the  color-stimulus 
from  the  stimulus  to  the  sensations  of 
light  and  dark.  It  may  be,  therefore, 
that  what  has  seemed  in  some  animals 
a  response  to  color  is  nothing  more 
than  the  brightness  of  vision  of  color- 
blind human  beings.  The  question  has 
been  raised  for  the  whole  animal  world; 
from  the  standpoint  of  science  we  are 
on  the  verge  of  an  undiscovered  coun- 
try, and  we  are  not  likely  to  accept  the 
claims  of  mere  casual  observers  or  to 
rest  content  in  our  present  ignorance. 

With  the  other  senses  the  case  is 
somewhat  the  same.  Yerkes  found 
that  the  dancing -mouse  is  deaf,  but 
birds,  dogs,  and  raccoons  are  capable 
of  fine  discriminations  of  sound,  while 
crayfish  hear  but  little,  if  at  all.  The 
earthworm  has  a  chemical  sense  ana- 
logous to  the  sense  of  taste  and  smell 
in  the  human  family;  the  ants  detect 
various  kinds  of  odor  with  the  several 
joints  of  their  antennae,  and  Jennings 
has  shown  that  the  naked  bit  of  pro- 
toplasm called  amoeba  reacts  to  all 
classes  of  stimuli  to  which  higher  ani- 
mals react.  But  what  we  know  is  small 
in  view  of  the  great  unproved  riches  of 
animal  sensations  that  lie  before  us. 

In  the  field  of  learning  the  first  and 
most  important  result  of  the  critical 
and  experimental  work  on  the  higher 
animals  was  to  reveal  the  general  pov- 
erty of  these  animals  in  higher  intel- 
lectual processes.  Cats,  dogs,  chick- 
ens, and  monkeys  do  not  reason  out 
things,  they  do  not  learn  by  being  put 
through  acts,  nor  do  they  learn  to  the 
extent  it  is  generally  supposed  they  do 
by  imitation.  They  learn  new  acts  by 


606 


ANIMAL  INTELLIGENCE 


accidentally  happening  upon  modes  of 
behavior  that  bring  them  pleasurable 
experiences.  The  pleasure  of  these 
accidental  happenings  stamps  in  an 
association  between  a  sense-impression 
and  the  successful  act,  and  thus  the  act 
tends  to  be  repeated.  This  explana- 
tion calls  for  no  ideas,  no  memories,  no 
images  even,  apart  from  immediate 
sense-impressions.  This  explanation 
demands,  of  course,  that  the  animal  be 
endowed  with  the  tendency  to  make 
movements  of  various  sorts,  the  most 
stereotyped  ones  of  which  may  be 
called  instincts.  Successive  experimen- 
tation has  shown  that  this  form  of 
learning  is  widespread.  White  rats, 
rhesus  monkeys,  crayfish,  sparrows, 
and  raccoons,  all  modify  their  inherited 
tendencies  to  action  in  the  same  way. 
That  the  experimentalists,*  in  the 
enthusiasm  of  their  new  discoveries, 
swept  away  too  much  of  the  popular 
faith  in  the  mental  powers  of  animals 
is  evidenced  by  .more  recent  studies  on 
cats,  monkeys,  and  raccoons.  Imita- 
tion, and  imitation  of  an  advanced  type, 
does  play  some  part  in  the  learning  of 
cats  and  monkeys.  It  is  the  writer's 
opinion  that  further  refinement  of  ex- 
perimental procedure  and  a  more  com- 
prehensive study  of  individual  species 
will  be  decidedly  to  the  animals'  ad- 
vantage. First  attempts  at  experimen- 
tation were  crude,  and  the  animals' 
reputation  for  intelligence  suffered. 
One  cannot  set  problems  for  animal- 
learning  that  will  adequately  lay  bare 
the  animal's  possibilities  without  an 
extended  analytic  study  of  the  free 
movements  of  the  animal  in  question. 
That  many  of  the  conditions  of  early 
experimentation  fell  short  in  one  or 
another  respect  is  no  more  than  was  to 
be  expected  in  the  first  incursions  into 
a  new  field.  A  juster  appreciation  of 
animal  intelligence  is  bound  to  come 
when  laboratory  men  have  had  the 
time  and  insight  to  invent  tests  that 


will  more  adequately  unravel  the  in- 
tricacies of  animal  behavior.  It  is  the 
spirit,  however,  of  current  investiga- 
tion to  proceed  with  extreme  caution, 
to  allow  to  the  animal  mind  no  attribu- 
tion of  intelligence,  the  possession  of 
which  has  not  been  demonstrated  by 
rigidly-controlled  experimentation.  No 
present-day  laboratory  man  will  ever 
give  credence  to  the  once  common  ab- 
surdities of  mere  observation. 

In  the  field  of  learning  there  has 
been  an    interesting  though  indirect 
confirmation  of  the  continuity  of  the 
Darwinian  hypothesis  of  mental  life 
throughout  the  animal  scale  up  to  and 
including  man.    The  impassable  gulf 
between  man  and  the  beasts  is  an  illu- 
sion, as  Darwin  thought  it  was.    The 
confirmation  of  the  doctrine,  however, 
has  not  come  about  by  demonstrating 
the  presence  in  animals  of  clear-cut  in- 
tellectual  processes,  but   by  showing 
that  the  sort  of  learning  that  does  hold 
in  animals  is  the  very  root  of  all  that 
is  developed  in  the  mind  of  man.  The 
lowest  man,  of  course,  rises  above  the 
highest  animal  in  many  ways,  but  the 
highest  man  has  as  the  central  core  of 
all  his  mental  and  bodily  life  the  fund 
of  habits  that  he  first  learned  in  the 
trial-and-error   fashion   of  the  world 
below  him.    The  modern  psychology 
of  human  thinking  gives  no  encourage- 
ment to  the  older  belief  that  a  man's 
thinking   processes   go   on   after   the 
fashion  of  Aristotelian  syllogisms.  The 
normal  man  is  not  gifted  with  any  such 
clear-cut  manipulations  as  was  at  one 
time  supposed.  His  mind  is  a  more  or 
less  confused  mass  of  sensations  of 
sight,  memories  of  sound,   imagined 
odors,   perceived  forms,   impulses  to 
move,  frights,  hopes,  tastes  of  food, 
feelings  of  objects  without  and  bodily 
changes  within,  pleasures  and  pains, 
hereditary  tendencies  to  action,  and 
the  images  of  longed-for   goods,  the 
whole  mass  moving  restlessly  in  the 


ANIMAL  INTELLIGENCE 


607 


individual's  effort  to  live  well  in  the 
midst  of  a  changing  environment;  mov- 
ing now  slowly  against  stubborn  dif- 
ficulties, and  now  shooting  forward 
with  electric  rapidity;  moving  now  all 
together,  as  a  mass,  and  now  the 
larger  part  lying  inhibited,  while  a 
fraction  shoots  off  at  the  prompting  of 
temporary  attention;  nothing  in  it  cer- 
tain but  its  imprisonment  within  the 
walls  of  sense,  and  its  slavish  conform- 
ity to  habit;  all  its  entrance  into  undis- 
covered country,  which  alone  deserves 
the  right  to  be  called  thinking,  deter- 
mined by  its  past  history  and  its  pre- 
sent interest,  foredoomed  to  ceaseless 
activity  by  the  imperative  demands 
of  breathing,  of  eating,  of  thinking,  of 
loving,  of  hoping.  The  pure  thought 
of  the  older  metaphysical  psychology 
is  not  the  sort  of  thing  that  modern 
research  brings  to  light.  The  concrete 
thinking  of  our  work-a-day  mind  is 
something  less  pure,  a  little  less  ether- 
eal, something  more  nearly  akin  to 
the  animal  from  which  we  sprang.  The 
same  story  repeats  itself  in  every  level 
of  the  race,  — many  trials,  many  errors, 
and  possibly  one  happy  accidental  suc- 
cess, which,  becoming  stamped  in  by 
the  pleasure  of  the  result,  constitutes 
learning. 

I  am  aware  that  the  reader  is  ready 
to  ask  the  value  of  all  this  anxious 
work,  for  the  experimental  study  of 
animal  behavior  is  now  a  serious  enter- 
prise calling  for  the  devotion  of  trained 
men  and  the  expenditure  of  large  sums 
of  money.  If  the  movement  will  suc- 
cessfully cope  with  the  problems  be- 


fore it,  there  will  be  three  rewards, 
any  one  of  which  is  a  sufficient  just- 
ification. 

First  of  all,  there  is  the  satisfaction  of 
the  great  human  instinct  of  curiosity. 
It  is  this  instinct  that  makes  the  nature- 
lover  observe  the  facts  of  the  world 
about  him.  It  is  this  that  has  brought 
all  our  pure  science  into  being,  and  in 
this  body  of  science  the  study  of  ani- 
mal behavior  seeks  to  find  a  place. 

Secondly,  if  this  study  fulfills  ade- 
quately the  motives  that  brought  it 
into  being,  it  will  reflect  valuable  know- 
ledge on  both  biology  and  psychology. 
The  results  already  attained  justify  the 
devotion  which  the  study  has  received, 
and  the  further  scientific  conquest  of 
the  field  is  bound  to  repay  the  older 
sciences  for  their  labor. 

Finally,  it  is  the  hope  of  at  least  cer- 
tain investigators  that  the  new  science 
may  do  something  toward  putting  edu- 
cation on  a  scientific  foundation.  It 
cannot,  of  course,  perform  the  whole 
task,  but  if  with  our  animals  we  can 
work  out  the  laws  of  the  modification 
of  behavior  in  living  organisms,  that  is, 
discover  their  methods  of  learning, 
there  is  no  doubt  that  we  shall  con- 
tribute thereby  to  the  fields  of  school- 
organization  and  school-instruction. 
Just  as  the  bacteriologist  and  the 
pharmacologist  work  out  their  facts  by 
experimenting  on  animals  and  then 
apply  the  results  to  the  care  and  the 
cure  of  the  human  body,  so  the  animal 
psychologist  may  in  the  future  be- 
come a  most  important  ally  of  the 
educator. 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY 


BY   FLORENCE   CONVERSE 


MRS.  O'BEIRNE,  veiling  her  blue, 
Irish  eyes  beneath  her  dark  lashes,  and 
nervously  adjusting  the  back  of  her  belt, 
made  her  way  up  to  the  top  of  the  room 
and  waited  in  suitable  embarrassment 
for  the  customary  applause  to  subside. 
At  her  elbow  the  wicked  club  secre- 
tary whispered,  '  If  you ' ve  forgot  your 
speech,  I've  it  copied  down  twice't 
over  in  the  minutes  already,  from  last 
year  and  the  year  before  that.' 

The  blue  eyes  flashed  a  smile.  'Just 
for  your  impudence,  Mary  Flanagan, 
watch  me  now  while  I  shock  you  with 
a  bran  new  one,'  murmured  Mrs. 
O'Beirne;  and  then  the  clapping  came 
to  an  end  and  she  raised  her  eyes,  with 
the  laugh  still  in  them,  and  spoke  out. 
She  had  a  proud  little  lift  to  her  head, 
had  Mrs.  O'Beirne. 

'  Mrs.  President,  and  the  other  ladies 
of  the  Mothers'  Club,  this  is  three  times 
now  that  you've  given  me  the  honor 
of  thanking  you  for  electing  me  to  be 
the  treasurer  of  the  Mothers'  Club,  and 
I  don't  know  how  to  say  nothing  dif- 
ferent this  time  from  what  I  said  the 
first  time,  and  that  is,  Thank  you !  I  'm 
just  as  grateful  as  ever  I  was,  for  this 
great  honor  you  have  devolved  upon 
me,  but  my  words  is  just  as  scarce. 
And  one  thing  which  I  did  not  expect, 
and  that  was  to  have  the  vote  unani- 
mous and  standing  up.  I  was  not  look- 
ing for  it  at  all.' 

There  was  a  light  volley  of  appreci- 
ative applause.  The  secretary,  busily 
scribbling,  whispered,  'Go  slow!' 

'And  now,'  continued  the  treasurer, 
'  there  is  more  ways  of  saying  thank  you 

608 


than  words,  and  I  wish  I  could  say 
it  in  figures,  too.  I'd  like  to  be  able  to 
say  I  was  going  to  keep  the  accounts 
for  the  club  better  this  year  than  I  ever 
kept  them  before.  But  that 's  one  thing 
about  accounts,  that  if  they  are  kept 
square  they  can't  be  kept  squarer.' 

'And  you  sure  do  keep  'em  square,' 
cried  an  adulatory  voice. 

'  So  the  only  thing  I  can  think  of  for 
to  show  you  how  much  obliged  I  am  to 
you  '  —  here  the  speaker  paused  and 
surveyed  quizzically  the  rows  of  Ameri- 
can-Irish, middle-aged  countenances 
—  '  is  to  tell  you  a  way  I  've  thought  of 
to  get  rid  of  the  surplus  in  the  treasury, 
and  something  over  besides.' 

There  was  an  uproarious  shout  of 
laughter  from  the  club,  and  Mrs. 
O'Beirne's  wide  mouth  twitched  sym- 
pathetically. Then,  she  straightened 
her  shoulders,  pressed  her  elbows 
against  the  sides  of  her  waist,  inter- 
locked her  fingers,  and  became  sudden- 
ly and  commandingly  serious. 

At  once  the  audience  settled  into 
attention. 

'Ladies  of  the  Mothers'  Club,  it  is 
time  we  done  something  as  a  club  to 
show  our  gratitude  to  Miss  Marshall 
and  the  Settlement  for  all  they  do  for 
us.' 

A  smile  of  inspiration  and  enthusi- 
asm dawned  in  the  eyes  of  the  mothers. 
Mrs.  O'Beirne's  voice  softened  to  a 
reminiscent  tone. 

'  It 's  ten  years  this  spring  that  Miss 
Marshall  come  to  me.  It  was  the  day 
after  I  buried  my  Jimmie,  and  I  was 
sortin'  over  his  little  clothes  and  fold- 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY 


609 


in'  them  away.  And  Miss  Marshall, 
she  had  come  to  call,  the  way  she  al- 
ways does  when  there's  anybody  in 
the  neighborhood  needs  a  friend.  And 
she  says  to  me,  "Mrs.  O'Beirne,"  she 
says,  "I  want  you  to  help  me  to  start 
a  Mothers'  Club."  —  She  never  fails 
to  say  the  comforting  word,  does  Miss 
Marshall.  And  me  that  had  n't  any 
children!  God  bless  her!' 

The  secretary  and  two  or  three  other 
women  wiped  their  eyes. 

'So  that  was  the  way  it  begun,'  re- 
sumed Mrs.  O'Beirne,  in  firmer  tones. 
'  There  was  twenty  of  us  the  first  meet- 
ing, and  I  was  the  youngest  of  the  lot, 
which  I  am  to-day  if  it  was  n't  for  Mary 
Flanagan,  but  she's  an  old  maid  and 
don't  count.' 

The  wet-eyed  mothers  laughed,  and 
Mary  Flanagan  blew  her  nose  and 
ejaculated,  'Get  along  with  you!' 

'Miss  Marshall  was  president  them 
years,  till  she  'd  learned  us  parliament- 
ary rules  and  got  so  busy  with  the 
Settlement  growing  on  her  hands.  And 
old  Mrs.  Brady,  God  rest  her  soul,  was 
treasurer,  and  the  dues  was  ten  cents 
a  month.  To-day  the  membership's 
doubled,  and  the  dues,  and  we  belong 
to  the  Federation.  We've  got  eighty- 
five  dollars  in  the  treasury  this  minute 
from  the  Fancy  sale,  and  at  the  end  of 
this  meetin'  when  the  members  what 
owes  has  paid  up  their  back  dues,  we  '11 
have  fifteen  dollars  more.  And  yes- 
terday, when  I  was  fitting  Miss  Mar- 
shall for  her  shirt-waists,  she  says  to 
me,  real  mournful-like,  "Oh,  Mrs. 
O'Beirne,  whatever  are  we  go  in'  to  do 
with  the  work?"  she  says.  "So  many 
things  to  do  and  so  little  money  to  do 
with,  and  all  these  new  people  comin' 
into  the  neighborhood  that  we  'd  ought 
to  get  hold  of.  Have  you  noticed  how 
many  Greeks  there  is  comin'  in?"  she 
says.  "And  have  I,"  says  I,  "the 
dirty,  peddlin'  thieves!"  I  says.  And 
Miss  Marshall  laughed  at  me,  and  she 
VOL.  107 -NO.  S 


says,  "Oh,  Mrs.  O'Beirne,  and  is  that 
all  of  the  Settlement  spirit  you  've  got 
off  me  all  these  years,  —  and  you  and 
me  such  friends?  "  And  then  she  stood 
there  thinkin'.  And  my  head  was  that 
bowed  with  shame,  did  n't  I  cut  the 
left  shoulder  of  her  shirt-waist  all 
crooked,  and  spoiled  the  whole  half  of 
the  front  for  her.  But  she  has  the 
heavenly  disposition,  Miss  Marshall 
has.' 

Here  Mrs.  O'Beirne  looked  at  the 
secretary  with  an  expression  at  once 
rueful  and  amused. 

'  That  last  about  the  shirt-waist  don't 
belong  to  the  speech,  Mary  Flanagan,' 
she  remarked,  '  so  you  need  n't  to  be 
takin'  it  down.  What  I  want  to  say  is, 
there 's  a  large  empty  room  on  the  first 
floor  of  Number  60,  and  there's  some 
one  agreed  to  pay  the  rent,  but  it 's  the 
money  for  the  furnishing  that  Miss 
Marshal  has  n't  got.' 

Mrs.  O'Beirne  paused. 

'And  what  would  the  room  be  for?' 
asked  a  round-faced  mother. 

'Why,  for  the  Greeks!  Who  else 
would  it  be  for?' 

'The  Greeks!'  muttered  half  a  dozen 
voices;  and  gloom  crept  into  the  up- 
turned eyes  of  the  club. 
.    Mrs.  O'Beirne  observed  this  shadow 
of  opposition  calmly. 

'Well,  what  have  you  got  against 
the  Greeks?'  she  asked. 

'  They  're  foreigners,'  croaked  a  stout, 
red-faced  woman. 

'There's  Mrs.  Grady,  sittin'  next 
to  you,  Mrs.  MacAlarney,  she's  a  for- 
eigner. She  was  born  in  the  Old  Coun- 
try, and  so  was  Mrs.  Halloran,  three 
seats  behind,  and  Mrs.  Mahoney;  and 
they're  proud  of  it,  and  so  are  we.' 

Some  of  the  mothers  laughed,  others 
looked  perplexed. 

'There  's  a  difference  in  foreigners,' 
asserted  a  wiry  little  woman.  'Them 
Greeks  don't  talk  English.' 

'If  you'll  just  look  inside  a  gram- 


610 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY 


mar,  Mrs.  Barlow,  you  '11  find  that  you 
and  me  don't  talk  English  neither.' 

More  members  laughed;  but  a  gaunt, 
black-eyed  woman  rose  and  cried  out 
angrily,  'What's  the  use  of  us  try- 
ing to  out-talk  you,  Mrs.  O'Beirne,  — 
but  you  know  what  we  mean.  They  're 
a  low,  dirty  lot.  They  ain't  civilized, 
and  I  don't  want  nothing  to  do  with 
them.  I  told  my  Josie  if  ever  I  caught 
her  playin'  in  the  street  with  them  I  'd 
break  her  neck.' 

A  number  of  the  mothers,  mortified 
by  the  vehemence  of  the  speaker, 
lowered  their  eyes  and  moved  uneasily 
in  their  chairs;  but  several  nodded  in 
violent  accord. 

'I'll  hold  with  Mrs.  Casey,'  said 
one  of  these.  'Some  people  is  lower 
than  others,  —  the  Chinese  is  about 
the  lowest,  but  the  Greeks  is  pretty 
low.' 

'  If  there 's  any  ladies  here  have  been 
comin'  to  Miss  Marshall's  Travel 
Class,'  interrupted  Mrs.  O'Beirne, 
'they'll  stand  by  me  when  I  say  that 
that 's  a  mistake.  The  Greeks  was  art- 
ists and  play-writers  and  poets;  they 
were  a  civil-i-zation  before  you  and  me 
and  America  was  thought  of.  I  don't 
want  to  out-talk  nobody.  I  'm  not  say- 
ing I'd  choose  Greeks,  nor  Roosians, 
nor  Italians,  for  neighbors,  if  I  had  my 
way.  But  they're  here.  Ladies  of  the 
Mothers'  Club,  this  is  our  chance  for 
a  share  in  this  great  work  that 's  been 
going  on  in  our  midst  for  ten  years. 
Where  would  the  Mothers'  Club  be, 
I  '11  ask  you,  if  it  did  n't  have  this  room  ? 
There  could  n't  no  forty-five  ladies 
squeeze  into  my  tenement,  that 's  sure ! 
Nor  into  Mary  Flanagan's,  nor  Presi- 
dent Murphy's.  And  now,  why  can't 
we  pass  it  on,  and  give  the  new  people 
a  chance?' 

Contrite  submissiveness  emanated 
from  the  majority  of  the  mothers,  but 
a  defiant  voice  at  the  back  of  the  room 
demanded,  — 


'Did  Miss  Marshall  ask  you  to  ask 
the  club  for  the  money?' 

'Shame!  Shame!'  murmured  two  or 
three  mothers. 

Mrs.  O'Beirne  fixed  the  speaker  with 
a  shocked,  reproachful  eye. 

'  She  did  not,  Mrs.  Morrison.  I  thank 
God  I  have  two  or  three  ideas  of  my 
own.' 

Then  her  voice  deepened  to  plead- 
ing: 'Ah,  it  isn't  me  that  ought  to  be 
putting  it  into  your  heads  to  give  this 
money.  It's  you  that  had  ought  to 
think  of  it  for  yourselves,  —  you  that 
have  children  that  '11  live  to  bless  this 
house.  Nor  we  ain't  the  only  mothers, 
nor  ours  ain't  the  only  children.  I 
have  more  time  to  think  of  them  others' 
children  than  you  have.  You  're  right, 
they're  ignorant  foreigners;  but  if  we 
don't  try  to  make  Americans  out  of 
them,  then  we're  no  better  than  for- 
eigners ourselves,  I  say  —  and  good- 
bye, America!' 

Her  adherents,  now  the  greater  part 
of  the  audience,  applauded  vigorously. 

'There'll  be  one  hundred  dollars  in 
the  treasury,'  she  reiterated.  'What 
will  we  do  with  it?' 

The  wiry  little  woman  bounced  to 
her  feet.  'I'll  move  that  we  give  it  to 
Miss  Marshall  to  buy  furniture.' 

'  I  second  the  motion,'  said  Mrs.  Mor- 
rison, haughty  but  contrite. 

'I  knew  you  would,'  Mrs.  O'Beirne 
called  out.  '  I 'm  coming  back  there  in 
a  minute  to  kiss  and  make  up.' 

And  in  a  few  moments  it  had  been 
arranged  that  the  money  should  be  pre- 
sented to  Miss  Marshall,  by  the  treas- 
urer, at  the  next  meeting. 

Mrs.  Morrison,  Mary  Flanagan,  and 
two  or  three  other  women  who  lived 
near  Mrs.  O'Beirne,  walked  with  her 
down  the  street,  craning  their  necks 
and  jostling  one  another  to  watch  her 
as  she  talked.  The  naive  and  innocent 
pleasure  which  she  took  in  her  own 
personality  and  achievement  expressed 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY 


611 


itself  in  her  buoyant  step,  the  brillian- 
cy of  her  eyes,  the  happy  excitement 
in  her  voice. 

'  She  kind  of  chokes  me  when  I  look 
at  her,'  whispered  one  of  the  women. 
'My  heart  beats  like  as  if  I'd  been 
runnin'.' 

'She's  a  grand  woman!'  declared 
Mary  Flanagan,  in  a  low,  emphatic 
voice. 

'I  should  think  you'd  be  afraid  to 
keep  all  that  money  by  you,  Mrs. 
O'Beirne,'  Mrs.  Morrison  was  saying. 
'If  it  was  me  I'd  be  that  uneasy  I 
could  n't  sleep  nights.' 

'Oh,  I've  had  more  than  this  to  one 
time,'  said  the  treasurer  carelessly. 
'  O'Beirne  keeps  a  bit  of  something  for 
a  rainy  day  in  a  tin  box,  and  there 's  a 
lock  to  it.  Nobody  would  touch  it  but 
him,  —  and  I'll  bank  on  O'Beirne.' 

'  You  're  the  fortunate  woman  to  have 
such  a  good  man! '  said  Mrs.  Morrison; 
adding  hastily,  'Not  that  I'm  sayin' 
anything  against  Morrison.  I'd  not 
ask  a  bigger  heart  than  his;  but  it 's  just 
not  in  him  to  save.' 

There  was  a  brief,  embarrassed  si- 
lence, for  Mr.  Morrison's  faults  and  vir- 
tues were  well  known  to  his  neighbors. 

'  Will  you  look  at  the  crowd  by  your 
door,  Mrs.  O  'Beirne ! '  cried  Mary  Flan- 
agan, to  change  the  subject.  'Is  there 
anybody  sick,  do  you  know?' 

'Mrs.  Dugan's  Mamie  was  took  to 
the  hospital  for  her  hip  disease  last 
week,'  said  Mrs.  O'Beirne.  '  Here  comes 
Johnnie  Dugan  '11  tell  us.' 

And  Johnnie  did. 

'Oh,  Mrs.  O'Beirne,'  he  shouted, 
'  Mr.  O'Beirne 's  sick,  and  they  had  to 
carry  him  upstairs.' 

Mrs.  O'Beirne's  eyes  widened ;  she  be- 
gan to  run.  The  other  women  folio  wed, 
but  as  she  reached  her  door  she  turned 
and  said,  'Good-bye,'  and  they  knew 
themselves  dismissed. 

'  What  do  you  say  ? '  questioned  Mary 
Flanagan.  'He  would  n't  be  — ?' 


'Oh,  not  Barney  O'Beirne,'  declared 
Mrs.  Morrison.  '  He  never  takes  a  drop. 
What  I  was  thinkin'  was  one  of  them 
heavy  trunks  might  have  fell  on  him, 
or  he  might  have  strained  hisself. 
They're  cruel  careless  the  way  they 
sling  the  baggage  about.' 

'His  face  was  a  kind  of  blue  color, 
like  them  California  plums,'  volun- 
teered a  little  girl. 

The  women  stared,  horrified,  and 
moved  slowly  away. 

Upstairs  Mrs.  O'Beirne  was  kneel- 
ing beside  the  bed.  An  embarrassed 
fellow  workman  of  Mr.  O'Beirne's  laid 
a  little  bottle  on  the  pillow  and  tip- 
toed out  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  O'Beirne  stared  at  the  label, 
amyl  nitrate.  The  strange  name  filled 
her  with  dismay. 

'How  long  have  you  been  taking 
this,  Barney?'  she  asked,  reaching  for 
the  bottle. 

'Oh,  not  so  long.' 

'  What  are  they  for,  —  your  stum- 
mick?  You  never  told  me.' 

'No,  —  not  my  stummick.' 

She  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  stroked 
his  hand. 

'  What 's  it  you  've  been  keepin'  from 
me?' 

'  I  thought  I  done  it  for  the  best,'  he 
pleaded.  'I  did  n't  believe  the  doctor 
knew;  and  what  was  the  use  of  you 
bein'  frightened  for  nothin'?' 

'I  know,  —  I  know,'  she  whispered. 
'You  never  done  nothin'  that  you 
did  n't  mean  it  kind,  Barney,  —  never. 
But  oh,  my  dear!' 

She  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

'It  must  be  your  lungs  then,  that 
makes  you  breathe  so  short?'  she  ob- 
served presently. 

'No,  —  my  heart.' 

'When  did  you  go  to  see  the  doc- 
tor?' 

He  lay  looking  toward  the  window 
for  a  few  moments;  then,  without 


612 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY 


moving  his  eyes,  he  began  to  speak  in 
a  slow,  careful  voice. 

'I  been  gettin'  tireder  and  tireder 
the  last  year,  but  I  thought  it  was  no 
more  than  natural;  everybody  that 
works  faithful  gets  tired.  And  then  one 
day  I  had  a  funny  spell.  It  was  the 
end  of  last  summer,  and  I  thought  it 
was  the  heat.  But  in  October  come 
another,  —  time  of  one  of  them  con- 
ventions when  there  was  an  extra  rush 
of  baggage,  —  and  then  I  begun  to  be 
a  little  worried.' 

'Did  n't  you  feel  no  pains?' 

'  Oh,  yes,  —  off  and  on !  But  they 
might  've  been  rheumatism.' 

His  wife  sighed,  and  a  deprecatory 
note  crept  into  his  voice. 

'  I  did  go  to  a  doctor  after  that,  Nora. 
I  been  to  more  than  half  a  dozen.  The 
first  was  to  the  Dispensary;  and  I  never 
took  much  stock  in  things  I  did  n't  pay 
for.  He  was  a  young  feller,  and  there 
was  a  lot  of  women  and  children  wait- 
in'  their  turn.' 

The  sick  man  was  silent  a  few  min- 
utes, breathing  painfully,  but  pre- 
sently began  again  in  the  same  slow 
voice:  'I  did  n't  think  he  knew  what 
he  was  talkin'  about, — but  I  thought 
it  might  be  safer  to  get  my  life  insured. 
But  the  Insurance  Company  would  n't 
take  me.  Their  doctor  was  a  fat  old 
party,  — shorter-breathed  than  me,  — 
and  he  says,  "I  could  n't  conscien- 
tiously recommend  you,  —  not  with 
that  heart."  And  then  I  got  mad  and 
told  him  I  always  knew  insurance  was 
a  fake,  and  the  papers  was  full  of 
their  rascality  anyway.' 

Mrs.  O'Beirne  gave  a  little  choking 
laugh,  and  leaned  down  and  kissed  her 
husband. 

'  He  laughed  at  me,  too;  and  he  says, 
"  Here,  if  you  don't  believe  me,  go  to 
this  man,  —  he  makes  a  specialty  of 
your  complaint."  And  he  wrote  the 
name  on  a  card.  And  that  third  feller 
was  a  hummer.  Sure  I  thought  I  was 


to  confession.  He  begun  with  me  before 
I  was  born,  —  and  wrote  it  all  down 
in  a  book.  He  listened  behind  my  back, 
—  and  he  used  instruments  on  me,  — 
and  he  took  the  height  and  the  weight 
and  the  width  of  me,  and  measured  me 
acrost  my  chest  and  under  my  arms,  — 
till  I  asked  him  if  there  was  a  suit  of 
clothes  thrown  in  with  the  treatment.' 

Mrs.  O'Beirne  gave  another  little 
laugh,  and  a  little  sob.  'Oh,  Barney, 
Barney  darlin',  don't  you,  don't  you, 
when  my  heart  is  breakin' !  * 

His  great  hand  tightened  on  hers, 
and  when  he  spoke  again  the  whims- 
ical, playful  note  was  gone  from  his 
weary  voice. 

'  When  he  told  me  I  was  a  sick  man, 
I  stood  out  against  him.  I  says, 
V'What  are  you  givin'  me?"  I  says. 
"  Look  at  the  healthy  color  of  me,  and 
I'm  the  biggest  man  in  the  baggage- 
room.  If  there 's  an  extra  size  trunk  to 
handle,  they'll  always  turn  it  over  to 
me."  And  he  says  to  me,  "That's 
what 's  the  matter  with  you, — you're 
too  big,"  he  says.  "Your  heart  has 
to  work  too  hard  to  keep  up  with 
you,  and  then  you  go  and  lift  trunks. 
I  wonder  it  did  n't  happen  five  years 
ago.  And  your  color  is  not  healthy," 
he  says.  "Then  am  I  to  give  up  sling- 
in'  baggage?"  I  asked  him.  "Will  that 
cure  me?  "  —  He  was  a  good  man,  that 
doctor.  He  looked  me  square  in  the 
eye  and  held  out  his  hand  and  gripped 
mine,  and  he  says,  "There  is  no  cure, 
Mr.  O'Beirne." 

His  wife  flung  up  her  arms  with  a 
cry,  and  began  to  pace  the  room,  wring- 
ing her  hands  together.  The  sick  man's 
eyes  followed  her,  his  breast  heaving 
rapidly.  '  Maybe  you  better  give  me 
them  drops,'  he  said.  'This  spell  don't 
stop  off.' 

She  uncorked  the  bottle  and  turned 
out  some  of  its  contents  into  the  palm 
of  her  hand. 

'Why,'     she     exclaimed,     'they're 


THE  QUALITY  OF   MERCY 


613 


beads!  You  never  are  eatin'  glass 
beads,  Barney  ?  They  're  deadly ! ' 

'  No,  —  you  hold  it  under  my  nose. 
—  Break  it!' 

She  watched  him  inhale  the  con- 
tents of  the  capsule  through  its  little 
silk  top,  and  her  awe  and  her  trouble 
increased. 

'Tell  me  the  doctor's  name,  Barney. 
I'm  goin'  to  send  for  him.' 

'  Oh,  I  ain't  been  near  that  one  since. 
This  is  his  medicine,  but  where  was 
the  use  of  goin'  again?  A  man's  wife, 
to  the  baggage-room,  had  been  cured  of 
something  by  a  Christian  Scientist, 
a  woman  doctor,  so  I  thought  I'd 
take  a  chance  witl.  her.  She  give  me 
absent  treatment,  but  one  night  I  had 
a  spell  right  here  in  bed,  —  and  I  was 
scared  for  fear  you'd  wake.  So  I  told 
her  she  need  n't  try  it  on  me  any 
more.  Then  I  see  a  mesmerist's  sign 
in  a  window.  There  did  n't  seem  to  be 
no  harm  in  having  a  try  at  all  them 
things,  if  it  was  hopeless,  you  know. 
The  last  one  was  an  osteopath.'  He 
glanced  at  his  wife  almost  timidly  and 
added,  lowering  his  eyes,  'Him  and 
the  Christian  Scientist  was  the  most 
expensive  of  all.' 

Mrs.  O'Beirne  was  sitting  on  the 
bed,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands.  'Oh, 
what  would  the  expense  matter  if  only 
you  was  cured!'  she  cried. 

'That  was  the  way  I  thought,'  he 
answered  in  a  tone  of  relief.  But  the 
anxiety  had  crept  back  again  with  his 
next  words:  'That  was  the  way  I 
thought,  —  but  now  —  there 's  nothin* 
left  to  bury  me.' 

Mrs.  O'Beirne's  hands  came  down 
slowly  from  her  tear-stained  face.  'You 
mean,  —  it 's  took  all  the  savings  ? ' 

'  I  done  the  best  I  could !  I  done  the 
best  I  could ! '  he  gasped,  stretching  his 
hands  out  toward  her,  along  the  cover- 
let. 

'Oh,  my  dear,  don't  I  know  that?' 
she  whispered,  putting  her  arms  about 


him.  '  But  there  was  almost  enough  to 
bury  both  of  us ! ' 

'There  was  the  drops,'  he  explained. 
'And  the  Scientist  give  me  four  treat- 
ments, —  and  the  osteopath  — ' 

'Never  you  mind,  darlin','  pleaded 
his  wife.  '  It  was  your  money,  you  'd  a 
right  to  do  what  you  done.' 

'The  regular  heart  doctor  did  n't 
want  to  take  nothing,  but  I  told  him 
I  was  n't  livin'  off  of  charity.  I  knew 
how  proud  you  was,  Nora!' 

'Yes,  darlin',  you  done  just  right.' 

'What '11  we  do  about  the  buryin'?' 
he  whispered.  'What '11  we  do?  that's 
the  thought  that 's  stayed  with  me  day 
and  night,  day  and  night,  since  a  week 
ago  yesterday,  when  I  took  out  the 
last  dollar  bill,  —  and  they  Ve  kept 
a-comin'  more  frequent.' 

'You're  not  goin'  to  die!  You're  not 
goin'  to  die!'  she  cried. 

'It  don't  seem  true  that  I'm  to  be 
buried  on  charity,'  he  said  gloomily. 
*  Me  that  never  left  off  workin'  a  single 
day.' 

'If  only  you  had,  Barney!  Oh,  if 
only  you  had !  I  'd  Ve  worked  my  fin- 
gers to  the  bone  to  keep  you!' 

'I  think  I  see  myself,  layin'  down 
on  you,'  he  answered  with  a  faint  at- 
tempt at  scorn ;  and  after  a  little  while, 
wistfully,  '  Couldn't  you  think  of  some 
way  we  could  get  the  money,  Nora, 
—  you  was  always  that  clever?' 

'Maybe  I  will,  dearie!'  she  comfort- 
ed him. 

'To  think  that  at  the  last  I'd  be  a 
disgrace  to  you,  Nora,'  he  brooded,  — 
'and  all  the  neighbors  thinkin'  us  so 
well  off!  —  Me  that  never  drunk  a 
drop,  —  nor  owed  a  cent.  —  To  think 
we  'd  be  caught  this  way.  —  You 
could  n't  pawn  the  furniture,  —  every- 
body'd  know.  —  It  ain't  been  out  of 
my  mind  an  hour  these  eight  days.  — 
"Poor  Nora!"  I  says  to  myself, — 
"come  to  this!" 

'For   the   love   of   Mary,    Barney, 


614 


THE  QUALITY  OF   MERCY 


hush ! '  moaned  Mrs.  O'Beirne.  '  Hush, 
darlin',  —  till  I  think!' 

The  twilight  came,  and  the  darkness. 
Nora  lit  the  lamp  and  set  it  in  a  corner 
of  the  room. 

'I'm  goin'  for  that  doctor  on  the 
avenue,'  she  said,  after  she  had  given 
him  a  second  capsule.  '  I  can't  see  that 
these  things  helps.' 

•'  Maybe  the  undertaker  would  trust 
you,  Nora.  Was  n't  you  telling  me 
that  book-keeper  in  Haley's  Fish  Mar- 
ket is  goin'  to  be  married?  Maybe  you 
could  get  her  place.  You'll  put  by 
fast  when  you've  only  yourself.' 

Her  answer  was  a  cry  of  agony. 

'  No,  —  I  don't  believe  he  would 
trust  you,  though,'  continued  her  hus- 
band hopelessly.  'I  mind  how  hard 
he  was  when  Morrison's  baby  died.  I 
helped  Morrison,  —  but  it  don't  cost 
much  for  a  baby.' 

'I'm  goin'  out  just  for  a  minute, 
Barney.' 

But  the  sick  man  was  absorbed  in 
his  own  thoughts;  the  faint  gasping 
voice  went  on:  'What '11  we  do  if 
there  ain't  carriages  enough  for  the 
Mothers'  Club,  Nora?  If  it  was  men 
they  might  pay  for  their  own  seats. 
That 's  what  I  been  thinking,  —  them 
women.  We'd  always  said  we'd  pay 
for  the  Club 's  carriages.  She  '11  be  dis- 
graced before  all  them  women,  —  my 
Nora,  that's  cleverer  than  all  the 
whole  lot  of  them  put  together.' 

Mrs.  O'Beirne  hurried  out  of  the 
room  and  shut  the  door.  In  the  hall- 
way she  met  Mrs.  Dugan  and  the  other 
neighbors,  hovering  at  the  top  of  the 
staircase.  One  of  them  went  for  the 
doctor,  another  for  the  priest. 

'  He  may  last  an  hour  or  two,  he  may 
go  any  minute,'  the  doctor  said. 

The  priest  performed  his  offices  with 
perfunctory  simplicity,  and  hurried 
away  to  another  bedside.  Mrs.  O'Beirne 
locked  the  door  against  her  kindly, 
inquisitive  friends,  and  bent  over  her 


husband's  bed.  His  eyes  sought  hers, 
appealingly,  helplessly.  His  voice  was 
gone,  but  the  lips  moved.  'The  bury- 
in'?'  they  said. 

The  tears  were  streaming  down  her 
cheeks.  She  lifted  his  great  rough 
hands  and  pressed  them  against  her 
quivering  lips. 

'  I  'm  going  to  undress  me  now,  dar- 
lin' —  and  then  I  '11  come  and  set  by 
you.' 

She  took  off  her  belt,  unhooked  her 
skirt,  and  unbuttoned  her  flannel  shirt- 
waist. Something  fell  on  the  floor  with 
a  thud.  It  was  the  purse  containing 
the  club-money. 

Mrs.  O'Beirne  looked  down  at  it. 
Then  she  stooped  and  picked  it  up 
slowly,  and  stood  looking  at  it.  Quite 
silently  she  stood,  a  tensely  thinking 
look  on  her  face;  then,  on  a  sudden, 
she  gave  a  loud,  joyful  cry  and  ran  to 
the  bed. 

'Barney,  Barney!  —  I've  found  a 
way,  darlin'  —  it's  all  right,  darlin'! 
You  need  n't  to  worry  no  more ! ' 

A  faint  echo  of  her  own  cry  burst 
from  Barney's  lips;  his  eyeg  gave  one 
flash  of  love  and  joy;  then  a  dreadful 
spasm  shook  him,  his  hands  clutched 
his  throat,  —  and  he  died. 

There  were  carriages  enough  for  the 
Mothers'  Club. 

Mary  Flanagan  rode  with  the  widow 
and  got  out  at  the  widow's  door. 

'It's  been  a  beautiful  funeral,  my 
dear,'  she  said.  'All  the  members  is 
talking  about  your  lovely  taste  in  the 
casket,  so  severe  and  quiet.' 

She  kissed  Mrs.  O'Beirne  and  con- 
tinued anxiously,  'You'll  be  coming 
to  the  meeting  this  week?  Some  of 
them  was  afraid  you  would  n't  want 
to  make  the  presentation  speech,  being 
in  mourning.  But  it's  not  like  it  was  a 
party;  philanthropy's  different.  If  you 
don't  do  it  the  President '11  have  to, 
—  and  —  she 's  a  good  woman,  is  Mrs. 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY 


615 


Murphy  —  an  awful  kind  woman  — 
but  you  come  and  make  the  speech, 
dearie!  You  look  just  sweet  in  black!' 

'This  week! '  said  Mrs.  O'Beirne,  and 
there  was  a  strange,  awakened,  startled 
look  in  her  eyes. 

'They're  afraid  Miss  Marshall  will 
get  it  from  somewhere  else  if  they 
don't  give  it  quick.  They  're  so  pleased 
with  themselves  about  giving  the 
money  now,  you'd  think  it  was  them 
as  thought  of  it  in  the  first  place.' 

'This  week! '  repeated  Mrs.  O'Beirne. 

*It's  four  days  yet.  It'll  take  your 
mind  off  your  grief,  dear.  You  will, 
won't  you?' 

'Oh,  I  don't  know,  —  I  don't  know!' 
said  Mrs.  O'Beirne  wildly,  and  ran 
into  the  house. 

'She  will,  all  right!'  observed  Mary 
Flanagan.  '  She  would  n't  never  let 
nobody  else  make  that  speech.' 

And  Mrs.  O'Beirne  was  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  tenement  kitchen, 
saying  over  and  over,  'Oh,  my  God! 
what'llldo?' 

A  half  hour  she  stood,  with  her  new 
widow's  bonnet  and  veil  still  on  her 
head,  saying  those  words  at  intervals 
and  staring  before  her  with  terror- 
filled  eyes.  But  at  last  her  knees  began 
to  tremble  and  she  staggered  to  a  chair. 

'It  looks  so  different!'  she  said  in  a 
low  voice.  '  O  God !  How  can  I  tell  them 
women?  I  can't!  —  I  can't!'  She  got 
up  and  paced  the  floor  of  the  kitchen. 
'O  God!  Whatever  will  I  do!' 

Two  days  after  the  funeral,  Mrs. 
Dugan  came  to  the  Settlement  and 
asked  for  Miss  Marshall. 

'I've  come  for  you  to  see  Mrs. 
O  'Beirne, '  she  explained .  'It's  my  opin- 
ion she's  going  crazy  with  grief.  Two 
nights  now  she  's  walked  the  floor  over 
my  head;  and  she  won't  let  nobody 
inside  the  door;  she'll  open  it  a  crack 
and  just  stand  there,  looking  at  you 
wild-like,  and  before  you  know  it  she  '11 
lock  it  against  you.  But  this  morning 


I  calls  to  her  if  she  would  n't  like  to 
have  you  come,  and  at  first  she  did  n't 
say  nothing,  and  then  she  says,  "  Yes! " 
like  it  was  a  cork  burst  out  of  a  bottle. 
So  I  did  n't  stop  but  to  throw  on  my 
shawl.' 

The  new  lines  in  Mrs.  O'Beirne's 
haggard  face  indicated  an  experience 
more  tragic  than  grief. 

'You  are  in  trouble!'  exclaimed  Miss 
Marshall,  taking  both  her  hands. 

'I  am  that,  —  I  am  that!'  answered 
Mrs.  O'Beirne.  She  drew  away  her 
hands  and  covered  her  face.  'Terrible 
trouble!' 

Miss  Marshall  guided  her  to  a  chair 
by  the  kitchen  table,  and  drew  up  an- 
other chair  for  herself. 

'There's  nobody  but  you  can  help 
me ! '  moaned  the  poor  woman,  her  face 
still  buried  in  her  hands,  her  elbows 
on  the  table.  'And  you'll  never  have 
no  more  use  for  me  when  I  tell  you.' 

'I  can't  think  of  anything  you 
could  do  that  could  keep  us  from  being 
friends,'  said  Miss  Marshall. 

Mrs.  O'Beirne  lifted  her  face,  clasped 
her  hands  tight  together,  and  began  to 
speak  rapidly,  her  voice  rising  higher 
and  higher. 

'It  was  along  of  Barney  being  sick 
and  spending  all  his  savings  on  the  doc- 
tors ;  and  there  was  nothing  left  for  the 
funeral,  and  he  never  told  me  till  the 
night  he  died.  And  him  laying  there 
on  his  dying  bed,  gasping  for  breath. 
"  To  think  that  at  the  last  I  'd  be  a  dis- 
grace to  you,  Nora,"  he  says,  "me 
that  never  drunk  a  drop!  Couldn't 
you  think  of  some  way  we  could  get 
the  money?"  he  says.  Oh,  it  would 
have  broke  your  heart  to  hear  him! 
And  the  Mothers'  Club  purse  fell  out 
of  my  dress,  and  it  was  like  a  miracle. 
And  now  I've  got  to  give  back  that 
money  day  after  to-morrow,  —  do  you 
hear  me?  —  day  after  to-morrow!' 
Her  voice  rose  to  a  scream  at  the  last 


616 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY 


words.  She  clasped  her  hands  over  her 
mouth  and  looked  at  Miss  Marshall 
with  fierce,  impelling  eyes. 

'You  mean,'  said  Miss  Marshall 
slowly,  'that  you  took  the  money  of 
the  Mothers'  Club?' 

'I  mean  I  borrowed  it!'  cried  Mrs. 
O'Beirne.  'There  it  was  in  my  hand! 
It  was  like  it  was  give  to  me  to  use. 
And  he  died  happy,  Barney  did.  Oh, 
it  was  worth  it!' 

'No!'  said  Miss  Marshall. 

'And  why  wasn't  it?'  demanded 
Mrs.  O'Beirne;  but  her  eyes  fell. 
'  Nothing  seemed  to  matter  but  that 
Barney  and  me  should  n't  be  dis- 
graced by  a  charity  burial,'  she  sobbed. 
'  How  can  you  know  the  "way  we  feel 
about  these  things?  And  we 'veal  ways 
held  our  heads  so  high  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. Oh,  you  could  n't  understand 
what  it  meant!' 

'But  you  say  you  borrowed  the 
money,  —  you  must  have  thought  the 
club  would  be  willing  to  lend  it.  Why 
did  n't  you  tell  them  you  wanted  it?' 

'And  have  all  them  women  know?' 
the  widow  cried. 

An  embarrassed  silence  fell. 

'How  much  was  it?' 

'One  hundred  dollars.' 

An  exclamation  of  surprise  escaped 
Miss  Marshall. 

'  You  could  n't  get  up  a  decent  fu- 
neral for  less,'  declared  Mrs. .O'Beirne, 
—  'not  with  all  them  carriages.' 

'And  why  must  you  hand  it  in  day 
after  to-morrow?' 

'Because  they're  a  set  of  fools  over 
a  plan,  and  it  was  me  that  put  it  into 
their  heads ;  and  that  was  one  reason  I 
did  n't  mind  using  the  money.  They  'd 
never  have  thought  of  that  other  way 
of  using  it  without  I  had  n't  persuaded 
them.  It  seemed  more  mine  than  theirs, 
all  the  time,  that  money.  Have  n't 
I  had  the  handling  of  it  three  years? 
And  whenever  we'd  spend  any,  it  was 
me  that  said  how  we  'd  spend  it.  I  tell 


you  there  did  n't  seem  nothing  wrong 
at  all  about  me  using  it  —  then. ' 

'But  there  does  now?' 

Mrs.  O'Beirne  turned  away  her  face, 
and  sat  motionless.  When  she  spoke, 
her  voice  was  harsh.  'You  think  I'm 
a  thief.  But  I  borrowed  that  money.'  ^ 

Again    there    was    silence.        Mrs. 

0  'Beirne  still  sat  with  her  face  turned 
away. 

'If  you  had  been  me,  and  Barney 
there  dying,  and  nothing  before  him 
but  pauper  burial;  if  you  had  held 
your  head  high  all  your  life,  and  never 
had  nothing  to  do  with  charity,  and 
respected  the  way  Barney  and  me  was, 

—  maybe  you  would  n't  have  known 
the  difference  between  borrowing  and 

—  and  —  just  for  a  minute.' 
'That's  what  I've  been  thinking,' 

acknowledged  Miss  Marshall  humbly. 
She  put  her  arms  about  Mrs.  O'Beirne, 
and  the  poor  woman  began  to  shake 
and  sob. 

'  I  would  n't  have  taken  it  without 

1  meant  to  pay  it  back.    You  know  I 
would  n't.  It  was  only  that  everything 
seemed  so  easy  to  do  when  I  held  the 
money  in  my  hand.' 

'Why  don't  you  go  to  confession?' 
suggested  Miss  Marshall. 

'  It 's  not  my  day  till  Saturday  week, 
and  there's  no  good  going  before, 
Father  Finney  would  n't  give  me  the 
money.  It's  the  money  I've  got  to 
have,  don't  you  see?  Oh,  Miss  Mar- 
shall, you  would  n't  leave  me  be  dis- 
graced before  all  them  women?  Oh, 
God,  I '11  die  first!' 

Miss  Marshall  thought  of  other  cases 
of  the  misappropriation  of  funds,  just 
then  agitating  the  public  mind.  But 
she  remembqred  why  this  woman  had 
taken  the  money.  Miss  Marshall  was 
trying  very  hard  to  keep  her  moral  out- 
look clear.  Pride,  and  not  contrition, 
moved  Mrs.  O'Beirne  to  tears.  Any 
one  who  betrayed  a  public  trust  should 
make  public  reparation,  Nothing 


THE  QUALITY  OF   MERCY 


617 


could  be  worse  for  the  character  of  a 
sinner  than  to  excuse  or  condone  or 
cover  up  his  sin,  on  any  grounds. 
'  But  if  I  fail  her  now,  will  that  be  any 
more  likely  to  quicken  her  to  repent- 
ance? If  she  were  my  own  sister 
after  the  flesh,  I  should  never  let  her  be 
disgraced  before  those  other  women.' 

Aloud  she  said,  'I'm  not  sure  that 
I  can  get  so  much  money  so  quickly. 
You  know  I  've  only  a  salary,  myself. 
I  '11  do  my  best,  but  there 's  very  little 
time.' 

They  stood  up.  In  Mrs.  O'Beirne's 
face  there  was  fear  instead  of  relief. 
'But  you  won't  never  think  the  same 
of  me  again,'  she  said  with  strange 
quiet. 

'If  I  had  had  your  temptation,  I 
might  have  done  just  as  you  did,'  Miss 
Marshall  answered  soothingly. 

'It's  not  that;  it's  not  that!'  said 
Mrs.  O'Beirne.  Then  her  face  began 
to  work  piteously.  'God  bless  you, 
dear!  God  bless  you!' 

After  she  was  left  alone,  she  sat  down 
in  the  rocking-chair,  always  with  the 
same  still  face,  the  same  thought- 
haunted  eyes.  Her  hands  lay  idle  in 
her  lap.  She  did  not  rock  to  and  fro. 
And  thus  she  sat  all  the  afternoon. 

As  she  was  undressing  for  bed,  she 
said  aloud,  '  But  I  'm  going  to  pay  it 
back,  —  every  cent.'  And  presently,  'I 
would  tell  them  —  then  —  I  borrowed 
it.' 

After  the  dawn  came  she  slept.  In 
the  morning  when  she  opened  her  eyes 
she  said,  'She  won't  never  think  the 
same  of  me  again.' 

Late  that  afternoon  Miss  Marshall 
brought  her  the  money.  She  looked  at 
it  and  then  at  Miss  Marshall.  'You 
mean  —  you're  going  to  leave  it  with 
me?' 

Tears  sprang  into  Miss  Marshall's 
eyes.  'Oh,  my  dear,'  she  exclaimed, 
*  of  course  I  am ! ' 

'  But  you  can't  never  think  the  same 


of  me  again,'  said  Mrs.  O  'Beirne.  '  You 
can't!' 

When  she  was  alone  she  pressed  her 
hands  to  her  eyes  and  said,  'I  feel 
like  she  was  dead.' 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  she  cried 
out  aloud:  'O  God!  Why  can't  I  tell 
them?' 

There  was  a  full  attendance  at  the 
Mothers'  Club.  Miss  Marshall  sat  be- 
side the  president.  Mrs.  O'Beirne 
came  in  late  and,  despite  the  frantic 
beckonings  of  Mary  Flanagan,  sat  at 
the  back  of  the  room,  her  heavy 
veil  over  her  face.  In  one  hand  she  held 
the  purse.  Between  the  fingers  of  the 
other  she  nervously  twisted  a  little  piece 
of  paper  on  which  she  had  written: 
'The  Mothers'  Club  tenders  to  the  Set- 
tlement as  a  slight  testimonial  of  regard 
this  money  to  furnish  a  club-room  for 
our  fellow  neighbors,  the  Greeks,  in 
token  of  our  brotherly  feelings  on  be- 
half of  them,  and  our  worthy  desire  to 
cooperate  with  the  Settlement  to  pre- 
serve a  high  tone  to  the  neighborhood.' 

After  the  roll  and  the  minutes, 
there  was  offered  and  adopted  a  long 
and  involved  resolution  of  sympathy 
and  affection  for  their  beloved  and 
honored  treasurer  in  her  present  deep 
affliction.  The  president  then  cleared 
her  throat,  and  declared  that  no  one 
would  disagree  with  her  that  this  was 
the  happiest  day  in  the  existence  of  the 
club,  because  it  was  beginning  to  live 
for  other  people.  But  she  would  leave 
the  exposure  of  their  good  intentions 
to  the  person  who  had  them  first: 
'Our  devoted  Treasurer,  our  eloquent 
Orator,  our  bereaved  Fellow  Member, 
Mrs.  Nora  O'Beirne.' 

Mrs.  O'Beirne,  very  erect,  but  with  a 
curiously  slow,  groping  step,  walked  up 
the  aisle.  At  the  president's  table  she 
put  back  her  veil  and  clumsily,  because 
she  also  held  the  purse,  unfolded  the 
scrap  of  paper  on  which  she  had  written 


618 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY 


her  speech.  Her  face  was  gaunt  and 
white;  there  were  deep  circles  under  her 
heavy  eyes,  deep  lines  about  her  tragic- 
ally defiant  mouth.  She  lifted  her  eyes 
to  Miss  Marshall,  she  opened  her  lips 
to  speak,  she  looked  at  the  purse  held 
out  in  her  hand,  —  and  back  to  Miss 
Marshall;  and  then  she  began  to  laugh, 
—  very  loud,  horribly  loud,  —  a  scream 
that  ran  into  high  sobbing  and  back 
again  into  laughter.  The  president, 
though  no  orator,  now  proved  herself 
swift  in  action.  Quick  as  thought  she 
had  lifted  the  glass  water-pitcher  from 
the  table  and  dashed  its  contents  full 
in  Mrs.  O'Beirne's  face. 

'  Holy  Mother! '  shrieked  Mary  Flan- 
agan. '  Look  what  you  done  to  her  new 
veil!' 

The  audience  stood  up;  there  was 
a  hubbub  of  sound,  above  which  rose 
the  gurgling  of  Mrs.  O'Beirne's  half- 
quenched  hysterics.  Miss  Marshall, 
one  arm  around  the  widow,  who  had 
collapsed  upon  her  shoulder,  waved 
the  mothers  back  to  their  seats  with 
the  other. 

'  It  was  seeing  how  the  Lord  had  got 
the  laugh  on  the  whole  lot  of  us  with 
that  money,  set  me  off,'  sobbed  Mrs. 
O'Beirne,  with  face  hidden. 

'  Come  out  with  me,  dear,'  whispered 
Miss  Marshall.  But  Mrs.  O'Beirne 
turned  about  and  faced  the  audience, 
her  eyes  streaming  with  tears,  her 
cheeks  sodden  and  purple. 

'I  am  a  thief!'  she  said.  'And  it's 
only  Miss  Marshall's  goodness  that  I  'm 
not  in  the  lock-up,  —  where  I  belong.' 

The  Mothers'  Club  thought  she  had 
gone  crazy. 

'  Come  away,  dear,'  urged  Miss  Mar- 
shall; but  Mrs.  O'Beirne  was  past  hear- 
ing anything  now  but  the  voice  of  her 
own  conscience.  She  flung  the  purse 
from  her. 

'That  ain't  the  Club  money!'  she 
cried.  'That's  Miss  Marshall's  money, 
she  lent  me  so  I  need  n't  to  be  put  to 


shame  before  the  Club.  It's  just  her 
own  money  you  're  giving  back  to  her, 
that 'sail.  You  thought  you  was  going 
to  furnish  a  club-room  for  the  Greeks, 
but  you're  not;  you've  paid  for  the 
funeral  of  Barney  O'Beirne.  I  stole 
the  money  because  I  couldn't  bear 
that  anybody  should  know  Barney  and 
me  was  too  poor  to  pay  the  under- 
taker. And  then,  the  coward  I  was,  I 
could  n't  face  the  Club.  And  I  was  that 
mad  against  all  the  world  you'd  have 
thought  it  was  the  world  was  the  thief 
instead  of  me.  And  all  the  time  I  was 
telling  Miss  Marshall  what  I  'd  done,  I 
would  n't  see  it  was  more  than  any 
other  kind  of  borrowing,  and  I  was 
cursing  her  in  my  heart  because  she 
could  n't  know  what  it  was  to  be  as  poor 
as  we  was,  and  she  'd  sure  say  I  'd  ought 
to  tell  what  I'd  done,  and  resign  from 
the  treasurership,  and  be  put  out  of 
the  Club.  That 's  what  she  'd  say,  I  says. 
And  my  heart  was  like  a  stone  against 
her.  But  she  did  n't  say  it.  She  never 
said  one  word  of  reproach  to  me.  No ! 
she  says,  "I'm  not  sure  I  can  get  so 
much  money  so  quick,  —  but  I'll  do 
my  best.  —  If  I  had  had  your  tempt- 
ation I  might  have  did  the  same  as 
you  did,"  she  says.  And  I  could  feel 
the  hardness  of  my  heart  begin  to  melt 
when  she  said  them  loving  words.  And 
I  blew  cold  on  it  with  my  pride,  because 
I  was  afraid  of  what  I  'd  do  if  my  heart 
got  soft.  But  it's  no  use,  —  it's  no 
use,  —  for  it 's  been  melting  ever  since, 
till  now  it's  just  running  water.  I've 
lost  my  pride,  —  and  I  Ve  lost  my  good 
name,'  —  the  agony  in  her  words  re- 
sounded through  the  room, — 'but  God 
bless  Miss  Marshall!' 

Again  the  tears  gushed  down  her 
cheeks.  'It's  done!'  she  cried,  wring- 
ing her  hands  together.  'Take  me 
away!  Take  me  away!' 

It  was  fully  five  minutes  before  the 
strident  voice  of  Mary  Flanagan  could 
dominate  the  clamorous  babel. 


THE  PERSISTENCE  AND  INTEGRITY  OF  PLOTS 


619 


'Here's  the  money!'  she  cried,  shak- 
ing the  purse  in  the  excited  faces  be- 
fore her.  'I  say  this  is  between  Mrs. 
O'Beirne  and  Miss  Marshall,  —  and 
none  of  our  business.  If  Miss  Marshall 
chooses  to  lend  Mrs.  O'Beirne  one 
hundred  dollars,  —  what's  that  to  us? 
Mrs.  O'Beirne  has  made  good  to  the 
Club,  and  that's  all  the  Club  has  a 
right  to  ask.'  . 

'No,  it  is  not  all  the  Club  has  a  right 
to  ask,'  shouted  the  gaunt  woman  who 
had  spoken  with  emphasis  on  a  previous 
occasion.  'Won't  she  use  it  again?  — 
that 's  what  I  want  to  know.  And  who 's 
to  say  Miss  Marshall  '11  always  be  will- 
ing to  lend?' 

'Ah,  poor  thing!'  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Morrison.  'A  husband  can't  die  but 
once.' 

'  I  've  known  them  to  die  three  times,' 
snapped  the  wiry  woman. 

'Well,  I'll  say  this,  right  now,'  said 


Mary  Flanagan.  'If  Mrs.  O'Beirne  is 
run  out  of  this  club  I  go  out  with  her, 
and  there's  others  I  know  will  follow.' 

'Who's  talking  about  running  her 
out,'  retorted  the  gaunt  woman.  'All 
I  say  is,  I  don't  pay  another  due  if 
she  stays  treasurer.  My  money  comes 
too  hard.' 

'I  do  think  she'd  ought  to  resign,' 
observed  the  president  timidly. 

'Well,  I  don't!'  protested  Mary 
Flanagan.  'If  Miss  Marshall  is  willing 
to  give  her  another  chance  we  'd  ought 
to  be  ashamed  not  to.' 

A  few  heads  nodded  acquiescence, 
but  the  Club,  as  a  whole,  was  sullen. 

'How  would  it  be  if  we  was  to  let 
her  stay  treasurer,  if  Miss  Marshall 
would  keep  the  money  for  us?'  sug- 
gested Mrs.  Morrison. 

A  good  man  y  heads  nodded  this  time ; 
and  the  vote  was  carried. 

But  Mrs.  O'Beirne  resigned. 


THE  PERSISTENCE  AND  INTEGRITY  OF  PLOTS 


BY  ELLEN   DUVALL 


GOETHE  told  Schiller  that  Gozzi  the 
Venetian  had  said  that  only  thirty-six 
dramatic  situations  are  possible.  Schil- 
ler declared  that  he  could  think  of  but 
fourteen,  and  those  of  us  who  are  most 
conversant  with  dramatic  literature 
will  find  on  curious  consideration  that 
even  fourteen  are  difficult  to  compass. 
The  preciousness,  then,  of  these  drama- 
tic situations,  or  essential  plots,  is  pro- 
portioned to  their  fewness;  for  these 
plots  may  be  supposed  to  cover  the 
whole  of  life,  and  to  serve  as  ground- 
plans  for  the  human  imagination. 


Strictly  speaking,  it  is  impossible,  of 
course,  to  be  original.  Originality  con- 
sists in  perceiving  the  permanent  be- 
hind the  ephemeral,  the  old  behind  the 
new,  in  tracing  the  ever-living  spring 
of  human  motive  from  its  latest  mod- 
ern faucet  deep  down  and  back  to  its 
hidden  source  in  consciousness  and  will. 
These  immemorial  situations  or  plots 
or  ground-plans,  therefore,  belong  to 
the  imagination  proper,  while  the  super- 
structure and  ornamentation  belong 
rather  to  the  fancy.  Some  minds  and 
some  peoples  are  remarkably  fertile  in 


620 


THE  PERSISTENCE  AND   INTEGRITY  OF  PLOTS 


fancy,  and  noticeably  simple  in  plot; 
while  others  again  are  more  complex  in 
plot,  and  far  less  expressive  and  exube- 
rant in  fancy.  The  Arabian  Nights,  for 
instance, — not  the  many-volumed  and 
laborious  anatomy  of  good  Sir  Richard, 
but  the  delight  of  our  childhood,  that 
black-clothed,  eminently  respectable 
octavo  which,  barring  its  title,  was  the 
very  twin  of  Porteus's  Sermons,  —  The 
Arabian  Nights,  with  all  its  fretwork 
of  fancy,  with  such  a  richness  and  in- 
genuity of  detail  that  the  sense  fairly 
aches  in  the  tracing  of  it,  has  no  more 
than  three  or  four  simple  plots.  While 
the  Merchant  of  Venice,  in  its  degree 
Shakespeare's  most  varied  play,  has 
three  distinct  plots  marvelously  inter- 
woven: the  friendship-plot,  Antonio 
and  Bassanio;  the  love-plot,  Bassanio 
and  Portia;  and  the  thwarted-venge- 
ance  plot,  Portia  and  Shylock. 

The  friendship-plot,  with  the  Da- 
mon and  Pythias  story  as  its  most  fa- 
mous example,  —  the  plot  in  which  one 
friend  sacrifices  himself  in  some  sort 
for  the  other,  or  does  him  some  favor 
or  service  out  of  which  all  complica- 
tions spring, —  commends  itself  to  all. 
It  is  a  friendship-plot  that  lies  back  of 
the  noble  story  of  Ruth  and  Naomi, 
in  which  the  younger  woman  follows 
the  fortunes  of  her  mother-in-law 
with  loving  devotion.  Probably  the 
friendship-plot  is  the  oldest  of  which 
we  have  any  record  in  tale  or  history, 
and  it  antedates  undoubtedly  in  time 
and  interest  the  romantic  love-plot, 
which  comes  nearer  to  being  a  devel- 
opment within  historic  times.  Roman- 
tic love,  as  we  now  call  it,  was  neither 
unknown  nor  unfelt  in  very  early  days, 
but  it  was  used  and  regarded  with  such 
a  difference  as  concerns  life  in  general, 
that  comparisons  are  difficult.  Jacob 
and  Rachel  is  a  love-story  with  a  gen- 
uine love-plot;  and  Euripides  forestalls 
his  own  later  and  harsher  judgment  of 
women  in  the  noble  story  of  Alcestis 


and  her  wifely  sacrifice.  Psycholog- 
ically, perhaps,  the  love-plot  may  be 
reckoned  as  the  simplest,  since  it  con- 
cerns the  Eternal  Two,  always  in  a  kind 
of  Garden  of  which,  for  the  time  being, 
and  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  they 
are  the  sole  occupants  and  lords.  This 
primitive  and  simple  love-plot  has  be- 
come in  our  day  the  most  varied  in 
superstructure  and  ornamentation  of 
all  plots,  and  universal  in  its  interest 
and  appeal  'All  men  love  a  lover' now, 
but  they  did  not  always  so,  for  time 
was  when  love  was  not  conceived  of  as 
it  is  now,  when  it  was  looked  upon  as 
rather  more  a  part  of  man's  weakness 
than  of  his  strength. 

Then  there  is  the  triangular  love- 
plot,  dear  to  'our  sweet  enemy  France,' 
as  Sidney  calls  her,  underlying  so  much 
of  her  delightful  literature;  an  out- 
come, in  some  sort,  of  feudal  times  and 
customs  and  nice  questions  of  lese 
majest6,  a  remainder  and  reminder  of 
chivalry,  and  as  lasting  as  Gothic  arch 
or  stained-glass  window  saint,  present, 
present,  and  evermore  present,  from 
the  Lais  of  Marie  de  France,  down  to 
the  last  fine  novel  of  Henry  Bordeaux, 
La  Croisee  des  Chemins.  Because  of 
this  triangular  plot,  perhaps,  we  are  a 
little  prone  to  use  France  as  a  reflector 
for  our  Anglo-Saxon  virtue;  but  on  its 
social  side,  the  plot  is  indeed  a  survival 
of  early  days,  when  a  woman  had  but 
little  if  any  choice  in  the  disposal  of  her 
hand,  and  when  her  heart  as  an  inte- 
gral part  of  life  was  but  little  thought 
of,  even  when  thus  obliquely  recog- 
nized though  not  lawfully  represented. 
This  great  triangular  plot  or  situation 
underlies  the  story  of  Arthur,  Guine- 
vere, and  Launcelot,  and  has  been 
nobly  treated  in  English  verse. 

From  homogeneity  to  heterogeneity, 
from  the  mass  to  the  individual,  and 
then  consciously,  through  love  and 
service,  back  again  from  the  individual 
to  the  mass,  —  this  would  seem  to  be 


THE   PERSISTENCE  AND   INTEGRITY  OF  PLOTS 


621 


the  swing  of  life's  pendulum.  And  as 
showing  the  emergence  of  the  individ- 
ual, the  readjustment  of  relations,  and 
the  slow  development  of  civilization, 
there  is  a  plot  a  thousand  years  old 
and  more,  which  might  be  called  the 
quadrangular  plot.  It  belongs  to  the 
north  of  Europe,  not  to  the  south;  to 
the  Norse  and  Teutonic  families,  not 
to  the  Latin  branch.  This  quadrangu- 
lar plot  is  a  curious  interweaving  of 
the  friendship  and  the  love-plots — for 
they  here  do  not  blend  —  and  it  repre- 
sents woman  as  both  active  and  pass- 
ive, as  both  victim  and  avenger.  It 
is  as  a  necessary  quantity  in  the  equa- 
tion of  life  that  woman  here  first  comes 
forward,  and  that  some  dim  sense  of 
justice  is  shown  with  regard  to  her.  In 
its  oldest  and  crudest  versions  the  story 
no  longer  fully  appeals,  and  yet  in  a 
modified  form  it  lasts  down  to  our  own 
day,  and  appears,  faint  indeed  and  yet 
traceable,  in  Kennedy's  latest  drama, 
The  Winterfeast.  It  is  as  difficult  a  plot 
as  any  dramatist,  whether  he  have 
talents  or  genius,  can  adventure  upon, 
just  because  it  has  in  a  great  measure 
lost  this  general  appeal;  nevertheless 
Ibsen,  in  the  Vikings  at  Helgeland,  has 
come  finely  off  in  a  drama  of  distinct- 
ive power  and  beauty. 

In  the  Elder  Eddas,  those  lays  and 
fragments  of  lays  which  reveal  the 
rock-ribbed,  verdureless  imagination  of 
our  Norse  ancestors,  there  are  four 
closely  related  lays,  of  Brynhild,  Sigurd, 
Gunnar,  and  Gudrun.  The  stories 
cross  and  recross,  here  simple,  there 
more  involved ;  here  misty,  there  clear- 
er and  more  definite,  until  the  latent 
tragedy  culminates  in  the  overthrow 
and  death  of  the  chief  two,  if  not  of  all 
concerned.  In  detail  the  stories  differ; 
they  are  by  no  means  self-consistent  or 
sequential;  sometimes  they  are  almost 
contradictory  as  we  catch  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  different  minds  and  times 
that  have  worked  upon  them;  but  the 


plot  or  ground-plan  is  evident  and  un- 
changing. A  friendship-plot  and  a  love- 
plot,  essentially  antagonistic  from  the 
first,  doomed  in  the  nature  of  things  — 
that  is,  because  of  consciousness  and 
will  or  character  —  to  end  tragically, 
—  this  is  the  ground  plan.  The  story 
shows  an  invincible  warrior,  insensible 
to  fear,  wise  of  thought  and  word  as  he 
is  daring  in  deed,  who  has  for  friend  a 
man  of  quieter  mould,  something  of 
the  poet  or  skald.  The  warrior  rescues 
from  a  hapless  fate  a  '  hard-souled '  or 
proud  maiden,  a  woman  who  may  be 
taken  but  who  cannot  give  herself,  and 
in  the  rescue  the  love  of  each  for  the 
other  is  necessarily  implicated.  In  the 
oldest  lays  supernatural  and  demi- 
urgic powers,  sorcery  and  witchcraft, 
so  dear  to  the  Norse  heart,  come  into 
play,  and  the  lovers  are  parted.  Here 
the  story  shifts  and  varies,  and  there 
are  different  versions ;  but  in  all  a  love- 
token,  ring  or  bracelet,  —  fateful  as 
Desdemona's  handkerchief,  —  is  given 
by  the  hard-souled  maiden  to  her  res- 
cuer. After  they  are  parted,  more  com- 
plications arise,  sorcery  again  enters  in, 
and  the  proud  maiden  finds  herself 
married  to  the  enamoured  poet-friend 
who  has  worn  for  this  purpose  the  war- 
rior's guise;  while  the  warrior,  his  mem- 
ory made  blank  by  witchcraft,  marries 
another.  But  the  four  mismated  ones 
cannot  escape  each  other,  and  sooner 
or  later,  the  truth,  through  over-boast- 
ing, comes  to  light,  with  the  fatal  love- 
token  as  proof.  It  is  the  warrior  and 
the  hard-souled  maiden  who  are  by 
rights  the  Eternal  Two,  and  their  sor- 
cery-crossed destiny  is  to  blame.  The 
hard-souled  one  takes  sure  vengeance 
for  the  wrong  done  her,  and  her  fury 
involves  in  ruin  and  ultimate  death, 
not  only  the  original  four,  but  also 
many  others. 

The  Lays  are  naive  and  simple 
enough,  the  stories  somewhat  vague 
and  misty,  but  the  core  of  great  drama- 


tic  possibilities  lies  in  the  character 
of  the  fire-ringed,  hard-souled  woman, 
and  he  would  be  but  a  poor  drama- 
tic Sigurd  or  Siegfried  who  should  not 
try  again  and  again  to  set  her  free. 
For  these  fundamental  plots,  more  a 
matter  of  intuition  than  of  reason,  are 
common  property  of  the  imagination, 
and  he  may  take  who  sees.  But  let  him 
beware  how  he  takes,  for  it  is  always  all 
or  nothing.  The  plot  must  be  held  in- 
violate, though  the  superstructure  and 
ornamentation  may  be  altered  at  will. 
So  Ibsen,  in  the  Vikings  at  Helgeland, 
holds  rigidly  to  the  dramatic  situation, 
while  greatly  modifying  the  story  in 
order  to  bring  it  well  within  modern 
sympathy,  possibility,  and  taste.  Sor- 
cery and  the  supernatural  are  discard- 
ed, and  by  a  skillful  blending  of  charac- 
ter and  circumstance  are  wrought  the 
deeds  which  will  make  or  mar.  Sigurd 
the  warrior  and  Gunnar  the  skald,  with 
their  deep  and  true  friendship,  remain 
unchanged,  while  the  hard-souled  Bryn- 
hild  is  called  Hiordis,  and  for  the  vin- 
dictive Gudrun  is  substituted  a  gentler, 
more  effectively  contrasting  woman, 
Dagny.  In  her  maiden  pride,  instead 
of  fire-protection,  Hiordis's  bower  is 
guarded  by  a  ferocious  white  bear, 
stronger  than  forty  men,  and  she  will 
and  can  love  him  only  who  shall  con- 
quer the  brute.  When  Gunnar  and 
Sigurd  visit  her  foster-father,  she  can 
talk  easily  with  Gunnar,  being  essen- 
tially indifferent  toward  him;  but  with 
Sigurd  —  alas  for  love's  mischances 
—  she  is  haughty  and  tongue-tied. 
Gunnar  loves  her  to  distraction,  while 
Sigurd,  misconstruing  the  maiden's  be- 
havior, thinks  himself  unthought  of, 
and  so  makes  no  effort  to  disclose  his 
love.  Gunnar  wishes  to  win  her,  but 
knows  he  cannot  overcome  the  bear,  so 
in  darkness  and  night,  Sigurd  disguised 
as  Gunnar,  calling  himself  by  his  friend's 
name,  gives  mortal  combat,  slays  the 
bear,  and  enters  the  bower.  Seated  to- 


gether, with  the  drawn  sword  between, 
Hiordis  gives  the  warrior  her  bracelet 
in  token  of  submission,  and  he  leaves 
her,  still  not  understanding.  When 
day  comes,  it  is  easy  to  carry  on  the 
deception,  Sigurd  thinking  all  the  while 
that  she  really  loves  Gunnar;  and  so  the 
Vikings  sail  away,  each  with  his  re- 
spective bride,  for  in  emptiness  of  heart 
Sigurd  takes  Dagny.  From  now  on  it 
is  plain  dramatic  sailing,  the  greatest 
difficulties  of  this  old  plot  have  been 
overcome,  and  Ibsen  can  thenceforth 
hold  closely  to  the  original  in  the  mode 
of  discovery,  climax,  and  tragic  end. 
The  point  is  that  Ibsen,  with  true 
dramatic  instinct,  preserves  inviolate 
the  plot;  what  he  works  in  and  modifies 
are  the  superstructure  and  accessories. 
In  the  Winterfeast,  however,  fine  as 
it  is,  Mr.  Kennedy  commits  the  mis- 
take—  or  is  it  sacrilege? — of  tam- 
pering with  the  plot.  He  takes  the 
immemorial  four,  Bjorn  the  warrior, 
Valbrand  the  skald,  Herdisa  the  proud- 
souled,  who  secretly  loves  Bjorn,  and 
is  loved  by  both  Bjorn  and  Valbrand, 
—  and  an  Indian  woman  who,  later, 
becomes  the  wife  of  Bjorn,  but  who 
does  not  appear  in  the  play.  Bjorn, 
perceiving  Valbrand's  consuming  pas-: 
sion  for  Herdisa,  conceals  his  own  love, 
thus  sacrificing  love  to  friendship, 
something  to  the  old  plot  inconceivable. 
Then  Bjorn  determines  to  accompany 
Thorkel,  Valbrand's  father,  to  Vineland 
in  order  to  put  distance  between  him- 
self and  Herdisa,  and  to  give  Valbrand 
a  clear  field.  But  Herdisa,  just  before 
they  sail,  throws  reserve  to  the  winds, 
and  openly  shows  her  love  and  prefer- 
ence for  Bjorn.  Still  he  makes  no  sign, 
but  sails  away  with  Thorkel,  who  nat- 
urally desires  his  son's  happiness  be- 
fore all  else.  Then  when  in  Vineland, 
before  the  homeward  voyage,  Bjorn 
gives  Thorkel  a  love-token  and  a  mes- 
sage to  be  delivered  to  Herdisa.  Thor- 
kel suppresses  both,  and  lies,  giving 


THE  PERSISTENCE  AND   INTEGRITY  OF  PLOTS 


623 


Herdisa  to  understand  that  she  is  the 
woman  scorned.  In  the  rush  of  hurt 
pride  and  disappointment,  she  marries 
Valbrand.  After  a  lapse  of  twenty  years, 
Bjorn  reappears  with  a  son,  Olaf,  the 
child  of  the  Indian  mother.  Herdisa, 
still  vindictive,  still  deceived  regard- 
ing Bjorn's  true  feeling,  sets  her  hus- 
band and  Bjorn  at  odds.  Urged  to  de- 
speration by  his  wife,  Valbrand  rushes 
off  to  engage  his  loved  friend  in  deadly 
combat,  and  we  are  led  to  suppose  that 
Valbrand  falls.  Then,  thirsting  to  taste 
vengeance  to  the  full,  Herdisa  deter- 
mines to  make  Olaf  instrumental  in 
killing  his  own  father,  and  swears  the 
unsuspecting  youth,  who  loves  her 
daughter  Svanhild  at  first  sight,  to 
avenge  these  wrongs  and  insults  upon 
the,  to  him,  unknown  foe.  But  on 
learning  the  truth,  the  youth  evades 
his  vow  by  committing  suicide.  Then 
Valbrand  enters  unharmed,  it  is  Bjorn 
who  has  fallen,  or  has  allowed  himself 
to  be  slain;  and  Herdisa,  in  the  bloody 
havoc  wrought  by  Thorkel's  early  lie 
and  her  own  savage  pride,  and  with 
the  heart-break  of  her  gentle  daughter 
Svanhild  before  her  eyes,  in  remorse 
and  horror,  dies. 

Surely  it  is  Websterian  in  unrelieved 
tragedy,  and  such  is  the  ground-plan 
or  dramatic  situation  as  Mr.  Kennedy 
has  modified  it.  The  result  is  confusion 
of  thought.  Motive  is  utterly  incom- 
mensurate with  circumstance,  and  char- 
acter is  anything  but  clear  and  convinc- 
ing. Bjorn  cuts  but  a  sorry  figure  in 


sacrificing  his  love  and  lady  to  his 
friend,  and  in  putting  the  maiden  there- 
by to  open  shame;  and  his  excuse  on 
his  reappearance  is  something  in  the 
nature  of  adding  insult  to  injury.  Fine 
and  effective  as  the  play  is  in  parts, 
it  is  as  a  whole  impossible.  For  the 
first  law  of  dramatic  construction  would 
seem  to  be:  never  tamper  with  the 
plot;  hold  it  sacred,  for  it  has  its  being 
in  the  deeps  of  human  nature,  in  the 
essence  of  human  relationships.  One 
might  as  well  expect  to  dispense  with 
one  or  more  of  the  four  constitutive 
elements  of  mind,  categories  of  the 
finite  understanding,  as  expect  to  dis- 
card in  these  plots  that  which  in  reality 
pertains  to  the  integrity  of  the  imagin- 
ation. The  plot  is  alive  and  indestruct- 
ible, indicative  of  human  nature; 
the  superstructure  and  ornamentation 
pertain  to  manners  and  customs,  and 
may  be,  must  be,  varied  and  modified 
accordingly.  'Shakespeare  never  in- 
vented' —  or  discovered,  rather  —  'a 
plot ' ;  it  was  no  part  of  his  genius  so  to 
do,  nor  did  he  ever  violate  one.  He 
disclosed  human  nature  in  using  the 
plots  time-honored  and  immemorial. 
But  if  only  the  supersubtle  Venetian 
Gozzi  had  left  us  a  record  of  those 
thirty-six  dramatic  situations,  what 
a  purple  joy  it  would  have  been  to  all 
of  us  who  love  that  delicate,  most  life- 
like, most  evanescent  of  all  the  arts, 
the  art  of  acting,  and  care  most  in  liter- 
ature for  that  most  life-like  form,  the 
drama! 


THE  LOOM  OF  SPRING 


BY  CORNELIA  KANE  RATHBONE 


THE  valley  weaves  her  kirtle 
With  strands  of  April  green, 
Fern  fronds  on  deeper  myrtle 
And  willow  buds  between; 
While  tiny  rills  laugh  love-songs  low 
Beneath  their  sedgy  screen. 

With  silks  her  needle  threading, 
Filched  from  the  rainbow's  skein, 
Her  robe  she  broiders,  wedding 
Gold  sunshine,  silver  rain. 
About  her  breast  slow,  golden  bees 
Hum  amorous  refrain. 

She  hangs  her  veil  with  fringes 

Of  mauves  and  violets; 

With  blue  her  girdle  tinges; 

Her  cloak  with  crimson  frets. 

Kissing  her  cheek  May's  wandering  wind 

Inconstancy  forgets. 

Wreathed  by  young  June  with  roses, 
Blushing  she  dreams  apart, 
Waiting,  while  twilight  closes, 
Her  spousals  with  my  heart. 
O  lark,  that  nests  within  her  breast, 
Song  of  her  soul  thou  art. 


FEDERAL  EXPENDITURES  UNDER  MODERN 
CONDITIONS 

BY   WILLIAM   S.   ROSSITER 


THE  aggregate  expenditures  of  the 
United  States  Government  have  in- 
creased almost  continuously  since  the 
adoption  of  the  Constitution.  Political 
parties  intrusted  with  the  responsi- 
bility of  government,  although  pledged 
by  their  platforms  to  retrenchment 
and  economy,  have  speedily  learned 
that  the  appropriation  of  larger  and 
larger  sums  from  year  to  year  for  the 
maintenance  of  the  federal  establish- 
ment cannot  be  avoided.  This  increase 
apparently  bears  a  certain  definite  re- 
lation to  national  development. 

If  the  entire  life  of  the  Republic  be 
divided  into  four-year  periods  corre- 
sponding to  presidential  administra- 
tions, all  but  seven  show  increase  of 
expenditures  over  those  of  the  previous 
period.  Moreover,  the  seven  exceptions 
are  not  significant,  since  they  merely 
reflect  the  reduction  of  military  and 
naval  establishments  following  active 
warfare. 

During  the  half  century  which  elapsed 
between  1860  and  1910  the  rate  of  in- 
crease in  the  cost  of  maintaining  the 
federal  government  was  about  the  same 
as  the  rate  of  increase  in  national  wealth. 
Population,  however,  creates  wealth, 
and  great  wealth  encourages  a  gener- 
ous scale  of  public  expenditure.  Hence 
our  rapid  growth  in  population  is  re- 
sponsible for  the  continuous  increase 
in  the  cost  of  the  federal  establishment. 
It  is  to  be  expected,  therefore,  that  so 
long  as  the  population  of  the  United 
States  increases,  whether  from  excess 
VOL,  W7 -NO.  5 


of  births  over  deaths,  or  from  immi- 
gration, federal  expenditures  will  tend 
to  increase  also. 

So  vast  has  the  total  annual  expend- 
iture now  become,  and  so  immense 
and  complicated  is  the  federal  machine 
of  this  period,  that  the  economical  ad- 
ministration of  the  government,  from 
being  a  small  and  almost  negligible 
matter  half  a  century  ago,  has  at  length 
assumed  great  importance. 

It  is  clear  that  government  expend- 
itures consist  of  two  unequal  parts :  the 
amount  which  is  justly  required  to 
meet  authorized  obligations  without 
extravagance,  and  an  unknown  but 
doubtless  comparatively  small  amount 
which  results  from  poor  or  lax  admin- 
istration, wastefulness,  or  fraud.  The 
proportion  thus  lost  no  doubt  has 
varied  greatly  at  different  periods,  but 
even  a  small  percentage  of  waste  now 
means  many  millions  of  dollars  in  ab- 
solute figures. 

What  should  be  done  to  reduce  this 
waste  to  a  minimum  and  to  bring  the 
administrative  departments  of  the  fed- 
eral government  into  line  with  the 
most  efficient  modern  organization? 

There  are  two  reforms  in  the  admin- 
istration of  federal  affairs  which  should 
be  speedily  effected.  Upon  these,  all 
others  should  be  based;  without  them, 
it  is  unlikely  that  permanent  improve- 
ment can  be  effected,  —  whatever  the 
extent  to  which  present  efforts  at  '  sys- 
tematizing' may  be  carried. 

1.  The  establishment  in  the  federal 

625 


626     FEDERAL  EXPENDITURES  UNDER  MODERN  CONDITIONS 


departments  of  expert  and  complete 
administrative  supervision,  of  a  non- 
political  and  reasonably  permanent 
character. 

2.  The  introduction  of  some  stand- 
ard as  a  substitute  for  the  money  stand- 
ard which  prevails  in  the  commercial 
world. 

To  secure  the  most  economical  and 
efficient  administration  of  corporate 
enterprises  in  this  period  of  expanding 
operations  is  no  easy  task.  It  is  ac- 
complished only  by  untiring  search  for 
the  ablest  administrators.  Such  men 
are  paid  high  salaries  and  given  com- 
plete authority. 

In  the  federal  departments  grown 
to  1911  proportions,  the  problems  of 
administration  are  fully  as  perplexing 
as  those  of  the  greatest  corporations, 
yet  the  government  generally  em- 
ploys in  executive  positions  small  men 
at  small  salaries,  and  changes  them 
frequently.  In  large  corporate  enter- 
prises, positions  of  great  responsibility 
generally  seek  the  men.  Large  num- 
bers of  persons  clamor  for  the  highest 
federal  positions,  often  without  the  re- 
motest qualification  other  than  polit- 
ical influence. 

All  great  corporate  enterprises,  which 
in  the  number  of  persons  employed  and 
in  some  other  respects  rather  closely 
resemble  the  federal  departments, 
maintain  efficiency  by  the  closest  or- 
ganization, and  by  strict  attention  to 
detail.  This  is  accomplished  by  em- 
ploying a  general  manager,  who  is  se- 
lected for  demonstrated  and  peculiar 
qualifications,  and  who  is  held  respon- 
sible for  efficient  and  economical  opera- 
tion. 

In  the  federal  government,  how- 
ever, the  control  of  each  of  the  execu- 
tive departments  is  lodged  with  a 
cabinet  officer.  Obviously  such  an  of- 
ficial is  not,  and  cannot  be,  selected 
primarily  as  an  organizer  and  an  ad- 
ministrator, since  the  reasons  which 


lead  to  appointment  are  far  removed 
from  mere  efficiency  as  a  business  man- 
ager. Moreover,  matters  of  policy  and 
of  politics  necessarily  absorb  much  at- 
tention. It  is  becoming  more  and  more 
evident  that  cabinet  officers  should 
not  be  concerned  with  the  details  of 
administration .  Even  if  such  an  official 
should  prove  an  unusually  gifted  ex- 
ecutive, the  average  term  of  a  cabinet 
officer  is  less  than  three  years;  hence 
the  influence  of  any  one  individual 
upon  the  great  department  over  which 
he  temporarily  presides,  cannot,  at  best, 
be  great. 

The  assistant  secretaries  are,  in 
general,  political  appointees.  Their 
average  term  of  service  is  very  brief, 
and,  moreover,  they  are  usually  even 
less  qualified  than  their  chiefs  to  be 
suddenly  thrust  by  accident  into  su- 
preme authority,  and  to  become  effect- 
ive administrators  of  huge  and  complex 
business  organizations.  There  is  no  re- 
cent instance  where  an  assistant  secre- 
tary has  been  retained  for  a  consider- 
able term  of  years  because  of  peculiar 
efficiency  as  an  administrator. 

The  chiefs  of  bureaus,  where  such 
branches  of  the  government  are  scien- 
tific, for  obvious  reasons  are  rarely 
qualified  as  good  administrators,  and 
in  other  cases  they  are  so  frequently 
political  or  temporary  appointees  that 
they  are  seldom  efficient  executive 
officers. 

Apparently  to  meet  the  difficulties 
of  administration  which  thus  exist,  and 
always  have  existed,  there  is  an  official 
in  each  executive  department  and  in 
each  bureau,  known  as  chief  clerk. 
The  authority  of  chief  clerks  to  exer- 
cise real  supervision  is  almost  always 
lacking,  and  the  salary  allowed  by 
Congress  is  inadequate  as  compensa- 
tion for  responsible  duties.  As  now 
constituted  and  administered,  there 
is  no  more  useless  or  unjustifiable  posi- 
tion in  the  government  service  than 


FEDERAL  EXPENDITURES   UNDER  MODERN  CONDITIONS     627 


that  of  chief  clerk,  because  it  fails  to 
accomplish  the  purpose  for  which  it  was 
created.  With  half  a  dozen  exceptions, 
the  men  now  holding  federal  chief  clerk- 
ships would  be  rejected  if  they  were 
applicants  for  positions  of  responsibility 
in  corporate  or  other  business  enter- 
prises. 

Political  pressure  and  personal  fav- 
oritism are  also  responsible  for  the 
practice,  very  common  in  the  federal 
service,  of  "  kicking  upstairs."  This 
means  that  an  official  who  proves  in- 
competent or  intolerable  is  shuffled 
out  of  the  position  in  which  he  has  be- 
come undesirable,  or  even  perhaps  a 
nuisance,  to  fail  in  some  other  position 
of  responsibility.  Any  one  familiar 
with  the  service  can  cite  numbers  of 
such  cases.  There  is  no  branch  of  the 
government,  even  though  it  be  actually 
charged  with  effecting  reforms  in  ad- 
ministration, which  is  free  from  this 
pernicious  possibility, 

Here,  then,  are  the  positions  of  re- 
sponsibility in  departments  and  bu- 
reaus, upon  which,  in  each,  the  business 
structure  depends.  Obviously,  reforms 
in  the  methods  of  transacting  public 
business,  even  though  sweeping,  will 
not  long  endure  if  no  better  organiza- 
tion exists  at  the  top  than  that  which 
at  present  prevails.  If  this  be  admit- 
ted, what  change  in  the  management 
of  executive  departments  should  be 
made  to  secure  the  most  effective  oper- 
ation? 

There  should  be  in  each  department 
an  important  official  who  can  best  be 
described  as  a  permanent  under-secre- 
tary.  This  man  should  be  selected  with 
as  much  care  as  would  be  exercised  in 
selecting  the  manager  of  the  United 
States  Steel  Corporation.  He  should 
receive  liberal  compensation,  com- 
mensurate with  the  responsibilities  of 
supervising  the  expenditure  of  many 
million  dollars  annually  for  clerical 
labor  and  supplies.  He  should  be 


charged  solely  with  administration,  and 
be  capable  of  inspiring  confidence  and 
enthusiasm.  He  should  have  submit- 
ted to  him  from  each  bureau  a  careful 
system  of  cost-accounting,  by  which  he 
may  determine  the  cost  of  operations 
and  of  each  class  of  labor.  He  should 
be  in  constant  conference  with  subor- 
dinate officials  in  the  different  bureaus 
and  offices,  concerning  the  character  of 
clerical  help.  He  should  commend  per- 
sonally those  employees  who  are  mak- 
ing a  satisfactory  record;  and  should 
reprimand,  directly  or  indirectly,  those 
who  are  not  earning  their  salaries.  He 
should  be  prepared  to  discharge  at  any 
moment,  without  the  slightest  regard 
to  political  conditions,  those  persons 
who  are  clearly  inefficient.  This  official 
should  prepare  a  businesslike  annual 
report,  showing  the  financial  opera- 
tions in  the  conduct  of  the  department, 
which  report  should  be  incorporated  in 
the  secretary's  report  to  the  President; 
and  should  be  the  subject  of  special 
consideration,  either  by  the  President 
or  by  some  appropriate  committee  of 
Congress. 

Such  a  position  should  be  as  perman- 
ent as  anything  in  the  government 
service  can  be.  Having  been  selected 
for  peculiar  efficiency,  this  official 
should  be  regarded  by  those  under  him 
as  so  permanent  that  they  may  depend 
upon  his  approval  or  disapproval,  and 
can  dismiss  all  thought  that  they  are 
not  to  be  responsible  to  him  next  week 
or  next  month,  as  now  occurs  in  con- 
nection with  all  high  officials.  Thus 
they  will  come  to  accept  the  judgment 
and  the  decision  of  such  a  man  as  final. 
There  will  be  no  covert  efforts  to  de- 
feat his  orders,  no  latent  opposition 
arising  from  the  thought  that  the  chief 
clerk  is  more  permanent  than  the  of- 
ficial. Such  an  officer,  if  he  makes  full 
use  of  his  opportunity,  could  develop 
human  interest  by  watchful  commend- 
ation, promotion,  reprimand,  and  dis- 


missal,  and  secure  a  degree  of  efficiency 
and  economy  which  would  approxi- 
mate that  secured  in  great  private 
enterprises. 

Whatever  the  cause,  it  is  a  fact 
known  to  all  who  have  any  familiarity 
with  the  affairs  of  the  federal  depart- 
ments and  bureaus,  that,  as  at  present 
conducted,  every  operation,  however 
simple,  is  more  costly  than  similar 
operations  conducted  under  private 
or  corporate  direction.  The  impersonal 
character  of  the  government,  its  vast 
resources,  the  abundance  of  labor,  cler- 
ical and  manual,  the  restrictions,  some 
wise  arjd  some  unwise,  and  the  lack  of 
undisputed  permanent  authority,  all 
tend  to  create  exceptional  conditions, 
which  result  in  greater  expenditure  as 
compared  with  the  operation  of  private 
enterprises. 

The  radical  change  of  organization 
here  proposed  is  in  reality  merely  an 
effort  to  place  the  executive  depart- 
ments somewhat  in  line  with  great 
business  enterprises.  Each  department 
is  now,  in  truth,  a  huge  corporation. 
Economy  and  efficiency  are  regarded 
in  the  business  world  as  exotics  which 
require  untiring  cultivation.  Can  the 
government  assume  that  they  will 
flourish  in  the  several  departments 
without  similar  attention?  Is  it  not 
clear  that  there  must  be  some  central, 
permanent  officer  of  high  rank,  from 
whom  orders,  instructions,  approval, 
and  reprimand  shall  emanate?  The 
time  has  arrived  when  a  cabinet  officer 
should  practically  cease  all  detailed 
administration  of  his  department,  and 
should  concern  himself  almost  ex- 
clusively with  policies  and  product, 
holding  a  permanent  administrative 
subordinate  responsible  for  economy 
and  efficiency. 

The  American  people  are  extremely 
generous  employers  when  the  compen- 
sation of  an  expert  organizer,  or  ad- 
ministrator of  a  great  money-earning 


enterprise,  is  to  be  decided;  but  they 
are  exceedingly  niggardly  employers 
when  the  matter  of  conducting  the 
affairs  of  their  own  government  offices 
is  involved.  A  salary  of  fifty  thousand 
dollars  is  promptly  voted  by  the  direct- 
ors and  stockholders  of  an  important 
bank  or  railroad,  and  so  long  as  the 
man  who  receives  it  organizes,  extends, 
and  administers  the  property  success- 
fully and  meets  dividend  and  surplus 
requirements,  there  is  no  breath  of 
complaint  or  criticism.  It  is,  in  short, 
only  necessary  to 'make  good.'  In  the 
government  service,  on  the  contrary, 
except  a  few  men  in  the  customs  serv- 
ice, but  three  administrative  officials 
below  the  rank  of  cabinet  officer  receive 
a  salary  as  high  as  eight  thousand  dol- 
lars. Including  the  customs  service, 
there  are  less  than  two  hundred  per- 
manent administrative  positions  under 
the  government  which  carry  a  salary 
of  over  eighty  dollars  per  week.  Of 
course  it  cannot  be  expected  that  the 
great  administrators  of  banks  and 
manufacturing  and  public-service  cor- 
porations will  give  favorable  considera- 
tion to  federal  positions  of  uncertain 
tenure,  carrying  as  compensation  an 
amount  scarcely  greater  than  that  re- 
quired for  family  pin-money. 

This  difference  in  the  popular  atti- 
tude toward  official  as  compared  with 
private  employment,  arises  from  a 
number  of  causes:  the  general  convic- 
tion (especially  in  those  parts  of  the 
country  where  the  scale  of  compensation 
is  low)  that  a  modest  salary  is  enough 
for  any  government  employee;  the  lin- 
gering impression  that  all  official  posi- 
tions are  more  or  less  political,  and  do 
not  need  the  services  of  the  masters  of 
organization  and  administration;  and, 
finally,  the  great  pressure  for  office, 
regardless  of  salary. 

The  logic  of  employing  a  fifty-thou- 
sand-dollar man  to  save  half  a  million 
dollars  or  more,  appeals  only  to  the 


FEDERAL  EXPENDITURES   UNDER  MODERN  CONDITIONS      629 


most  experienced  and  broad-minded. 
The  majority  are  ready  to  believe  that 
the  saving  can  and  should  be  effected 
by  small  men.  The  Panama  Canal 
forms  a  conspicuous  and  most  credit- 
able exception. 

Until  recently  we  have  all  been  wont 
to  regard  official  positions  of  respons- 
ibility as  due  to  'patronage,'  a  belief 
which  still  continues  in  many  quarters. 
This  at  once  creates  a  sharp  distinc- 
tion between  the  policy  to  be  pursued 
in  filling  a  government  office  and  in 
filling  one  of  similar  responsibility  in  a 
money-earning  enterprise.  In  attempt- 
ing any  real  reform,  short  or  uncertain 
tenure  of  office,  lack  of  real  authority, 
and  political  intrigue,  must  be  dealt 
with  first.  Mere  uncertainty  of  tenure 
would  make  it  beyond  the  power  of 
the  ablest  men  to  accomplish  anything 
of  consequence. 

Within  the  past  thirty  years  all  busi- 
ness methods  in  the  United  States  have 
been  revolutionized.  The  American 
people,  in  their  industrial  and  com- 
mercial ventures,  and  indeed  in  every 
calling,  have  developed  and  broadened 
immeasurably.  Should  not  the  admin- 
istration of  government  change  also? 
Is  not  the  time  appropriate  for  the 
federal  government,  now  grown  to  vast 
proportions,  to  change  its  organization 
so  as  to  utilize  the  best  methods  and 
the  best  men  to  be  found  in  private 
life? 

Of  scarcely  less  importance  is  the 
establishment  of  a  standard.  In  a  large 
corporation  the  basis  of  employment, 
or  of  the  retention  of  individuals  when 
employed,  is  efficiency  hi  contribut- 
ing toward  the  profit  of  the  concern. 
By  this  exacting  standard,  if  the  em- 
ployee does  not  prove  efficient  within 
the  sphere  of  his  or  her  duties,  what- 
ever they  may  be,  such  employee  is 
promptly  dropped  without  argument 
or  apology.  It  is  sufficient  that  the 
concern  cannot  pay  the  compensation 


allotted  if  it  is  not  earned,  and  an- 
other and  more  capable  wage-earner  is 
substituted.  Furthermore,  the  money 
standard,  —  the  exaction  of  a  dollar's 
value  for  a  dollar  expended,  —  ap- 
plied in  order  to  show  at  the  end  of  the 
business  year  low  operating  expenses 
coupled  with  the  largest  profit  consist- 
ent with  good  administration,  reaches 
out  into  all  the  other  operations  of  the 
concern. 

The  money-earning  standard  is,  in 
general,  the  compass  of  the  commer- 
cial world,  but  the  executive  depart- 
ments of  the  federal  government  have 
no  such  guide.  Since  the  making,  and 
hence  the  saving,  of  money  is  not  the 
objective  of  operation,  no  government 
employee  is  taught  to  consider  the  value 
of  government  money.  It  is,  therefore, 
not  remarkable  that  waste,  ill-advised 
methods,  over-employment,  dispro- 
portionate wages,  employment  of  per- 
sons not  earning  the  compensation 
paid  to  them,  and  costly  printing  and 
miscellaneous  expenses,  creep  into  the 
daily  routine  of  the  departments  from 
this  cause  alone. 

What  substitute,  if  any,  is  there  for 
the  commercial,  money-earning  stand- 
ard, which  will  prove  effective  in  the 
federal  departments? 

Apparently  there  is  but  one:  the 
introduction  of  a  large  degree  of  hu- 
man interest.  By  this  term  is  meant 
the  increase  in  importance  of  the  per- 
sonal equation,  and  the  decrease  in 
importance  of  the  official  or  strictly 
formal  and  impersonal  attitude  which 
now  prevails.  This  term,  human  in- 
terest, includes  the  cultivation  of  zeal 
in  work  (whatever  the  motive  from 
which  it  springs),  and  recognition  of 
faithful  service. 

In  the  government  service  at  the 
present  time,  adequate  appreciation 
and  compensation  are  seldom  accorded 
to  those  conscientious  employees  who 
labor  faithfully  because  of  genuine 


630      FEDERAL  EXPENDITURES  UNDER  MODERN   CONDITIONS 


love  of  or  interest  in  their  duties;  there 
is  no  strict  supervision  of  those  who 
are  mercenary;  and  no  adequate  dis- 
cipline for  those  (and  there  are  many) 
who  shirk  their  tasks. 

These  are  the  basic  requirements  in 
every  commercial  enterprise. 

While  it  is,  of  course,  true,  that  self- 
respecting  men  and  women  do  not  re- 
quire to  be  constantly  patted  on  the 
back,  it  is  a  fact  that  the  occasional 
hearty  approval  of  really  good  work, 
uttered  by  an  official  who  stands  for 
something,  means  genuine  inspiration, 
just  as  a  rebuke  and  a  warning  mean 
necessary  improvement.  This  state- 
ment applies  with  greater  force  to  the 
employees  of  the  federal  government 
than  to  any  other  group  of  wage-earn- 
ers in  the  country.  They  have  all 
secured  appointment  through  the  civil 
service  because  they  are  educated  and 
intelligent  men  and  women.  Hence, 
at  the  outset,  at  least,  they  are  alert, 
sensitive,  and  peculiarly  susceptible  to 
praise  or  censure;  they  are  men  and 
women  in  whom  the  element  of  human 
interest  is  highly  developed,  and  whose 
efficiency  may  be  destroyed  easily  by 
neglect  or  injustice.  In  the  past,  and 
even  at  the  present  time,  the  daily 
conduct  of  many  of  the  divisions  in 
the  Executive  Departments  might  just- 
ly be  called  'The  Tyranny  of  Small 
Men.' 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  sugges- 
tions here  offered  tend  toward  closer 
organization,  and  more  careful  and 
systematic  supervision,  with  decided  in- 
crease in  personal  interest  and  personal 
responsibility.  There  is,  in  truth,  no 
other  way  by  which  the  expenditures 
of  the  federal  government  can  be  re- 
duced and  kept  permanently  at  the 
lowest  point  consistent  with  effective 
operation.  It  is  very  easy  ruthlessly 
to  cut  off  this  and  that  expenditure, 
to  introduce  this  and  that  radical  re- 
form, or  to  'systematize '  a  department 


or  bureau;  but  unless  the  incentive  to 
real  reform  has  been  created,  and  can 
be  maintained  by  a  better  organiza- 
tion and  a  better  spirit,  all  reforms, 
however  sweeping,  will  be  short-lived 
and  vanish  with  a  department  official 
or  an  administration. 

One  more  step  can  be  taken  with 
profit  in  the  effort  to  secure  the  most 
thorough  and  permanent  economy  of 
modern  administration.  The  subject 
of  unexpended  balances  should  receive 
serious  consideration .  Congress  seldom 
pays  any  attention  to  an  appropriation 
after  it  has  become  law.  Once  made, 
the  subject  is  forgotten,  and  there  is  a 
decided  tendency  on  the  part  of  govern- 
ment officials  who  have  fought  long 
and  earnestly  to  secure  an  appropria- 
tion, to  use  it  all.  They  believe,  indeed, 
that  if  they  do  not  use  all  the  funds 
allowed  them,  they  cannot  obtain  as 
much  the  following  year.  If  some  of  the 
appropriation  should  be  expended  un- 
wisely, in  all  probability  this  fact  will 
never  appear.  On  the  other  hand,  if  an 
official  labors  early  and  late  to  secure 
the  maximum  of  result  with  the  mini- 
mum of  expenditure,  to  what  purpose 
is  it?  There  is  no  one  who  is  really  con- 
cerned with  such  matters,  and  the  of- 
ficial is  justified  in  asking  the  cynical 
question , '  Who  cares  ? '  He  will  receive 
no  credit  other  than  self-approbation 
for  the  most  economical  expenditure 
resulting  in  a  considerable  unexpended 
balance,  as  compared  with  compara- 
tively careless,  and  what  may  be  termed 
routine  expenditure,  by  which  all  the 
appropriation  is  exhausted. 

There  could  be  created  profitably,  in 
each  House  of  Congress,  a  standing 
committee  organized  to  inquire  concern- 
ing unexpended  balances,  to  tabulate 
them,  and  report  at  intervals,  com- 
mending economical  officials  and  crit- 
icising those  who  are  not.  Unquestion- 
abl  y,  such  a  policy  would  at  once  change 
the  attitude  of  department  officials 


FEDERAL  EXPENDITURES  UNDER  MODERN   CONDITIONS      631 


toward  the  expenditure  of  appropria- 
tions intrusted  to  their  care.  Incited 
by  the  increasing  seriousness  of  waste 
in  the  administration  of  the  govern- 
ment, Congress  must  deal  with  this 
problem  in  broad-minded  and  intelli- 
gent fashion.  No  partial  reforms  can 
possibly  avail  to  secure  permanent  im- 
provement, so  great  is  the  power  with- 
in the  federal  service  of  precedent  and 
prejudice. 

It  should  not  be  overlooked  that  re- 
forms in  government  procedure  have 
been  attempted  from  time  to  time  in 
the  past.  The  exhaustive  Dockery  in- 
vestigation and  report,  made  during 
the  first  administration  of  Mr.  Cleve- 
land, was  an  admirable  piece  of  work, 
and  should  easily  have  led  to  far-reach- 
ing changes.  Covert  opposition,  how- 
ever, both  political  and  individual,  and 
official  inertia,  prevented  any  lasting 
improvements.  More  recently  the  Keep 
Commission  labored  earnestly  and  ef- 
ficiently to  effect  desirable  changes,  and 
later,  James  R.  Garfield,  while  Secre- 
tary of  the  Interior  (the  most  pro- 
gressive Secretary  who  has  presided 
over  the  Department  for  many  years), 
expended  twelve  thousand  dollars  — 
paid  to  a  firm  of  systematizers  —  to 


improve  the  business  methods  of  the 
Department.  It  is  doubtful  if  the  econ- 
omies now  in  operation,  traceable  di- 
rectly to  these  attempts  at  reform, 
are  numerous  and  valuable  enough  to 
justify  the  time  thus  consumed  and  the 
expenditures  made.  In  fact,  after 
the  lapse  of  but  two  years,  many  of  the 
responsible  officers  who  served  under 
Mr.  Garfield  have  disappeared  from 
the  service.  Furthermore,  the  Presi- 
dent's Secretary,  who  less  than  a  year 
ago  undertook  to  lead  the  reform  of 
business  methods  in  the  government, 
has  already  retired  to  private  life.  The 
succession  of  officials  in  the  federal 
service  might  with  greater  propriety  be 
called  a  procession.  Meantime,  with 
a  steady  increase  in  aggregate  expend- 
iture, the  necessity  for  economy  in 
administration  continually  grows  more 
pressing. 

Of  late  the  American  people  have 
shown  a  decided  tendency  to  conduct 
public  affairs  to  their  own  liking.  It 
remains  to  be  seen  whether  they  will 
insist  upon  a  complete  overhauling  of 
government  procedure  to  conform  to 
modern  conditions.  The  alternative  is 
to  accept  waste  and  inertia  without 
complaint. 


A  DREAM-MARCH  TO  THE  WILDERNESS 


BY   MORRIS   SCHAFF 


NOT  many  years  ago,  at  the  close  of 
an  early  day  in  May,  —  it  was  the  an- 
niversary of  the  Battle  of  the  Wilder- 
ness,— a  rather  square-shouldered  man, 
dressed  in  Scotch  tweed,  and  wearing 
a  low-crowned,  fawn-colored  hat,  was 
walking  a  country  road,  which  led  by 
a  venerable  oak  wood.  He  was  spare; 
age  had  frosted  his  light  moustache. 
In  his  youth  a  sword  had  hung  at  his 
side,  for  he  had  been  a  soldier,  and 
during  the  famous  war  between  the 
states,  sometimes  called  the  Great 
Rebellion,  he  had  carried  Grant's  first 
dispatch  from  the  Wilderness.  It  was 
about  noon  on  the  second  day  of  the 
bloody  field  when  Grant,  that  charm- 
ingly low-voiced,  softly  blue-eyed 
hero  who  now  sleeps  in  glory  on  the 
bank  of  the  Hudson,  himself  handed 
his  dispatch  to  the  young  officer,  who 
mounted  a  spirited  black  horse,  and 
accompanied  by  a  squadron  of  cavalry 
set  off  for  the  nearest  telegraph  line, 
which  was  at  Rappahannock  Station, 
some  twenty-odd  miles  away,  where 
he  arrived  just  after  the  sun  had  set: 
Returning,  he  left  the  Rappahannock 
at  midnight  and,  preceding  his  escort, 
reached  the  Rapidan  as  the  morning 
star  was  paling;  and,  boylike,  on  the 
willow-fringed  river-bank  he  loitered 
for  a  moment  to  listen  to  a  redbird  that 
was  singing.  Soon  the  dull,  quick  boom 
of  replying  guns  went  grumbling  by, 
and,  leaving  river  and  redbird,  he  rode 
back,  through  a  lifting  fog,  to  Grant 
on  the  battlefield. 

And  now,  unconscious  of  time  and 
rapt  in  the  memories  of  the  Wilderness, 

632 


his  channeled  face  was  toward  the  west 
and  the  evening  star  hung  low.  The  day 
was  about  done.  The  last  prying  crow 
had  flown  to  his  roost  in  the  boughy 
hemlocks;  belated  bees,  forgetful  of  the 
hour  in  their  zealous  diligence,  were 
leaving  the  blooming  lindens  whose 
sweet  odor,  mingling  with  that  of  the 
wild  grape,  perfumed  the  dusking  air, 
and  the  jeweling  dew,  on  the  tips  of  the 
fresh-blading  corn  and  the  saw-toothed 
margined  leaf  of  the  budding  sweet- 
brier,  was  already  gathering  the  light  of 
the  kindling  stars  into  diamonds  and 
pearls.  Save  the  piping  of  frogs  in  a 
rushy  swale  on  the  hither  side  of  the 
white  thorn  and  boulder-strewn  lean- 
ing pasture,  which  on  the  left  hand 
bordered  the  roadside,  all  was  very  still. 
Moved  by  the  pensive  silence  and  by 
the  heavens  declaring  aloft  the  glory 
of  God,  his  thoughts  had  turned  from 
a  field  of  strife  to  a  field  immortal, 
when  a  mantled  figure  emerged  from 
the  growing  darkness  of  the  timber, 
and,  in  the  full,  mellow  speech  of  the 
woods,  accosted  him,  saying,  'I  am 
what  I  am,  and  beseech  you  to  lead 
me  back  to  my  home  once  more.' 

'Where  is  your  home?'  the  soldier 
asked. 

'  It  lies  on  the  banks  of  the  Rappa- 
hannock and  the  Rapidan;  from  my 
doorstep  within  the  sweep  of  a  circle  of 
eight  miles  lie  the  fields  of  Chancellors- 
ville,  Spottsylvania,  and  the  Wilder- 
ness, where  over  fifty  thousand  men, 
most  of  them  mere  boys  under  twenty- 
one,  were  killed  or  wounded.' 

'Yes,  yes,'  interrupted  the  veteran 


A   DREAM-MARCH  TO  THE   WILDERNESS 


633 


feelingly.  'I  knew  them,  I  marched 
with  them,  and  I  saw  many  of  them 
put  in  their  last  narrow  beds.' 

'That  battle  region,'  continued  the 
figure,  'is  my  home,  and  my  abiding- 
place  was  not  far  from  where  Stone- 
wall Jackson  fell  and  Longstreet  was 
so  severely  wounded.' 

*  Why,  I  know  those  places  well,  and 
shall  never  forget  Chancellorsville  and 
that  full  moon  coming  up  through  the 
tree-tops  crimsoned  by  the  smoke 
which  overhung  the  blood-drenched 
field  just  as  Stonewall  Jackson  in  the 
wooded  darkness  received  by  some 
mysterious  fate  his  mortal  wounds. 
Had  he  lived  two  hours  longer,  I  do 
not  know  what  would  have  become  of 
our  army  and  its  cause.' 

At  the  mention  of  Fate  a  change  like 
the  passage  of  a  beam  of  light  through 
a  mirky  wood  spread  over  her  grave 
face  as  her  eyes  suddenly  gleamed  with 
an  inward  light. 

'I  was  in  the  Battle  of  the  Wilder- 
ness, too,'  he  continued  familiarly,  'and 
can  hear  its  volleys  thundering  now.' 

Gazing  with  thoughtful  scrutiny,  she 
asked,  'And  do  you  know  where  Long- 
street  was  wounded  in  that  battle  on 
the  Plank  Road?' 

'I  do,  and  the  shot  that  took  him 
down  just  on  the  verge  of  victory  was 
equally  mysterious.  I  have  stood  at 
the  spot  more  than  once,  and  at  morn- 
ing and  evening  have  sat  by  the  bank 
of  Caton's  and  Wilderness  Runs  listen- 
ing to  their  murmur.' 

Of  all  the  battlefields  the  veteran 
had  been  on,  and  they  were  many,  the 
Wilderness  was  the  only  one  he  had  re- 
visited, and  once  amid  its  solitudes,  he 
would  spend  days  as  in  a  temple. 

'And  you  know  those  warrior  runs, 
too!'  exclaimed  the  other,  in  a  tone  of 
subdued  delight,  and  drew  nearer  — 
she  had  plucked  a  red  trillium  such  as 
bloom  in  the  Wilderness,  and  placed  it 
in  her  breast. 


'  Indeed  I  do,  and  can  go  to  the  very 
place  on  the  bank  of  one  of  them  where 
during  the  battle  I  saw  a  boy  who  had 
bled  to  death,  sitting  at  the  foot  of  a 
gray  beech  tree,  still  holding  some  vio- 
lets, which  he  had  picked,  in  his  ashy 
fingers.' 

'Oh,  what  a  memory!  Give  me  your 
hand,  you  are  just  the  one  to  take  me 
back  to  my  home.' 

'But  how  did  you  happen  to  leave 
it?'  inquired  the  soldier,  now  looking 
into  the  warm  deep  eye  of  the  figure, 
with  amiable  but  frank  curiosity. 

'It  came  about  in  this  wise.  Not 
long  ago  I  was  put  into  a  narrative 
of  the  Battle  of  the  Wilderness,  which 
was  borne  along  lines  of  thundering 
traffic,  out  into  the  wide  busy  world, 
and  finally  to  firesides  leagues  on 
leagues  apart.  I  am  the  Spirit  of  the 
Wilderness  of  that  narrative,  and  while 
it  is  true  that  here  and  there  from  an 
ancient  book  on  a  library  shelf  I  heard 
low  notes  of  welcome,  and  while  more 
than  one  gray-haired  old  soldier  with 
trembling  hand  held  the  story  and  read 
it  with  delight,  even  with  tears  some- 
times tricklingfrom  his  spectacled  eyes, 
yet  in  the  faces  of  most  readers,  I  saw 
a  look  of  strange  wonder,  a  vague  in- 
definiteness  as  to  who  and  what  I  was, 
while  invariably,  when  the  narrative 
fell  into  the  hands  of  students  of  the 
Art  of  War,  their  brows  bristled  as  they 
read,  claiming  that  I  diverted  their 
attention  from  the  march  of  events: 
and  not  infrequently  I  'd  hear  one  say, 

"D n  his  sentiment!" 

'Scorned  and  furtively  gazed  at,  no- 
where understood  or  admitted  to  close 
fellowship,  my  heart  grew  heavy  and 
I  fled  through  fields  and  woods.  It  was 
not  so  in  the  early  days,'  mused  the 
Spirit;  'my  forefathers  and  brethren 
were  at  home  by  every  rustic  fireside, 
on  every  ship  that  sailed  for  Troy,  in 
every  palace  of  Babylon;  and  where- 
soever a  shepherd  slept  among  his  flock 


634 


A  DREAM-MARCH  TO  THE   WILDERNESS 


in  the  fields  of  Judaea,  there  too  they 
were. welcome.  I  wonder  what  has  hap- 
pened to  change  mankind  and  cause 
them  to  scan  me  with  such  cold,  strange 
eyes.' 

Just  then  a  radiant  Being,  whose 
abiding-place  is  in  the  self-sown  grove 
of  Literature,  laid  its  hand  tenderly 
on  the  veteran's  shoulder  and  said, 
'Let  me  answer  that  question.  It  is 
because,  in  these  latter  days,  all  that 
fertile  area  of  man's  brain,  the  habita- 
tion and  playground  of  his  primitive 
senses  of  truth  and  beauty,  senses 
which  cheered  and  inspired  him  to  joy, 
awe,  and  reverence  by  transmuting 
his  thoughts  and  emotions,  creation's 
sounds  and  the  sky's  morning  and  even- 
ing empire  of  color  into  living  symbols, 
therewith  inspiring  prophets  to  clothe 
their  Bible  in  splendor,  and  poets  to 
sweep  the  strings  of  mighty  harps, — all 
that  area  with  its  natural  indigenous 
crops  of  poetry,  religion,  and  literature 
has  been  blighted  by  the  blasting  fumes 
of  sordid  commercialism  and  desolate 
materialism.  Alas!  that  playground  of 
man's  spiritual  nature,  from  a  daisied 
meadow  with  star- reflecting  streams, 
surrounded  by  green  wooded  moun- 
tains, has  been  turned  into  a  waste  of 
drifting  sands,  and  instead  of  those 
religiously  joyful  beings,  Poetry  and 
the  creative  spirit  who  danced,  sang, 
and  piped,  what  have  we?  Altruism, 
Pragmatism,  Atheism,  and  a  bleak  dis- 
belief in  Immortality.' 

Then,  turning  impatiently  and  with 
a  sweep  of  her  hand,  she  exclaimed, 
'Think  of  it,  ye  oaks,  hickories,  chest- 
nuts, and  beeches,  whose  acorns  and 
nuts  are  just  forming!  Ye  hawthorns 
and  old  orchards  in  bloom!  Think  of 
it,  violets, — yellow,  white,  dog-tooth, 
and  blue;  anemones  and  houstonias 
in  open  woodland  and  pasture,  and  ye, 
too,  happy  brooks  and  runs,  whose 
gurgling  waters  have  just  fallen  from 
rainbowed  clouds  in  the  sky!  Think 


of  it!  No  immortality!'  And  with 
one  accord,  the  oaks,  the  neighboring 
forests,  blooming  orchards,  and  blading 
plants  all  shouted  hi  derision,  and  then 
broke  into  hosannas  in  praise  to  God 
for  life  beyond  the  grave.  And  they 
had  barely  ended  when  the  stars  and 
winds,  cataracts  and  waves  on  the 
long,  sandy  beaches,  took  up  the  tri- 
umphant song. 

As  the  last  note  of  Nature's  worship- 
ful anthem  died  away,  the  radiant  Be- 
ing vanished,  and  the  Wilderness-Spirit 
whispered  to  the  veteran,  'What  is 
Pragmatism  and  Altruism?' 

Now,  it  was  a  peculiarity  of  the  sol- 
dier's mind  that  whatsoever  was  philo- 
sophic, whatsoever  he  could  not  visual- 
ize, irritated  him,  and  he  blurted  out, 

'  I  don't  know  and  don't  care  a  d n ! 

All  I  know  is  that  in  my  youth  I  was 
taught  that  God  created  the  heavens 
and  the  earth  and  hung  the  stars  in  the 
sky  to  light  it  by  night,  and  that  the 
first  true  gentleman  who  ever  lived 
died  on  Calvary,  and  however  it  may 
be  now  with  the  people  of  this  genera- 
tion, religion  was  a  reality  to  my  fore- 
fathers. I  loved  to  hear  them  in  their 
congregations  singing  old  hymns,  and 
on  my  way  back  from  Sunday  School 
I  loved  to  roam  the  fields  and  hear  the 
meadow-lark  singing  too;  and  when  the 
shadows  were  lengthening  and  even- 
ing's pensive  twilight  was  coming  on, 
and  my  heart  naturally  beating  low, 
I  was  cheered  to  hear  the  thrush  pour- 
ing out  his  musical  notes,  his  heart 
apparently  growing  lighter  with  the 
approach  of  night  while  mine  was  grow- 
ing heavier.  And  there  was  a  hill  in 
the  pasture  of  the  old  home  farm  where 
the  sheep  would  lie  down  to  rest,  and 
I  never  saw  them  reposing  there  in  the 
moonlight  that  I  did  not  think  of  that 
night  when  the  angel's  song  of  Peace 
and  Goodwill  toward  men  was  first 
heard  on  the  earth.  Oh,  I  wish  I  were 
a  boy  again,  the  moon  rising  over  that 


A  DREAM-MARCH  TO  THE  WILDERNESS 


635 


hill;  could  roam  those  fields  —  they 
were  like  companions  to  me  —  and 
hear  the  wind  in  the  old  home  woods 
once  more,' — his  voice  falling  as  usual 
into  a  low  cadence  when  his  feelings 
were  deep. 

'Do  you  wonder  then  how  I  long  for 
my  old  home  in  the  Wilderness?'  asked 
the  Spirit  earnestly.  'Lo!  there  rising 
through  the  woods  is  the  full  moon'; 
and  gazing  at  it  she  observed,  'That  is 
just  how  it  looked  at  Chancellorsville 
a  moment  before  Stonewall  fell.' 

'So  it  does  exactly  /'  responded  the 
veteran. 

'And  I  know,'  continued  the  Spirit, 
'how  its  beams  are  falling  on  the  Lacy 
farm,  among  the  half-grown  pines  on  the 
knoll  where  Grant  had  his  headquar- 
ters, and  athwart  the  Widow  Tapp's 
old  field  where  Lee  had  his.  Are  you 
aware,'  she  continued,  '  that  this  anni- 
versary, the  6th  of  May,  never  comes 
round  that  Duty  and  Glory,  bearing 
wreaths  in  their  hands  for  the  dead 
of  both  armies,  do  not  appear  in  the 
Wilderness,  that  its  streams  do  not 
murmur  the  livelong  night,  and  the  old 
breastworks  behind  which  stood  the 
Army  of  Northern  Virginia  and  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac  —  your  own  old 
gallant  army  —  do  not  call  to  each 
other  in  friendly  tones.  Often  have  I 
heard  them  as  I  sat  at  my  leafy  door, 
and  then  one  trumpet  after  another 
blows  where  some  splendid  boy  fell; 
and  invariably,  as  their  last  notes  die 
away,  the  wind  rises  and  breathes  a 
solemn  requiem.  Oh,  what  a  home 
I  had!' 

The  old  soldier,  catching  the  glint 
of  a  falling  tear,  thrust  his  arm  impul- 
sively through  that  of  the  spirit.  '  Come 
on,  by  thunder!'  he  exclaimed,  'let  us 
go  back  to  the  Wilderness!' 

And  off  they  set. 

Now  from  time  to  time,  as  in  all 
time,  bells  speak  to  bells,  mountain 
peaks  to  mountain  peaks,  lakes  to  lakes, 


and  land  to  sea ;  and  above  all  on  May 
nights,  when  Spring  is  strewing  her 
flowers  over  the  fields  and  through  the 
woods,  when  there  is  mist  in  the  val- 
leys and  clouds  are  gilded  by  the  moon. 
So,  the  news  was  communicated 
by  spire  and  bell  to  the  soldiers  on  the 
monuments  from  Maine  to  Minnesota 
that  the  old  Army  of  the  Potomac  was 
forming  to  go  back  to  the  Wilderness. 
And  soon  they  began  to  gather,  and 
at  every  lane  and  cross-road  our  little 
company  came  to,  there  stood  a  color- 
bearer  and  soldiers  who  fell  in,  swell- 
ing the  procession.  Great  was  the  joy 
of  every  run  and  brook  they  crossed,  of 
every  hill  and  field  they  passed;  the 
lone  trees  in  them,  as  well  as  the  woods, 
all  waving  their  green  banners.  And 
wheresoever  they  swung  by  a  farm 
from  which  a  soldier  had  volunteered, 
the  cocks  in  the  barns  crowed  valiant- 
ly. On  they  went,  climbing  a  long  hill 
in  the  moonlight,  past  stone  walls  old 
and  blotched  with  lichens  on  either  side 
of  the  narrow  mountain-road,  past  gray 
weather-worn  boulders,  from  the  top 
of  which  many  a  sparrow  and  lark  had 
sung  a  sweet  song  and  among  which 
small  herds  of  young  cattle  were  sleep- 
ing in  peace,  on  and  on  until  they  came 
to  a  lonely  house  in  whose  dooryard 
stood  a  tottering  hoary  oak.  A  boy 
with  yellow  hair  and  pink  cheeks,  an 
only  son  from  this  house,  was  the  first 
to  spring  to  the  old  soldier's  side.  This 
boy  it  was  who  had  gone  forth  when 
his  captain  in  the  Wilderness  seized 
the  colors  and  amid  a  terrible  fire  had 
planted  them  ahead  of  all  the  battle 
line,  crying  out,  'Who  will  stand  by 
me?'  Captain  and  boy  never  came 
home.  The  once  kingly  tree,  now  in  the 
childish  dotage  of  old  age,  lifted  its 
bleaching  crown  as  the  colors  passed 
and  with  trembling  voice  said,  'If  you 
pass  the  grave  where  our  gallant  Tom 
lies,  tell  him  that  we  wish  he  would 
come  home.' 


A   DREAM-MARCH  TO  THE   WILDERNESS 


While  the  column  was  crossing  the 
Hudson  the  guns  of  old  Revolutionary 
Fort  Putnam  boomed  a  salute.  And, 
wheresoever  in  the  Highlands  the  men 
of  Massachusetts,  Virginia,  and  the 
rest  of  the  original  Thirteen  Colonies 
had  camped  under  Washington,  Wayne, 
and  Heath,  beacon  fires  on  the  hills 
were  burning. 

The  line  of  march  soon  led  by  the 
gates  of  a  vast  temple  whose  walls  and 
dome  were  of  beaten  gold.  Avarice 
sat  brooding  on  its  gates,  which  were  of 
massive  brass;  and  notwithstanding  it 
was  night,  a  conclave  of  middle-aged 
men  with  hard,  cold  faces  and  sharp 
little  eyes  were  mounting  the  gilded 
steps,  and  passing  between  the  fluted 
columns  of  solid  bullion  into  the  temple 
of  Mammon. 

The  spires  of  Philadelphia  were  all 
on  the  look-out,  for  they  had  heard  the 
cheering  at  Princeton,  and  as  soon  as 
they  caught  sight  of  the  oncoming 
column  the  Liberty  Bell  began  to  peal. 

And  lo !  when  they  reached  Washing- 
ton, Columbia  came  down  from  the 
dome  of  the  Capitol  and  led  them  up 
Pennsylvania  Avenue,  the  torch  of  the 
country's  destiny  burning  brightly 
in  her  hand;  and  as  they  passed  the 
White  House  there  stood  Lincoln  once 
more  waving  them  a  '  God  bless  you ' 
on  their  way,  the  pathos  of  his  sad  face 
lighting  as  he  looked  at  them  stead- 
fastly, perhaps  listening  to  a  voice  re- 
peating the  lyric  of  his  first  inaugural. 

'We  are  not  enemies,  but  friends. 
We  must  not  be  enemies.  Though  pas- 
sion may  have  strained,  it  must  not 
break  our  bonds  of  affection.  The  mys- 
tic chords  of  memory,  stretching  from 
every  battlefield  and  patriot  grave  to 
every  living  heart  and  hearthstone  all 
over  this  broad  land,  will  yet  swell  the 
chorus  of  the  Union  when  again 
touched,  as  surely  they  will  be,  by  the 
better  angels  of  our  nature.' 

'Better  angels  of  our  nature!'  Clay 


of  Westminster !  State  papers  of  the 
world,  match  that  lyric  close  if  you 
can! 

When  they  reached  the  Potomac,  the 
river  was  glad  to  see  its  old  namesake 
again,  and  all  up  and  down  its  banks, 
from  Cumberland  to  the  Chesapeake, 
there  was  great  joy  as  the  news  was 
borne  by  the  rippling  current  that  the 
old  Army  of  the  Potomac  was  crossing 
into  Virginia  on  its  way  to  the  Wilder- 
ness in  the  spirit  of  Goodwill  and 
Peace. 

That  night  the  army  bivouacked  on 
the  green  sward  of  Mt.  Vernon.  Sweet 
was  the  sleep  of  all,  for  the  sanctified, 
country-loving  sod  whispered  to  every 
one  of  them  that  he  was  welcome. 

The  fires  kindled  on  the  hearth  of 
the  venerable  mansion,  the  windows 
gleamed,  and  ready  dressed  in  his  uni- 
form, Washington  sat  with  rapt  pleas- 
ure looking  into  a  softly  blazing  fire,  be- 
holding the  realization  of  the  hopes  of 
departed  days. 

Now  the  boom  of  old  Fort  Putnam's 
guns  and  the  peal  of  the  Liberty  Bell 
had  barely  passed  on  their  way  over  the 
Southland,  when  the  bell  of  St.  Michael 
in  Charleston  began  to  ring  and  guns 
to  boom  from  Cowpen's,  King's  Moun- 
tain, and  Yorktown.  And  as  they  ceased, 
the  voice  of  the  Confederate  soldier, 
standing  aloft  on  his  column  overlook- 
ing Richmond,  was  heard  calling  the 
Army  of  Northern  Virginia  to  atten- 
tion, and  in  a  little  while  that  old  army 
with  the  Stars  and  Bars  flying  was  on 
its  way  to  the  Wilderness.  And  if  the 
fields  and  woods  of  the  Northland  had 
greeted  the  procession  of  its  brave  and 
true  with  proud  exultation,  the  greet- 
ings of  the  Southland  for  its  valiant 
sons  was  even  keener,  prouder,  and 
warmer.  And  the  reason  why,  it  is  easy 
to  see :  for  where  there  is  pity  a  kind  of 
tear  gathers  in  the  eye  which  the  heart 
sends  up  of  its  choicest  dew,  and  the 
result  was,  as  their  friends  cheered 


A  DREAM-MARCH  TO  THE  WILDERNESS 


637 


them  again  and  again,  tears  of  love  and 
pride  dripped  down  the  cheeks  of  old 
and  young.  The  liveoaks  with  their 
swinging  moss,  cypress  and  pine,  the 
cotton-fields  and  every  blooming  laurel 
decking  the  cloud-capped  hills  of  Caro- 
lina and  Tennessee  waved,  and  waved 
proudly.  Yes,  and  there  was  music  in 
the  channels  of  the  Alabama,  Ocmul- 
gee,  and  Altamaha,  that  rejoicing  music 
of  lofty  strain  which  the  streams  of  a 
land  devoted  to  an  enlightened,  right- 
eous democracy  bear  on  to  the  sea. 
Has  the  Ganges,  the  Tiber,  the  Dan- 
ube, the  Nile,  or  the  Rhine,  a  song  like 
that  of  the  James,  the  Hudson,  the 
Charles,  the  Alabama,  the  Oregon,  and 
the  mighty  Mississippi? 

So,  when  the  Army  of  Northern  Vir- 
ginia approached  Richmond  the  kingly 
James  broke  into  a  strain  that  pierced 
the  sky,  for  its  heart,  like  that  of  the 
Blue  Ridge,  the  peaks  of  Otter  and  the 
Shenandoah,  had  been  with  it  from 
beginning  to  end. 

Under  the  escort  of  the  Richmond 
Blues  the  procession  traversed  the 
proud  citadel  of  the  Confederacy.  It 
is  believed  that  never,  never,  in  all  his- 
tory did  any  army  receive  such  a  wel- 
come. From  the  time  it  appeared  filing 
down  the  heights  of  Manchester  till 
the  last  color  disappeared  on  the  Brooke 
Pike,  the  people  thronged  the  streets; 
aged  fathers  and  mothers,  pale  and  too 
weak  to  stand  alone,  who  had  lived 
through  the  war,  were  supported  lov- 
ingly on  either  side  at  their  doorways, 
and  babies  were  waked  and  taken  from 
their  cradles  and  held  high  in  their 
mothers'  arms  so  that  they  might  have 
it  to  say  in  their  old  age  that  they  saw 
the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia  as  it 
marched  through  Richmond  on  its  way 
to  the  Wilderness.  All  the  bells  rang, 
St.  Paul's  leading,  and  there  was  many 
a  suppressed  sob  as  the  tears  fell. 

As  the  line  passed  the  White  House, 
uncovered  between  two  of  the  columns 


of  the  porch  stood  Jefferson  Davis.  His 
spare  face  was  unclouded.  With  char- 
acter so  spotless,  integrity  so  incor- 
ruptible, courage  so  resolute,  conviction 
in  the  justice  of  the  cause  he  led  so 
strong,  he  seemed,  as  his  eyes  lay  kindly 
on  the  marching  veterans,  to  be  listen- 
ing in  faith  for  the  final  and  favorable 
verdict  of  the  future.  The  charm  of 
his  personality,  a  rare  blending  of  dig- 
nity with  well-bred  deference,  was  still 
about  him.  Of  course,  all  the  flags  were 
dipped,  including  the  stars  and  stripes 
borne  by  the  Blues,  for  each  star  and 
each  bar  on  it  remembered  him  as  an 
old  friend,  one  who  at  Buena  Vista, 
as  colonel  of  the  First  Mississippi,  by 
his  courage  and  blood  (for  he  was  se- 
verely wounded  there)  brought  it  vic- 
tory. The  sight  of  the  old  flag  dipping 
to  him  brought  his  heart  into  his  mouth 
and  with  moistened  eyes  he  bowed  low 
and  whispered,  'God  bless  you!' 

As  they  marched  by  the  old  camp- 
ing-grounds, each  begged  them  for  the 
sake  of  bygone  days  to  halt;  but  the 
veterans  wanted  to  sleep  once  more  on 
the  scene  of  the  five-days'  warfare  at 
Spottsylvania,  whose  match  in  desper- 
ate assaults  was  not  met  with  else- 
where. So  by  the  old  battlefields,  and 
over  the  South  Anna  and  the  North 
Anna,  they  marched  on.  Both  of  these 
rivers  were  singing,  and  long  after  they 
crossed  them,  heading  northward,  they 
could  still  hear  them,  as  the  south  wind 
breathed  through  the  newly-leafed 
woods  and  over  the  freshly-ploughed 
fields. 

In  uncommon  splendor  the  sun  went 
down,  and  out  from  her  sky-ceiled 
chamber,  twilight  never  came  forth 
with  softer  grace,  or  with  a  sweeter 
face  under  her  veil;  and  never  did  the 
evening  star  seem  more  reluctant  to 
sink  to  her  bed  in  the  west,  as  the  col- 
umn in  gray  marched  on  hi  the  spirit 
of  Goodwill  and  Peace.  At  last  lone 
trees,  fields,  and  distant  views,  all  faded 


638 


A  DREAM-MARCH  TO  THE  WILDERNESS 


away,  and  darkness  came  from  the 
deep,  heavy  woods  which  lined  the 
roadside,  and  stood  at  their  branching 
overarched  doorways;  gentleness  and 
perfect  safety  had  replaced  the  terror 
in  the  face  of  Night.  Millions  of  stars 
were  out. 

When  within  a  mile  or  so  of  Spottsyl- 
vania  all  the  battle-torn  banners  began 
to  flutter  on  their  staffs,  and  their  bear- 
ers could  not  understand  it.  But  when 
they  drew  to  their  destination,  then  the 
reason  dawned  on  them,  for  there  were 
the  old  fields  robed  in  glory  to  welcome 
them;  the  flags,  you  see,  had  felt  the 
proud  beating  of  their  hearts.  Spott- 
sylvania's  reception  was  royal,  all  her 
peerage,  her  court  of  heroic  deeds,  were 
there  in  state  and  pomp,  and  on  every 
staff  as  they  passed  her  she  hung  a 
wreath  of  laurel.  After  the  camp-fires 
were  lit,  the  oaks  from  the  'Bloody 
Angle'  came  out  and  joined  their  fel- 
low veterans  around  the  camp-fires, 
not  boastful  yet  proud  of  their  maimed 
limbs,  their  scars,  and  the  bullets  still 
in  their  breasts.  Sweet,  peaceful,  and 
refreshing  was  sleep! 

Meanwhile  the  Army  of  the  Potomac 
had  reached  the  Rapidan  and  was 
bivouacking  on  its  northern  bank,  the 
river  alone  between  it  and  the  Wil- 
derness. The  moon  never  moved  up- 
ward with  greater  majesty,  nor  were  the 
stars  arrayed  in  finer  apparel,  than  on 
that  night.  How  could  it  have  been 
otherwise?  For  are  not  brave  hearts, 
filled  with  the  spirit  of  peace  and  good- 
will, the  true  coming  down  of  Heaven 
to  dwell  among  men?  And  naturally 
enough  then  every  luminary  of  the 
firmament  brightened. 

The  Rapidan  listened  with  rapture 
while  the  old  Army  of  the  Potomac 
sang  its  songs; 'and  after  the  voices  all 
died  down,  and  with  hands  under  their 
cheeks,  as  in  their  childhood,  the  vete- 
rans fell  asleep,  the  night  wind  gathered 
the  perfume  of  jessamine,  azalea,  lin- 


den, violet,  and  wild  grape  to  fill  the  air, 
and  then  breathed  lullabies  through 
the  willows  and  the  aeolian-throated 
pines.  To  show  how  through  Nature's 
vast  concourse  of  stars,  winds,  plains, 
mountains,  and  seas  the  heart's  high 
beats  are  conveyed,  it  is  said  that  during 
that  night  a  square-rigged  ship  from 
New  Orleans,  loaded  with  cotton,  spoke 
a  barque  in  mid-Atlantic  loaded  with 
spars  from  the  coast  of  Maine;  both  had 
every  bit  of  bunting  aflying  and,  as  they 
passed,  yards,  masts,  and  sails  cheered 
for  the  respective  armies,  and  then  for 
the  common  country's  glory. 

The  Wilderness,  fully  informed  of 
the  old  armies'  approach,  and  desirous 
that  their  reception  should  be  suitable, 
called  in  conference  the  neighboring 
battlefields  of  Todd's  Tavern,  Mine 
Run,  Spottsylvania,  and  Chancellors- 
ville.  Having  assembled  on  a  knoll 
crowned  with  open  venerable  trees,  it 
was  suggested  that  by  reason  of  their 
common  memories  the  Pike,  Brock,  and 
Plank  roads,  Caton's  and  Wilderness 
runs,  the  Widow  Tapp's  fields  and  the 
Chewning  farm  should  be  invited  to 
the  conference  also.  (The  old  Plank 
Road,  owing  to  its  infirmities,  was  the 
last  to  reach  the  meeting-place,  and  the 
Pike,  on  account  of  its  years  and  con- 
sequent shortness  of  breath,  had  to  sit 
down  twice  to  rest  before  completing 
the  journey.) 

All  having  gathered  at  last,  and  as 
they  were  on  the  point  of  taking  up  the 
matter  in  hand,  the  little  chapel  con- 
structed since  the  war,  which  stands 
on  the  side  of  the  Pike  near  where 
Grant's  headquarters  once  were,  mod- 
estly drew  near.  She  had  been  over- 
looked, but  gladly  they  welcomed  her 
to  a  place  amongst  them,  for  there  is 
not  an  oak  or  a  pine,  green-alleyed 
vista,  murmuring  stream,  or  old  en- 
trenchment, within  sound  of  her  voice, 
that  does  not  love  her,  and  that  does 
not  join  in  worship  on  quiet  Sunday 


A  DREAM-MARCH  TO  THE   WILDERNESS 


639 


evenings,  as  the  last  pealing  stroke  of 
her  bell  dies  away. 

After  full  discussion  it  was  decided 
that  when  the  heads  of  the  two  armies 
bore  in  sight,  the  Southern,  up  the 
Brock  Road  from  Spottsylvania,  the 
Northern,  up  the  Germanna  Road  from 
the  Rapidan,  a  delegation  of  the  best 
oaks  —  more  than  one  of  them  carried 
bullets,  shrapnel,  and  pieces  of  shell  — 
should  meet  them  and  escort  each  to 
its  former  respective  position;  that 
meanwhile  the  azaleas,  dogwood,  and 
blooming  laurel  should  line  the  road- 
sides, and  that  here  and  there  canteens 
of  cool  fresh  water  should  be  hung  on 
pendant  boughs.  Provision  was  also 
made  that,  on  gaining  their  camps,  piles 
of  dry  fagots  should  be  ready  for  the 
camp-fires,  and  that  wheresoever  a  horse 
or  mule  should  be  tied,  there  at  his  feet 
should  lie  a  ration  of  glittering  corn 
and  a  sheaf  of  bearded  oats.  The  little 
chapel  volunteered  to  supply  a  soft 
pillow  for  every  head,  and  a  far  travel- 
ing wind,  which  had  halted,  attracted 
by  the  assemblage,  suggested  that  as 
sleep  was  closing  their  eyes  the  runs 
should  softly  sing  of  home  and  peace. 

In  accordance  with  this  programme, 
never  were  armies  escorted  with  more 
dignity,  and  never  were  roadsides 
dressed  with  more  beauty.  For,  as  well 
as  the  dogwood,  laurel,  and  azaleas, 
every  blooming  bush  and  wild  flower  of 
the  woods  came  out  to  welcome  them, 
every  waxen,  yellow  cowslip,  open-eyed 
houstonia,  the  spring  beauties  with 
their  faintly  pink-streaked  petals,  the 
spiritual  white-clothed  distant  aerial 
wind-flower,  the  downy-stemmed  liver- 
wort, violets,  white,  yellow,  and  blue, 
all  stood  there  facing  one  another,  the 
road  between,  in  childish  expectancy 
and  glee,  the  tall  standing  back  to  give 
place  to  the  small.  And  as  brigade  after 
brigade  came  by,  they  and  the  trees 
over  them  would  break  into  exulting 
cheers.  Now  you  would  hear  them  along 


the  Germanna  Road,  up  which  marched 
the  old  Army  of  the  Potomac — God 
oless  it!  how  the  name  always  stirs  my 
heart;  now  the  woods  along  the  Pike 
would  take  them  up;  and  then  you 
would  hear  them  far  away  to  the  south- 
west, beyond  New  Hope  Church,  re- 
sponding, —  it  was  through  them  that 
the  gallant  Longstreet  had  marched;  — 
and  as  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia 
came  up  the  Brock  Road  and  filed  into 
the  Plank  for  the  Widow  Tapp  field 
and  the  Chewning  farm,  wild,  even 
tumultuous,  was  the  acclamation  of  the 
Wilderness.  In  fact,  as  the  two  armies 
went  into  their  camps,  the  voice  of  the 
timbered  battle-fought  region  rose  with 
such  mighty  force  that  every  fellow 
ancient  wood  of  our  land,  from  farthest 
shore  to  shore,  took  up  the  cheers,  and 
rejoicing  waves  rolled  thundering  in 
from  the  level,  moonlit  seas. 

It  is  needless  to  say,  seeing  in  what 
fellowship  and  kindness  the  armies  had 
come  together  on  one  of  their  deadliest 
fields,  that  the  heart  of  the  reunited 
country  was  beating  loud ;  and  that,  as 
always  when  the  heart  of  man  or  na- 
tion flushes  the  brain  with  tides  of  feel- 
ing, Art,  Poetry,  and  Religion,  those 
mighty  creative  spirits,  through  her 
gifted  sons,  got  ready  to  embody  the 
glory  of  the  land  in  immortal  speech; 
or  to  add  that,  beholding  their  sincer- 
ity, Nature  walked  by  their  side  and 
spoke,  and  heaven-lit  was  the  vision 
of  our  country's  majesty  as  she  moved 
peacefully,  brave,  just,  merciful,  and 
clothed  in  righteousness,  among  the 
nations  of  the  world. 

But  who  are  those  envoys  that,  with 
banners,  are  traveling  hitherward 
through  the  fields  of  moon  and  stars? 
Silence  stands  at  the  border  of  her 
kingdom,  and  her  attendants  are  there, 
the  carrying  winds.  Oh,  with  what  a 
depth  of  acquaintance  and  meaning 
she  meets  them,  and  with  what  looks 
they  answer  the  cheers  of  the  Wilder- 


640 


A  DREAM-MARCH  TO  THE  WILDERNESS 


ness!  The  envoys  and  their  winged 
retinue  have  gone  into  camp  on  a  beach, 
where  lofty  headland  on  headland  ap- 
pears. What  new  country  is  that? 
Wait  a  while;  God  is  pouring  his  spirit 
out  as  he  had  promised  to  do  on  all 
men,  and  the  literature  of  our  land 
will  at  last  tell  you  what  country  it  is, 
and  you  will  hear  echoes  from  the  cliffs 
of  the  mind. 

It  seems  that  Fame  too  had  come  to 
witness  the  reunion,  and  the  good  angel 
of  our  country  went  to  her  side  and 
said,  'Why  not  throw  the  doors  of 
your  temple  open  and  let  them  enter 
as  friends?'  Her  trumpet  sounds,  the 
armies  rouse  and  take  up  the  march 
again.  Abreast  they  mount  the  steps 
and  pass  through  the  high,  wide  doors. 
Ushers  with  suspended  trumpets  —  oh, 
how  they  have  sounded  on  many  a  field 
since  the  Christian  Era  began! — seated 
the  Army  of  the  Potomac  on  one 
side,  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia  on 
the  other;  their  colors,  mingling,  were 
planted  around  the  chancel.  The  gal- 
leries were  crowded,  crowded  with  the 
true,  gentle,  gifted,  heroic  of  the  past, 
—  Fame's  sweethearts,  —  all  looking 
down  with  fresh,  noble  unselfconscious 
interest.  There  was  the  Centurion,  the 
Good  Samaritan,  Sidney,  Sir  Richard 
Grenville. 

Noble,  very  noble  was  that  company, 
waiting  the  arrival  of  Grant  and  Lee, 
who  presently  appeared  marching  up 
the  aisle,  led  on  by  stern  Duty,  that 


master  soldier,  'with  sword  on  thigh 
and  brow  with  purpose  knit,'  attended 
on  either  hand  by  Victory  and  Law. 
The  vast  assembly  rose  and  stood  till 
they  were  seated.  Then  an  invisible 
choir  somewhere  aloft  in  the  mighty 
dome  began  to  sing:  'Blessed  are  the 
peacemakers,  for  they  shall  be  called 
the  children  of  God';  the  heads  of  all 
bowed  in  reverential  silence.  The  song 
ended,  History  brought  forward  her 
Chronicle  and  read  a  glowing  chapter; 
the  wind  of  the  Wilderness  carried  it 
forth;  and  then  followed  a  great  hush 
as  if  a  voice  from  the  firmament  had 
pronounced  a  benediction.  The  two 
armies  rose,  and  to  the  exulting  music 
of  the  fields,  rivers,  mountains,  and 
lakes  of  our  loving  land,  marched  away 
into  the  darkening  past. 

And  as  they  vanished,  the  Future 
drew  her  curtain,  and  lo!  appeared  a 
vast  multitude  attentive  to  a  figure 
with  a  radiant  face  —  it  may  have 
been  Poetry  —  who  was  addressing 
them  with  inspired  lips,  her  uplifted 
hand  pointing  from  time  to  time 
toward  a  dawn -tinted  beacon  peak. 
On  inquiry,  the  soaring  mountain-top 
was  found  to  be  the  glory  of  the  gener- 
ation whose  armies  had  the  magnan- 
imity, the  greatness  of  soul,  after  a 
bitter  war  of  four  years,  to  meet  as 
friends,  to  bury  and  forget  all  wrongs, 
and  with  stout  but  humble  hearts,  to 
take  up  the  task  of  their  country's 
destiny. 


FOR  THE  HONOR  OF  THE  COMPANY 


BY  MARY   E.   MITCHELL 


THE  old  man  came  slowly  up  the  little 
graveled  path  which  bisected  the  plot, 
and  painfully  bent  himself  to  one  of  the 
ornate  iron  settees  facing  the  monu- 
ment. Everything  about  him,  the  faded 
blue  suit,  the  brass-buttoned  coat  with 
the  tiny  flag  pinned  on  its  breast,  the 
old  army  hat,  all  bespoke  the  veteran. 
He  wore,  also,  a  look  of  unwonted  tidi- 
ness which  sat  stiffly  on  his  shambling 
figure.  The  frayed  edges  of  his  clean 
linen  had  been  clipped,  and  his  thin 
gray  hair  neatly  brushed.  His  whole 
aspect  told  of  a  conscientious  conces- 
sion to  the  solemn  rites  of  Decoration 
Day. 

The  bench  already  held  one  occupant, 
small  and  withered  in  person,  with  soft 
white  hair  showing  beneath  a  rusty, 
old-fashioned  bonnet.  An  observer 
would  have  pronounced  her  a  contemp- 
orary of  the  newcomer.  But  it  is  hard- 
er to  tell  a  woman's  age  than  a  man's; 
the  way  of  her  life  marks  her  face  more 
than  do  the  years.  In  this  case  her 
deep  corrugations  bore  witness  to  stress, 
but  behind  the  furrows  lay  something 
which  hinted  that  the  owner  had  over- 
lived the  storms,  and  that  the  end  was 
peace. 

The  little  green  park  which  they 
had  chosen  for  their  resting-place  was 
a  fitting  spot  for  old  people,  for  it,  too, 
spoke  of  battles  past  and  victories  won. 
The  monument  was  one  of  those  mis- 
guided efforts  by  which  a  grateful  com- 
munity is  wont  to  show  its  apprecia- 
tion of  heroic  service.  It  rose  from  the 
surrounding  sward  with  a  dignity  of 
purpose  and  a  pathos  of  intention  quite 
VOL.  107 -NO.  5 


worthy  of  better  expression.  The  scrap 
of  ground  around  it  had  been  promot- 
ed from  unkempt  waste,  trampled  by 
children  and  the  occasional  cow,  to 
a  proud  position  of  national  use.  On 
this  particular  day  it  fulfilled  its  duties 
with  an  air  of  special  integrity,  while 
the  monument  fluttered  with  decorous 
gayety  in  a  loyal  drapery  of  red,  white, 
and  blue. 

The  Memorial  Day  sun  was  warm- 
ly manifesting  its  patriotism,  and  the 
veteran  sank  into  the  shaded  seat  with 
a  sigh  of  tired  content.  He  took  off  his 
hat  and  mopped  his  forehead.  His 
part  in  the  programme  was  over,  and 
he  had  earned  his  rest.  The  celebra- 
tion had  been  a  success;  not  a  threaten- 
ing cloud  had  distracted  the  attention 
of  the  audience  from  the  orator  of  the 
day.  The  procession  had  made  an  im- 
pressive progress  to  the  cemetery,  and 
one  more  chaplet  had  been  laid  upon 
the  grave  of  the  Civil  War. 

When  he  had  restored  his  hat  to  his 
grizzled  head,  the  veteran  straightened 
up  and  regarded  his  seat-mate.  He  was 
a  social  soul,  and  the  little  cough  he 
gave  found  no  excuse  in  his  bronchial 
regions;  it  was  a  purely  voluntary  and 
tentative  approach  to  conversation. 
The  look  the  woman  vouchsafed  him 
did  not  discourage  his  advance. 

'Sightly  place?'  he  ventured. 

'Yes,'  replied  the  woman. 

'  That  monument  now ;  it 's  somethin* 
to  be  proud  of,  ain't  it?' 

'It's  real  handsome.' 

*I  ain't  been  here  since  it  was  set 
up.  I  belong  over  Hilton  way,  but  this 

641 


642 


FOR  THE  HONOR  OF  THE  COMPANY 


year  the  whole  county's  celebratin'  to- 
gether, you  know,  an'  I  thought  I  'd  like 
to  see  the  boys'  names  cut  up  there.' 

The  woman's  gaze  followed  the 
veteran's  to  the  tablet  on  the  side  of 
the  shaft. 

'  They  look  good,  don't  they  ? '  she  said 
softly.  '  I  brought  Danny  to  see  them. 
His  gran'father  was  my  husband,  an' 
I  give  him  to  his  country.' 

The  veteran  put  his  hand  to  his  hat 
in  an  awkward  gesture  of  sympathy. 

'  Well,  ma'am,'  he  said, '  I  often  won- 
der why  I  warn 't  taken  instead  of  some 
better  man.  I  fought  right  through  an' 
got  nothin'  but  a  flesh  wound.  Lord! 
but  it  was  the  women  that  suffered; 
they're  the  ones  that  ought  to  get 
pensions.  I  sense  as  if  it  was  yester- 
day the  mornin'  I  said  good-bye  to  my 
sweetheart.' 

For  a  moment  the  only  sound  was 
that  of  the  breeze  gently  stirring  the 
fresh  young  maple  leaves  overhead. 
Then  the  woman  spoke. 

'It  seems  queer,  don't  it,  for  us  to 
be  settin'  here,  an'  them  never  knowin' 
that  we  're  proud  of  'em,  an'  that  the 
country  they  died  for  is  doin'  'em  honor 
all  over  its  length  an'  breadth?  If  they 
could  come  back  an'  join  in  the  pro- 
cession it  would  make  a  long  line,  but, 
my!  would  n't  we  make  of  'em!  I  can't 
help  thinkin'  how  much  more  they  did 
than  just  fight.' 

'That's  so,'  responded  the  veteran. 
'There's  somebody  that  says  that 
when  you  pass  out,  what  you've  done 
don't  die,  but  goes  livin'  on  after  you, 
an'  I  guess  he's  right.  If  we  sensed 
that  all  the  time  we  'd  be  more  careful, 
mebbe.' 

'It  has  lived  after  them,'  approved 
the  woman.  '  I  feel  just  that  way  when 
I  'm  thinkin'  about  my  husband.  He 
helped  break  the  chains  of  the  slave, 
but  that  warn't  all  or  even  most  of  what 
he  done.  I  guess  the  war  would  n't  have 
been  lost  if  he  had  n't  been  in  it,  but 


he  gave  the  folks  that  knew  him  an  ex- 
ample of  what  bein'  a  hero  is,  an'  you 
can't  calculate  what  that's  meant.' 

The  veteran  nodded. 

'  I  never  thought  of  it  just  that  way 
before,  but  I  guess  you  're  right,  ma'am.' 

'You  take  Danny,  now;  he's  the 
only  gran'child  I've  got,  an'  we  set 
store  by  him.  Well,  he 's  lame,  an'  the 
doctor  says  he  won't  ever  be  better. 
Seems  as  if  it  would  fair  kill  his  father 
when  he  heard  that;  men  take  such 
things  hard,  you  know,  and  Danny 
was  his  eye's  apple.  But  I  guess  he 
had  some  of  the  fightin'  blood  in  him, 
for  he  marched  straight  up  to  the  sorrer 
an'  looked  it  square  in  the  face.  "  My 
father  faced  the  music,  an'  I  guess  I 
won't  shame  him,  though  it 's  a  differ- 
ent kind  of  a  bullet  that's  struck  me; 
one  you've  got  to  live  with  instead  of 
die  of,"  he  told  Hatty  Anne;  she's  his 
wife,  an'  she  told  me.  As  for  Danny, 
well,  when  he  was  a  little  mite  with  a 
backache  a  good  deal  bigger 'n  he  was, 
he  would  n't  cry  out  because  his  gran'- 
father was  a  soldier.  We  talk  to  him  a 
lot  about  it,  an'  I  guess  it's  given  him 
courage  to  live.' 

'  Perhaps  the  little  feller  '11  get  over 
it,'  said  the  veteran  sympathetically. 
'Doctors  don't  know  everything.' 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

'There  ain't  any  perhaps  about  a 
spine  as  crooked  as  Danny's.  But  he's 
real  sunny  dispositioned  an'  he's  got 
lots  of  grit.  He's  just  set  on  playin' 
soldier,  an'  it  would  make  you  cry  to 
see  him  drillin',  brave  as  the  best,  with 
his  poor  little  back,  an'  his  pipe-stem 
legs.  He 's  over  there  now,  waiting  for 
the  band  to  come  back;  he's  just  crazy 
over  bands,  Danny  is.' 

The  veteran  strained  his  dim  eyes  in 
the  direction  of  the  little  figure  sitting, 
crutches  by  his  side,  on  the  broad  curb 
which  swept  about  the  curve  of  the 
grass-plot. 

'  My  husband  did  n't  leave  much  in 


FOR  THE  HONOR  OF  THE  COMPANY 


(543 


the  way  of  worldly  goods,'  continued 
the  woman,  'but  I  guess  the  legacy  he 
did  leave  has  gone  further  an'  done 
more'n  dollars  would  have  done.' 

'That's  so!  That's  so!'  affirmed  the 
veteran;  and  again  on  the  two  old 
people  fell  silence.  It  was  the  veteran 
who  broke  it. 

'  I  'm  thinkin',  as  I  set  here,  how  the 
real  heroes,  an'  them  that  ain't  heroes, 
are  all  mixed  up  in  a  war,  an'  both  get 
equal  credit.  Here's  your  husband, 
now,  a  brave  man  who  died  for  his 
country,  an'  then  again  I  could  tell 
you  a  story  —  but  there!  my  son's  wife 
says  my  tongue 's  longer  'n  the  moral 
law.  I  guess  when  I  get  goin'  I  don't 
know  when  to  stop.' 

The  woman's  face  expanded  in  in- 
terest as  she  edged  nearer  her  seat- 
mate. 

'I'll  be  real  pleased  to  hear  it,'  she 
said. 

The  veteran  painfully  crossed  his 
stiff  legs,  took  off  his  hat  and  put  it  on 
his  knee,  while  with  one  wrinkled  hand 
he  nervously  fingered  the  brim. 

'It  seems  good  to  be  talkin'  of  old 
times.'  The  veteran's  voice  took  on 
an  apologetic  note.  '  Young  folks  don't 
always  know  what  that  means  to  the 
old,  an'  sometimes  they  get  a  bit  im- 
patient. You  can't  blame  'em.  But 
this  thing  I  Ve  mentioned  I  never  told 
but  just  to  one,  an'  that  was  my  wife; 
she's  dead,  now,  this  twenty  year. 
It  ain't  a  pretty  story  to  tell,  or  for  a 
woman  to  hear,  but  somehow  I  kind  o' 
feel  as  if  you  'd  understand.  I  Ve  never 
been  quite  sure  I  done  right;  my  wife, 
she  thought  I  did,  but  you  know  wives 
have  a  way  of  favorin'  what  their  men 
do.  Perhaps  you'll  judge  different.' 

The  veteran's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
monument.  The  woman  adjusted  her- 
self in  an  attitude  of  attention.  Now 
and  then  there  floated  over  to  them 
the  broken  sounds  of  a  happy  lit  tie  tune 
Danny  was  singing  to  himself. 


'It  happened  at  Gettysburg,'  said 
the  veteran,  'on  the  second  day  of  the 
fight.  You  can't  know  just  how  a  sol- 
dier feels  when  a  battle  is  in  the  air. 
War  brings  out  all  that's  good  in  a 
man,  an'  right  along  beside  it  all  that 's 
bad.  The  thought  of  the  cause  you  're 
fightin'  for,  an'  the  music,  an'  the 
marchin',  an'  the  colors  flyin',  an'  the 
officers  cheerin'  the  men,'  all  gets  hold 
of  somethin'  inside  of  you,  an'  you 
could  give  up  everythin'  for  your  coun- 
try. It's  grand,  but,  Lord!  it's  no  use 
talkin'  about  it!  You  can't  put  it  into 
words.  Queer,  ain't  it,  howmany  things 
words  can  spoil?' 

The  veteran  paused  as  the  woman 
gave  the  expected  note  of  assent. 

'As  for  the  other  side  —  well,  when 
you're  really  on  the  fightin'  ground 
with  the  bullets  flyin'  all  about  you,  an* 
you  see  the  men  you '  ve  marched  with, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  shot  down,  an' 
you  know  it's  goin'  to  keep  on  till  one 
side  has  to  cry  quit,  then  the  beast 
that's  in  you  gets  up  an'  roars,  an'  you 
want  to  kill  an'  kill;  sometimes  you 
turn  sick  an'  want  to  run  —  but  you 
don't;  no,  ma'am!  runnin'  's  the  last 
thing  you  do.  It  takes  all  kind  of  feel- 
in' s  to  make  a  battle.  It 's  a  queer  sort 
of  a  way  to  settle  troubles,  now,  ain't 
it?  Seems  kind  o'  heathenish,  don't 
it?' 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

'I  take  it  we  ain't  to  criticize  what 
the  Lord's  sanctioned,'  she  said.  'The 
God  of  Battles  is  one  of  his  names.' 

'Oh,  when  it  comes  to  the  Lord,  I 
ain't  takin'  exceptions,  of  course,'  re- 
sponded the  veteran  with  a  slightly 
embarrassed  air.  '  I  would  n't  set  my- 
self up  to  judgin'  his  doin's,  but  I 
should  n't  have  thought  of  introducin* 
war  as  a  pacifier  of  nations,  myself,  or 
of  fightin'  as  a  way  to  brotherly  love. 
But  then  I  ain't  pious.  There's  a  pretty 
side  to  war,  but  it  warn't  showin'  itself 
that  day  at  Gettysburg. 


644 


FOR  THE  HONOR  OF  THE  COMPANY 


'It  was  a  gloomy  mornm',  with  a 
mist  like  a  steam  bath,  dreary  an'  drip- 
pin'.  We  could  n't  get  a  sight  of  any- 
thing, an'  the  fog  got  into  the  men's 
hearts  an'  wilted  them  down,  like  it 
does  starch  out  of  a  collar-band.  There 
were  other  reasons  for  feelin'  low. 
Things  looked  pretty  bad  for  our  side, 
an'  every  one  of  us  knew  it.  Our  little 
cap'n  danced  about  for  all  the  world 
like  a  war-horse;  just  a  bundle  of 
nerves.  He  said  a  little  speech  to  us  — 
said!  it  shot  right  out  of  him.  It  hit, 
too,  for  the  whole  company  straightened 
up  as  if  it  had  got  a  backbone.  "  You 
do  your  damnedest!"  he  yelled,  "or  by 
George,  I'll  shoot  every  man  of  you!" 
You'll  have  to  excuse  me,  ma'am; 
I  had  to  repeat  it  just  as  he  said  it, 
or  you  wouldn't  have  understood  how 
wrought  up  he  was;  an'  "By  George" 
ain't  exactly  the  words,  either.' 

The  woman  nodded  indulgently. 
Her  interest  outran  the  amenities. 

'Time  dragged  that  mornin','  the 
veteran  went  on.  'After  a  while  the 
sun  burned  off  the  fog,  an'  everythin' 
lay  as  bright  as  if  there  was  goin'  to 
be  a  strawberry  festival  instead  of  a 
bloody  battle.  The  fields  was  as  green 
as  grass  an'  crops  could  make  'em,  an' 
the  cattle  grazed  as  peaceful  as  lambs 
on  a  May  mornin'.  One  herd  of  them 
cows  got  a  taste  of  what  war  was  before 
the  day  was  over.  It  was  brought  home 
to  them  personal,  you  might  say. 

'You  could  hear  the  cocks  crowin' 
first  in  one  barnyard  an'  then  in  an- 
other, an'  birds  was  singin'  every- 
wheres.  Little  puffs  of  far-off  smoke 
was  all  that  told  of  battle  in  the  air. 
The  mornin'  wore  on,  an'  still  we  wait- 
ed; there  ain't  anythin'  more  wearin' 
to  a  soldier's  nerves  than  waitin'.  I'd 
rather  fight  a  dozen  battles  than  spend 
another  mornin'  like  that. 

'  It  was  well  on  to  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  when  the  orders  was  given. 
There  was  a  racket  then,  all  right! 


The  pretty,  peaceful  farmyard  scene 
was  broke  up,  an'  instead,  there  was  a 
hell  of  roarin'  guns  an'  screamin'  shells 
an'  blindin'  smoke.  Talk  about  slaugh- 
ter! You've  heard  of  the  Devil's  Den, 
I'm  thinkin'.' 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 
'It  got  pretty  famous  that  day.  It 
was  a  heap  of  rocks,  full  of  little  caves, 
an'  every  one  of  the  holes  held  a 
Johnny  with  a  sharpshooter.  Our  men 
got  picked  off  as  fast  as  they  come  up. 
A  little  ravine  ran  right  by  the  place, 
an'  the  herd  of  cows  I  mentioned  got 
penned  up  right  in  the  range  of  the 
crossfirin'.  Them  animals  would  have 
learned  a  lesson  that  day,  if  there 'd 
been  anything  left  of  them  to  remem- 
ber it  with.  That 's  generally  the  way 
with  life,  most  of  us  get  our  experience 
too  late. 

'There  was  a  hill  called  Little  Round 
Top,  an'  General  Warren  see  right  off 
that  was  the  key  to  the  situation. 
There  did  n't  seem  to  be  anybody  oc- 
cupyin'  it,  but  it  was  such  a  good  point, 
right  on  the  face  of  it,  that  he  kep'  a 
sharp  eye  on  it.  All  of  a  sudden  there 
came  a  bright  flash  from  near  the  top, 
a  blindin'  flash  that  made  us  sit  up  an' 
take  notice.  The  truth  of  it  was  a  com- 
pany of  Rebs  were  in  ambush,  an'  the 
sun  struck  on  to  their  bayonets  an'  gave 
them  away  complete.  It 's  funny  how 
weather  steps  in  sometimes  an'  balks 
things.  Seems  as  if  it  had  more  to  do 
with  winnin'  the  battle  than  the  whole 
army  did.' 

'  The  ways  the  Lord  takes  are  beyond 
the  understandin'  of  man,'  said  the 
woman.  'His  arm  is  ever  with  the 
righteous.' 

The  veteran  meditatively  rubbed  his 
rough  hand  over  his  shabbily-clad  knee, 
as  he  remarked,  — 

'  Mabbe  I  don't  give  the  Lord  credit 
where  it's  due.  It  seems  to  me  we're 
mighty  apt  to  call  it  the  Lord's  arm 
when  it's  on  our  side.  I  notice  them 


FOR  THE  HONOR  OF  THE  COMPANY 


645 


that  lose  ain't  apt  to  regard  it  in  that 
light.  However,  whoever  had  the  man- 
agin'  of  it,  that  flash  saved  the  day. 
Our  comioany  was  one  of  those  sent  up 
to  take  the  hill.  In  all  the  war  there 
warn't  a  finer  charge.  I  don't  see  how 
we  ever  done  it  with  them  guns.  It 
was  a  steep  slope,  rocky,  and  rough 
with  tangled  undergrowth.  We  never 
could  have  got  up  in  cold  blood.  We 
were  facin'  a  hot  fire,  but  our  only 
thought  was  to  get  to  the  top.  There 
warn't  a  man  in  the  company  but 
would  rather  have  been  shot  than  face 
our  little  cap  'n  after  havin'  played  the 
coward.  I  say  there  warn't  a  man,  — 
there  was  one,  as  I  found  out,  but 
then,  Lord !  I  don't  call  that  thing  a 
man. 

'Well,  up  we  went,  rattlety-bang, 
yankin'  them  guns  over  the  rocks, 
stumblin',  scramblin',  tearin'  our  faces 
an'  hands  an'  barkin'  our  shins,  but 
keepin'  right  on.  An'  that  ain't  men- 
tionin'  the  bullets  whizzin'  all  about 
us.' 

'It  must  have  been  awful,'  inter- 
rupted the  woman.  'It  takes  a  lot  of 
prayin'  to  keep  up  courage  in  the  face 
of  danger  like  that.' 

*  Prayin' /'  ejaculated  the  veteran. 
'  If  you  call  it  prayin'  to  be  bound  to 
keep  on  if  you  had  to  kill  every  all- 
fired  Reb  in  the  Confederate  Army  to 
do  it,  an'  to  make  a  road  of  their  dead 
bodies,  then  we  was  all  prayin'.  I  guess 
men  do  things  different  from  women. 
It  don't  make  any  odds  what  we 
thought;  we  did,  and  that  was  more 
to  the  point. 

'About  halfway  up  the  hill,  one  of 
the  guns  got  stuck  some  way,  an'  I  had 
to  stop  an'  help  free  it,  so  I  fell  behind 
a  bit.  As  I  was  hurryin'  to  ketch  up 
I  stumbled  on  somethin'  soft  and 
yieldin'.  It  was  a  man,  an*  he  was 
wearin'  the  blue.  It  took  me  some  sec- 
onds to  sense  what  it  meant,  an'  then 
I  realized  I  had  run  down  a  skulker, 


hidin'  in  the  rocks.  I  just  reached 
out  an'  hauled  him  up  by  the  collar 
of  his  coat,  an'  says  I,  "What  you 
doin'  here?"  He  was  a  man  from  my 
own  company,  worse  luck.  He  was 
tremblin',  an'  his  face  was  white.  I 
shook  him  just  as  I  would  a  rat.  "  Lem- 
me  alone! "  he  whimpered.  "  I  was  just 
gettin'  my  breath!"  "Gettin'  your 
breath! "  I  yelled.  "You  march  up  that 
hill  as  fast  as  you  can  go,  or  you  '11  get 
what  mean  little  breath  you've  got 
knocked  clean  out  of  you,  an'  it  won't 
be  the  Rebs  that  does  it  either!"  With 
that  I  give  him  a  kick  that  sent  him 
flyin'  in  the  right  direction.  You  see, 
ma'am,  I  was  hot  at  havin'  our  com- 
pany shamed  by  a  thing  like  that. 

'Everybody  knows  what  we  did  on 
that  hill,  an'  how  our  charge  saved  the 
day.  The  names  of  the  officers  we  lost 
on  Little  Round  Top  are  writ  up  high 
in  the  records  of  the  war;  an'  the  men 
who  fought  for  'em  an'  fell  with  'em 
are  n't  any  less  heroes,  though  they 
may  not  be  in  such  big  print.  You  can 
read  all  about  it  in  any  of  the  histories, 
but  there's  just  one  little  story  of  that 
day  that  never  got  into  a  book.  No- 
body knows  it  but  me,  an'  I  saved  our 
company  from  shame,  an'  a  dead 
man's  name  from  bein'  a  by-word  an' 
a  reproach. 

'That  evenin',  when  the  firin'  had 
stopped,  I  was  prowlin'  round  the  hill- 
side, lookin'  after  the  wounded  and 
such.  I  got  off  the  main  track  of  the 
charge  an'  blundered  about  a  bit,  try- 
in'  to  find  my  way  back.  I  was  gettin' 
a  little  impatient  to  know  my  course, 
when  I  saw  somethin'  black,  lyin'  on 
the  ground  behind  a  tree.  I  halted  an' 
got  my  gun  ready:  you  see,  I  thought 
it  was  a  Johnny,  skulkin'  round  to 
rob  the  dead.  I  crept  up  softly  toward 
the  figure.  It  did  n't  move.  When  I  got 
near  I  see  it  was  a  dead  body.  It  was 
lyin'  on  its  face,  an'  its  heels  pointed  up 
hill.  Worse 'n  that,  it  was  wearin'  the 


646 


FOR  THE  HONOR  OF  THE  COMPANY 


blue.  With  my  gun  as  a  lever  I  turned 
the  body  over  an'  looked  at  the  face. 
It  was  more  because  I  did  n't  want  to 
accuse  any  one  in  my  thoughts  than  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  see  who  the  scamp 
was,  that  I  turned  him  over. 

*  I  bent  over  him  to  get  a  good  look, 
an'  there,  with  his  white  face  starin' 
up  at  me,  lay  the  man  I  had  kicked  up 
hill  that  afternoon.  He  had  been  shot 
as  he  was  runnin'  away  again,  shot  in 
the  back.  That's  the  biggest  disgrace 
a  soldier  can  earn,  I  take  it.  Not  an 
hour  before,  I'd  been  braggin'  loud 
about  our  company,  an'  there  was  a 
man  I  'd  messed  with,  an'  marched  with, 
givin'  me  the  lie  as  he  lay  there,  the 
marks  of  his  guilt  hittin'  me  in  the  face, 
as  it  were!.  It  seemed  to  me  as  I  stood 
there  in  the  dusk  an'  stared  down  at 
his-,  as  if  he  was  a  big,  black  blot  on 
our  fair  record,  an'  as  if  he  marred  the 
glory  of  the  company  that  had  fought 
so  brave.  We  was  the  heroes  of  the 
day,  an' our  deed  would  be  in  the  mouth 
of  every  one  the  country  over,  an'  that 
rascal  spoilt  it  all.  "  Not  a  man  but  has 
done  his  duty,"  our  cap'n  had  said. 
Oh,  well,  it  ain't  any  use  talkin',  but 
I  was  mad  clean  through. 

'As  I  told  you,  it  ain't  a  pretty  thing 
for  you  to  hear,  but  I  just  took  aim 
at  that  feller's  forehead.  It's  bad 
enough  to  shoot  a  live  man,  but  to  send 
a  bullet  into  a  dead  face  turned  up 
helpless  to  you  —  well  —  it 's  just 
plain  butchery!  But  I  done  it.  My 
shot  hit  him  fair  between  the  eyes. 
Then  I  left  him.' 

The  veteran  paused.  The  woman's 
face  was  turned  toward  his;  both  were 
lost  in  the  interest  of  the  story.  The 
music  of  the  returning  band  and  Dan- 
ny's shrill  little  cheers  were  unheeded. 
The  streamers  on  the  monument  flut- 
tered softly,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
shaft,  lengthening  as  the  sun  traveled 
to  the  west,  fell  upon  the  two  old 
people.  Finally  the  woman  spoke. 


'It  was  an  awful  thing  to  do.  It 
makes  me  think  of  Indians  maulin'  the 
bodies  they've  killed.  But  I  don't 
know  but  you  was  right.  It  would  have 
been  worse  for  them  that  loved  him 
to  bear  a  coward's  shame.  I  guess  you 
was  right.' 

'Thank  you,  ma'am,'  returned  the 
veteran.  '  That 's  the  way  my  wife  took 
it.  I'm  glad  if  you  can  see  it  in  that 
light.  But  you  must  n't  make  a  mistake 
about  one  thing.  I  warn't  thinkin' 
about  that  skulker,  or  them  that  loved 
him,  when  I  done  what  I  did.  It  was 
for  the  company  I  put  that  bullet  into 
his  dead  skull,  ar»'  I'd  do  it  for  the 
company's  sake  forty  times  over  — 
nasty  job  as  it  was. 

'Of  course,'  he  continued,  'I'm  glad 
if  his  family  got  any  comfort  out  of  the 
thought  that  he  was  hit  in  the  front. 
I  never  heard  any  thing  about  him  more, 
I  never  even  heard  if  he  was  found,  till 
I  just  see  his  name  up  there,  writ  in 
endurin'  stone,  along  with  brave  men 
and  heroes.  Then  the  whole  thing 
came  back  to  me  as  plain  as  day,  an' 
I  felt  the  goose-flesh  run  over  me,  as  I 
did  when  I  shot  into  that  coward's  fore- 
head. Yes,  when  I  see  that  name, 
carved  deep,  Dan'el  P.  Ol ' 

'Stop!' 

The  cry  cut  the  name  short,  as  clean 
as  a  shot.  The  veteran  started  in  amaze- 
ment. His  companion  had  wheeled 
about  on  the  bench,  and  was  facing 
him.  Her  old  eyes  were  blazing.  Her 
withered  cheeks  flushed  dark  red;  then 
the  color  went  out  and  left  the  white 
of  ashes. 

'Why,  ma'am!'  stammered  the  old 
man.  'Why,  ma'am!  I  guess  you  ain't 
feelin'  well.  I  ought  n't  to  have  told 
you  such  a  story.  'T  ain't  fit  for  ladies 
to  hear.  I  guess  you  '11  have  to  excuse 
me.  You  see,  that  name  brought  it 
back  so  vivid. 

'Oh,  stop!'  again  cried  the  woman. 
Her  hands  were  working  nervously 


FOR  THE  HONOR  OF  THE  COMPANY 


647 


and  she  was  trembling  from  head  to 
foot. 

A  slow  conviction  dawned  upon  the 
veteran's  bewildered  brain. 

'Why,  ma'am!'  he  exclaimed  once 
more.  'I'm  right  sorry  if  it  was  any 
one  you  happened  to  know.  I'd 
never — ' 

'Hush!  For  God's  sake,  hush!' 
The  woman  was  panting  and  breath- 
less. 'Don't  you  see  the  child  is 
comin'  ? ' 

The  band  had  vanished  and  Danny, 
who  had  watched  the  last  back  around 
the  corner,  was  hastening  to  his  grand- 
mother as  fast  as  his  crutches  would 
allow.  His  eager  little  face  was  shining 
with  its  past  delight.  The  woman  rose 
quickly,  clutching  the  back  of  the  set- 
tee for  support.  The  veteran  struggled 
to  his  feet. 

'  The  child! '  he  repeated  in  confusion. 
Then  a  light  broke  on  him.  He  took  a 
step  forward,  but  the  woman  put  out 
her  poor  quavering  hands  as  if  to  push 
him  away. 

There  they  stood,  those  two  old 
people,  and  stared  dumbly  into  each 
other's  eyes.  The  woman  read  in  the 
man's  face  the  horror  of  his  deed,  but 
she  saw  nothing  to  help  her  misery.  The 


veteran's  face  was  as  gray  and  drawn 
as  that  of  his  companion.  His  act  was 
beyond  recall.  What  he  had  smitten 
was  more  than  life. 

Then,  as  Danny  came  up  and 
clutched  his  grandmother's  gown,  gaz- 
ing half  shyly,  half  admiringly  at  the 
old  man  in  his  uniform,  the  veteran 
straightened  with  a  martial  air.  It  was 
as  if  a  call  to  battle  had  put  new  life 
into  long  unused  muscles.  He  stretched 
out  a  tremulous  hand  and  laid  it  on  the 
crooked  little  shoulder.  The  rapture 
of  being  touched  by  a  real  soldier 
overcame  the  lad's  bashfulness,  and  he 
smiled  up  at  the  old  face  above  him. 

'My  grandfather  fought  in  the  war,' 
he  said. 

The  veteran's  voice  was  grave  and 
steady  as  he  answered,  — 

'Danny,'  he  said,  'always  be  proud 
of  that.  When  things  go  hard  you  just 
shut  your  eyes  an'  think  that  you  're  a 
soldier's  boy,  an'  that  your  name 's  his 
name,  an'  that  he  died  in  battle.  Don't 
ever  go  back  on  that,  Danny.  There 
ain't  any  braver  thing  than  a  soldier, 
an'  he  died  in  battle.' 

'He  was  shot  in  the  forehead.  He 
was  the  bravest  of  the  brave,'  said 
Danny. 


THE  SONG  OF  SIVA 


BY  AMEEN   RIHANI 

'T  is  Night;  all  the  Sirens  are  silent, 

All  the  Vultures  asleep; 
And  the  Horns  of  the  Tempest  are  stirring 

Under  the  Deep; 
'T  is  Night;  all  the  snow-burdened  Mountains 

Dream  of  the  Sea, 
And  down  in  the  Wadi  the  River 

Is  calling  to  me. 

'T  is  Night;  all  the  Caves  of  the  Spirit 

Shake  with  desire, 
And  the  Orient  Heaven 's  essaying 

Its  lances  of  fire; 
They  hear,  in  the  stillness  that  covers 

The  land  and  the  sea, 
The  River,  in  the  heart  of  the  Wadi, 

Calling  to  me. 

'T  is  Night,  but  a  night  of  great  joyance, 

A  night  of  unrest;  — 
The  night  of  the  birth  of  the  Spirit 

Of  the  East  and  the  West; 
And  the  Caves  and  the  Mountains  are  dancing 

On  the  Foam  of  the  Sea, 
For  the  River  inundant  is  calling, 

Calling  to  me. 


GERMAN  AND  AMERICAN  METHODS  OF  PRODUCTION 


BY   W.   H.    DOOLEY 


FEW  Americans  realize  the  vast 
stride  which  the  German  metal  indus- 
tries have  taken  in  the  last  few  years. 
The  great  iron  and  steel  manufactures 
of  the  Rhine  district  —  of  Diisseldorf, 
Essen,  Dinsburg,  and  Oberhausen  — 
have  attained  a  remarkable  develop- 
ment, owing  partly  to  the  coal-mines 
of  the  Rhine  and  of  Westphalia,  to  the 
great  waterway  of  the  Rhine  and  an  ex- 
cellent system  of  railroads,  and  partly 
to  economic  conditions  which  it  may  be 
interesting  to  compare  with  our  own. 
The  rise  of  some  of  the  great  German 
shops  reads  like  a  romance. 

The  German  shops  are  obliged  to  do 
a  great  many  kinds  of  work.  This  is 
because  they  must  compete  with  for- 
eign machine-works,  and  consequently 
have  to  turn  out  a  more  varied  pro- 
duct than  the  American  shops,  which 
are  protected  by  a  high  tariff  against 
foreign  competition.  The  American 
manufacturer,  through  his  protection, 
has  the  opportunity  to  specialize.  By 
giving  his  whole  attention,  thought, 
and  energy  to  the  perfecting  of  a  few 
tools,  or  of  a  single  one,  he  is  able  to 
undersell  in  European  territory  the 
native  tool-manufacturers,  and  this  de- 
spite the  lower  wages  paid  there. 

Another  advantage  which  the  Amer- 
ican industry  has  over  the  German  is 
shop  efficiency.  German  manufactur- 
ers have  not  the  thousand  and  one 
devices  which  we  have  for  doing  away 
with  manual  labor;  they  do  not  yet 
understand,  in  the  majority  of  German 
shops,  how  to  operate  the  greatest 
number  of  tools  with  the  smallest 


number  of  men.  This  calls  for  the  high- 
est degree  of  intelligence  and  skill, 
such  as  is  found  to-day  in  our  best 
American  shops.  One  can  still  see  in 
Germany  two  men  at  work  on  a  gear- 
cutter  intended  by  its  American  de- 
signer to  be  run  by  one  man. 

But  the  Germans  are  learning  how  to 
get  the  most  work  out  of  tools;  they 
are  copying  as  far  as  possible  our  Amer- 
ican shop-organization,  and  are  putting 
more  engineering  thought  into  their 
designs  than  has  been  given  to  the  sub- 
ject at  any  time  in  the  history  of  tool 
construction.  While  the  mechanical 
skill  remains  in  our  favor,  every  tool 
imported  into  Germany  is  subject  to 
scrutiny,  and  if  engineering  skill  back- 
ed by  careful  mathematical  deductions 
can  make  an  improvement,  the  Ger- 
man will  be  the  first  to  discover  the 
fact,  and  within  a  short  time  a  new 
machine  with  improvements  will  be 
on  the  market. 

Many  of  the  metal  plants  in  Ger- 
many are  small  compared  with  ours, 
but  no  comparison  detracts  from  the 
importance  of  the  Krupp  works.  The 
city  of  Essen  does  not  present  the  com- 
mon type  of  industrial  community  as 
it  exists  in  any  country:  it  is  simply  a 
one-man  town.  In  1811,  when  the  first 
crucible  furnace  for  casting  steel  was 
set  up  by  a  poor  hard-working  young 
man,  Frederick  Krupp,  the  total  popu- 
lation was  under  4000.  In  1901  it  was 
183,500,  out  of  which  the  Krupp  con- 
tingent numbered  about  84,000.  Now 
this  and  a  great  deal  more  is  essentially 
the  work  of  one  man,  and  it  is  unparal- 

649 


650     GERMAN  AND  AMERICAN   METHODS  OF  PRODUCTION 


leled  in  the  history  of  industry.  The 
corporation  now  owns  iron-  and  coal- 
mines, and  has  put  up  more  than  four 
thousand  houses. 

This  great  plant,  which  employs  in 
its  steel  works  at  Essen,  its  works  at 
Buckan,  its  shipbuilding  yard  at  Kiel, 
and  in  its  coal-mines,  blast  furnaces, 
etc.,  a  total  of  more  than  63,000  men, 
has  been  in  existence  for  a  century  and 
has  never  had  a  strike. 

The  products  of  Krupp's  are  very 
varied.  The  fame  of  the  house  is  chiefly 
associated  with  war  implements,  but 
all  kinds  of  finished  and  unfinished  ma- 
terials for  use  in  railroads,  engines,  and 
mills,  and  for  other  industrial  pur- 
poses, are  turned  out  in  large  and  small 
quantities. 

A  specialty  here  is  the  casting  of  very 
large  ingots  of  crucible  steel;  it  is  a 
remarkable  sight  and  an  object-lesson 
in  German  methods.  Ingots  of  eighty- 
five  tons  are  cast  —  a  feat  not  at- 
tempted elsewhere.  The  steel  is  melted 
in  small  crucibles  which  are  carried 
by  hand  from  furnaces  ranged  on  both 
sides  of  the  foundry  to  the  ingot  mould 
in  the  middle.  At  a  signal  the  furnaces 
are  opened,  the  crucibles  are  drawn  out 
and  seized  by  a  small  army  of  workmen 
who  run  them  down  to  the  mould  and 
pour  them  in.  The  manoeuvre  is  carried 
out  with  military  precision  and  prompt- 
ness. In  a  moment  the  place  is  aglow 
with  the  white  heat  of  the  furnace,  the 
figures  run  from  all  sides  and  come  stag- 
gering down  in  pairs  with  the  pots  full 
of  liquid  steel.  It  is  a  scene  of  intense 
activity,  but  without  confusion.  One 
after  another  the  glowing  pots  are  emp- 
tied; the  molten  metal  runs  like  thick 
soup  and  plunges  into  the  mould  with 
a  sputter.  In  a  few  minutes  all  is  over; 
the  furnaces  close  again,  the  used  cruc- 
ibles are  thrown  aside,  and  already  the 
cast  mass  begins  to  congeal  and  change 
color.  The  steel  so  made  is  the  purest 
known,  close-grained,  homogeneous 


and  uniform  throughout,  and  of  great 
strength.  No  such  work  could  be  done 
in  this  country  with  our  impatience  of 
hand-processes. 

In  some  of  the  smaller  foundries, 
women  are  employed  in  great  numbers. 
They  load  the  cars  with  coke  and  lime- 
stone, and  do  considerable  of  the  gen- 
eral work  around  the  plant.  They  usu- 
ally begin  work  at  six  in  the  morning 
and  leave  as  soon  as  the  charge  is 
drawn  from  the  furnace  —  about  four 
in  the  afternoon.  One  could  not  help 
noticing  the  contentedness  of  these  fe- 
male workers,  who  found  time  to  knit 
and  crochet  between  the  charges. 

The  shops  have  been  built  at  very 
different  dates  and  vary  accordingly, 
the  most  recent  being  quite  up  to  date 
in  construction,  though  not  superior  to 
those  in  our  country  and  at  Sheffield. 
They  possess  in  a  marked  degree  that 
neatness  and  cleanliness  which  is  the 
most  distinguishing  feature  of  German 
factories,  even  the  foundries  showing  an 
absence  of  the  usual  dirt,  smoke,  and 
confusion.  Great  order  and  system  are 
maintained,  largely  with  a  view  to  the 
prevention  of  accidents.  The  Rhine- 
Westphalian  Engineering  and  Small 
Iron  Industries  Association  gives  as  the 
first  of  its  rules  for  the  prevention  of 
accident  that  the  gangways  in  all  work- 
shops must  be  broad  enough  to  ex- 
clude, as  far  as  possible,  injury  to  work- 
men by  machinery  or  transmission 
parts  in  motion;  and  must  not  be 
blocked  by  the  heaping  of  material  or 
the  transportation  of  articles .  Compare 
this  condition  with  that  of  most  of  our 
engineering  shops,  where  manufactured 
or  half-manufactured  articles  are  lying 
about  promiscuously,  blocking  the 
gangway  and  affording  no  adequate 
room.  The  entire  freedom  from  such 
disorderliness  in  German  shops  and 
workrooms  undoubtedly  conduces  to 
efficiency  as  well  as  to  safety;  and  it  is 
secured  chiefly  through  the  habits  in- 


GERMAN  AND  AMERICAN   METHODS  OF  PRODUCTION    651 


culcated  in  all  alike  —  workmen,  man- 
agers, and  owners  —  by  the  military 
discipline  they  have  alike  undergone. 
Fencing  of  machinery  is,  for  this  rea- 
son, perhaps  less  complete  and  costly 
than  that  which  is  required  in  most 
factory  districts  in  America. 

With  regard  to  the  installation  of 
machinery  and  workshop  appliances, 
the  larger  German  establishments  are, 
generally  speaking,  quite  up  to  the 
mark.  They  make  use  of  electric  power, 
automatic  tools,  and  similar  modern 
devices  to  as  great  an  extent  as  any  in 
America.  There  is  no  hesitation  in  in- 
troducing innovations,  and  no  opposi- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  working  people. 
Machinery  and  tools  are  procured  from 
other  countries  without  regard  to  any 
consideration  but  that  of  suitability; 
but  Germany  is  year  by  year  becom- 
ing more  self-sufficing  in  this  respect. 
Their  small  tools  are  nearly  as  good  as 
the  American,  their  heavy  ones  equal 
to  the  English. 

German  workshops  are  well  equipped 
with  sanitary  washing  and  dressing 
accommodations.  The  workmen  are 
more  cleanly  and  careful  in  their  habits 
than  the  Americans;  they  generally 
keep  a  working  set  of  clothes  and 
change  before  and  after  work.  Conse- 
quently lockers  are  provided.  Baths 
are  common,  particularly  shower-baths 
with  hot  and  cold  water,  and  in  summer 
are  much  used.  The  practice  of  pro- 
viding comforts  and  conveniences  for 
the  employees  is  more  common  in  Ger- 
many than  in  this  country. 

In  some  of  the  small  metal  industries, 
such  as  cutlery,  the  development  of  the 
trade  has  been  hampered  by  the  guilds. 
In  the  city  of  Solingen,  for  example, 
where  they  have  made  knives  and  forks, 
scissors  and  swords  for  centuries,  the 
art  has  been  jealously  guarded  by 
the  old  guilds,  which  strictly  limited 
apprentices  and  output.  Every  master 
had  to  have  a  trade-mark,  which  was 


registered  by  the  local  authority,  nailed 
up  on  the  church  door,  and  had  a  legal 
validity.  The  greater  part  of  this  in- 
dustry is  still  carried  on  at  home,  as  in 
old  times,  on  the  'chamber'  system.  It 
is  encouraged  by  the  local  authority, 
which  provides  the  men  with  gas  and 
electric  power,  in  place  of  the  old  wa- 
ter-wheel. The  government  has  issued 
special  orders  in  regard  to  the  condi- 
tions under  which  work  shall  be  car- 
ried on  in  the  homes,  with  a  result 
that  the  death-rate  due  to  phthisis  has 
been  reduced  from  18  to  3.1  in  the 
thousand. 

Cheap  and  inferior  cutlery  is  turned 
out  in  Germany  with  the  name  Shef- 
field stamped  on  it;  but  they  also  pro- 
duce first-class  cutlery  that  will  com- 
pete with  any  in  the  world.  One  is 
amazed  at  the  incredible  variety  of 
knives  made.  One  firm  in  Solingen  has 
nine  thousand  patterns  on  its  books 
for  Germany  alone,  and  may  be  actu- 
ally making  over  three  thousand  to 
order  at  the  same  time.  Every  trade 
and  district  of  Europe  has  its  own 
knives,  and  they  are  constantly  making 
new  patterns  for  new  societies  or  dis- 
tricts. In  some  cases  one  firm  will  aver- 
age two  new  patterns  a  week  for  two 
years.  This  is  a  trade  which  will  not  be 
standardized,  and  that  is  one  reason 
why  America  has  failed  to  compete. 
Herein  lies  an  important  difference 
between  the  European  and  American 
manufacturer,  —  the  former  is  always 
anxious  to  meet  the  needs  of  the  mar- 
ket, while  the  latter  standardizes  cer- 
tain brands  and  offers  nothing  else. 

A  great  many  of  the  working  people 
in  this  district  own  their  own  houses; 
and  it  is  the  custom  of  the  place  to 
keep  a  goat,  the  'poor  man's  cow.' 
There  are  over  fourteen  thousand  goats 
in  the  city. 

The  German  working  people  are,  as 
a  class,  good,  steady,  regular,  and  trust- 
worthy; they  are  not  as  quick  as  the 


652    GERMAN  AND  AMERICAN  METHODS  OF  PRODUCTION 


Americans,  but  they  do  what  they  are 
told  to  do,  and  do  it  well.  We  could  not 
give  to  our  mechanics,  clever  as  they  are, 
a  piece  of  work  to  be  done  from  foreign 
plans,  with  a  metric  system  different 
from  our  own;  but  German  mechanics 
may  often  be  seen  at  work  on  an  en- 
gineering order  from  England,  using 
the  original  drawings  with  the  English 
measures.  At  the  same  time  they  are 
not  in  the  least  inventive;  they  never 
make  suggestions,  nor  is  there  any 
plan  of  encouraging  them  to  do  so;  but 
they  keep  the  rules  and  do  not  shirk. 
This  is  one  of  the  principal  reasons 
why  German  industry  is  so  strong. 

Roughly  speaking,  the  working  hours 
are  ten  a  day.  In  the  engineering  works 
of  Diisseldorf  the  hours  are  as  fol- 
lows: Begin  work  at  6.30A.M.;  break- 
fast, 8.15  to  8.30;  dinner,  12  to  1.30 
P.M.;  tea,  4.15  to  4.30  P.M.;  close  at 
6.30P.M.  Total,  12  hours  minus  2 
hours  for  meals,  equals  10  hours;  or 
60  hours  a  week. 

In  the  Krupp  steel  works  at  Essen, 
work  is  begun  at  6  A.  M.;  breakfast  is 
from  8  to  8.15;  dinner  12  to  1.30  p.  M.; 
tea  4  to  4.15;  close  at  6  p.  M.,  making 
a  total  of  12  hours,  minus  2  hours  for 
meals.  In  the  cutlery  works  at  Solin- 
gen  the  time  allowed  for  breakfast  and 
tea  is  longer  for  women  and  youthful 
workers  than  for  grown  men,  giving 
two  or  three  hours  less  of  work  in  the 
week. 

Note  the  time  required  for  meals;  it 
is  as  characteristic  of  the  Germans,  as 
indifference  to  meals  and  hurry  are  of 
our  people.  American  workmen  in  the 
iron  and  textile  industries  usually  work 
about  56  hours  a  week,  except  in  the 
southern  cotton  mills  where  they  often 
work  62  hours  a  week.  There  is  a  move- 
ment on  the  part  of  legislatures  to  re- 
duce by  statute  the  number  of  hours  of 
work  a  day  to  eight.  As  a  rule,  the  only 
interval  allowed  here  is  for  dinner,  and 
that  is  generally  no  more  than  half  or 


three  quarters  of  an  hour.  In  some 
American  shops,  at  moments  of  un- 
usual pressure,  no  interval  is  allowed 
at  all;  the  men  work  at  the  machines 
during  their  dinner  period  and  eat  their 
dinner  as  best  they  can.  The  machine- 
ry runs  continuously  with  two  shifts  of 
workers,  and  this  is  the  secret  of  the 
great  production  of  the  American  steel 
mills  in  particular,  and  of  the  excess- 
ively high  wages  earned  in  them.  Re- 
spect for  meal-time  belongs  to  Europe- 
ans. 

Every  branch  of  textile  working  in 
Europe  is  the  outgrowth  of  a  house- 
hold art.  When  new  conditions  appear- 
ed, due  to  the  changing  from  hand-pro- 
cesses to  automatic  machines,  each  mill 
or  small  factory  that  sprung  up  special- 
ized in  one  or  another  of  the  textile 
operations,  as  wool-washing,  weaving, 
carding,  or  spinning.  The  manager  of 
a  weaving  mill  frequently  knows  lit- 
tle if 'anything  of  a  spinning  mill,  and 
vice  versa.  One  of  the  results  of  this 
mill  organization  is  that  the  manager 
of  each  establishment  develops  into  a 
more  competent  man  in  his  specific 
vocation  than  one  who  is  hindered,  like 
the  mill-managers  of  the  United  States, 
with  the  superintendence  of  all  the 
processes  involved  in  the  converting  of 
raw  cotton  or  wool  into  finished  cloth. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  concentration 
in  textile  work  in  America  has  tended  to 
economy,  and  improvement  in  textile 
machinery,  particularly  in  the  matter 
of  speed.  The  fastest-running  machines 
in  the  world,  for  the  formation  of  so 
delicate  a  fibre  as  silk,  are  in  operation 
in  the  silk  mills  of  Paterson,  and  so 
nice  is  their  adjustment  and  so  well 
perfected  their  mechanism  that  they 
run  even  more  smoothly  than  the  slow- 
er-geared machinery  of  Germany. 

Parallel  with  this  improvement  in 
machinery  has  been  the  progress  made 
in  the  quality  of  goods  produced.  While 
the  early  American  weavers  turned 


GERMAN  AND  AMERICAN  METHODS  OF  PRODUCTION     653 


out  simple  pieces,  that  is,  plain  silks,  the 
American  silk  manufacturer  to-day 
finds  nothing  too  difficult  for  his  skill 
or  too  expensive  for  the  market.  Slow- 
ly, but  surely,  the  textile  products  of 
domestic  manufacturers  have  crowded 
out  foreign  products,  except  for  some 
novelty  or  new  design  in  silk  fabrics 
which  the  home  silk-weaver  of  Ger- 
many has  developed  by  the  aid  of  the 
government. 

Germany  is  not  famous  for  the  cotton 
industry,  which  is  still  hi  a  compara- 
tively early  stage  of  development;  but 
its  advance  is  shown  in  the  history  of 
Miinchen  Gladbach,  where  the  chief 
cotton  factories  are  situated.  In  1860 
the  population  of  the  city  was  about 
seventeen  thousand;  it  is  now  over 
seventy  thousand,  and  the  increase  is 
due  to  cotton.  This  compares  with  the 
progress  of  some  of  our  southern  cities. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  Germany  means 
to  go  forward  with  this  branch  of  tex- 
tiles. 

No  foreign  market  can  compete  with 
the  United  States  in  the  manufacture 
of  shoes.  In  Germany  the  shoe  manu- 
facturers send  out  their  agents  to  find 
out  what  is  wanted  in  the  trade,  and 
then  attempt  to  manufacture  ladies' 
shoes,  slippers,  men's  and  boys'  shoes 
in  the  same  factory.  Here  the  manu- 
facturer turns  out  a  certain  product 
which  is  his  specialty,  and  sells  it 
wherever  possible.  If  he  manufactures 
several  products  he  has  a  separate 
factory. 

The  German  shoe  manufacturers  say 
that  they  cannot  work  on  the  Amer- 
ican basis  of  manufacturing  a  cer- 
tain shoe  product.  They  are  obliged 
to  collect  their  trade  from  almost  every 
country  except  America;  it  comes  in 
small  orders.  They  have  to  accommo- 
date themselves  to  everybody's  whims, 
make  patterns  and  styles  for  every  dis- 
trict of  Europe,  which  increases  not 
alone  the  cost  of  production,  but  per- 


haps, to  a  greater  extent,  that  of  dis- 
tribution. In  the  German  shoe  shops, 
moreover,  the  old  conditions  of  appren- 
ticeship still  hold,  hampering  the 
change  from  hand  to  machine  pro- 
cesses and  preventing  a  large  output. 

The  average  American  thinks  that 
the  success  of  Germany  is  due  to  low 
wages  and  long  hours  of  work.  This  is 
not  true,  for,  if  labor  is  cheaper  there, 
coal  is  dear,  machinery  dearer,  and 
imported  raw  material  pays  a  tax.  The 
industrial  supremacy  of  Germany  is 
the  effect  of  definite  and  deliberate 
political  action.  Thirty  years  ago  the 
German  statesmen  realized  that  the 
nation  was  inferior  to  the  American  and 
English  in  natural  resources  and  nat- 
ural ingenuity;  this  inferiority  forced 
upon  their  attention  the  value  of  thrift 
and  of  education.  Thrift  was  multi- 
plied by  capital,  and  education  mul- 
tiplied by  industrial  efficiency. 

America  and  England  have  served 
them  as  models  of  shop-organization 
and  equipment.  They  have  imported 
American  and  English  machines  and 
tools;  they  have  engaged  the  best  men 
from  the  best  shops  of  these  two  coun- 
tries and  have  copied  their  methods 
of  work  and  organization ;  but  besides 
this  they  have  devoted  special  atten- 
tion to  a  matter  which  America  has 
ignored  to  a  great  extent  —  the  sci- 
entific or  technical  education  of  their 
people.  In  order  to  make  this  clear,  it 
will  be  necessary  to  note  the  great 
change  that  has  taken  place  in  our  in- 
dustrial world  in  regard  to  the  training 
of  workmen. 

In  old  times  the  education  of  the  arti- 
san was  by  a  well-defined  apprentice- 
ship to  a  master  with  a  number  of 
workers  and  a  few  apprentices,  who 
took  the  boys  and  taught  them  the  com- 
plete trade.  This  was  a  very  satisfac- 
tory method  so  long  as  the  master  had 
time  to  teach  the  apprentice,  and  the 
apprentice  had  time  to  learn  all  about 


654     GERMAN  AND  AMERICAN  METHODS  OF  PRODUCTION 


his  trade.  But  a  great  scientific  ad- 
vance revolutionized  industrial  and 
economic  conditions.  Factory  system 
and  modern  application  of  machines 
and  capital  to  manufacture  took  place 
on  a  large  scale. 

Men,  women,  and  children  were 
needed  to  tend  the  machines,  and 
young  people,  who  would,  under  ordi- 
nary conditions,  have  become  appren- 
tices, were  attracted  to  the  mills  and 
factories,  etc.,  by  the  large  initial  wage. 
The  master  became  so  busy  maintain- 
ing himself  against  the  competition  of 
others,  and  keeping  up  with  the  tech- 
nical advancement  of  his  trade,  that 
time  failed  him  for  the  instruction  of 
his  apprentice,  while  the  latter  found 
that  the  trade  had  developed  to  such 
an  extent  that  he  could  no  longer  learn 
its  fundamentals  by  mere  activity  in 
his  master's  workshop. 

Thus  the  apprentice,  no  longer  a 
pupil,  has  become  merely  a  hired  boy, 
who,  while  making  himself  useful 
about  a  workshop,  learns  what  he  can 
by  observation  and  practice.  If  he  sees 
the  interior  of  his  master's  home,  it  is 
to  do  some  work  in  no  way  connected 
with  his  trade.  In  old  times  the  master 
worked  with  his  men;  now  he  rarely 
works  at  his  trade;  his  time  is  more  pro- 
fitably spent  in  seeking  for  customers, 
purchasing  material,  or  managing  his 
finances.  The  workshop  is  put  in  charge 
of  a  foreman,  whose  reputation  and 
wages  depend  on  the  amount  of  satis- 
factory work  that  can  be  produced  at 
the  least  cost.  He  has  no  time  to  teach 
boys,  and  as  there  is  little  profit  in  the 
skilled  trades  for  the  boy  between  four- 
teen and  seventeen,  he  is  not  wanted. 
Boys  of  this  age  are  in  great  demand  in 
factory  work  —  cotton,  worsted  mills, 
etc. 

The  old  apprentice  system  is  not 
likely  to  be  revived.  The  shop  is  no 
longer  the  training-school  for  crafts- 
manship. The  workmen  of  the  future 


must  learn  how  to  work  before  they 
seek  employment.  All  professional  men 
do  this.  What  the  scientific  schools 
are  to  the  engineer  and  architect,  what 
the  business  college  is  to  the  clerk, 
the  trade  school  must  be  to  the  future 
mechanic.  The  rapid  development  of 
technical  education  in  modern  times 
is  due  largely  to  the  discovery  that, 
without  such  instruction,  the  trades 
themselves  were  deteriorating. 

Practice  in  one  section  of  a  trade  does 
not  always  produce  skill,  and  gives  no 
knowledge  whatever  of  theory.  A  boy 
or  girl  who  applies  for  a  position  at 
a  mill  is  given  some  one  operation  at  a 
machine  which  runs  very  rapidly  day  in 
and  day  out.  As  the  result  of  perform- 
ing this  operation  day  after  day,  it 
becomes  a  habit,  and  is  done  without 
much  mental  effort.  This  is  particu- 
larly true  with  certain  industrial  opera- 
tions, as  'doffing '  on  the  spinning  frame, 
that  is,  replacing  full  spools  with  empty 
ones.  This  work  can  be  performed  only 
by  young  people  during  the  age  of 
fourteen  to  seventeen,  and  depends  on 
dexterity  of  the  fingers.  A  boy  begins 
and  leaves  work  at  the  stroke  of  the 
bell,  when  the  machinery  moves  and 
stops,  and  really  becomes  a  part  of  the 
machine.  This  continues  till  the  age 
of  seventeen,  when  the  fingers  become 
too  stiff"  to  do  the  work,  and  the  boy 
or  girl  is  practically  turned  on  the 
street,  having  gained  no  knowledge  or 
skill  for  future  use.  If  a  boy  during 
these  ages  has  a  natural  curiosity  for 
information  about  the  processes  that 
precede  or  follow  his  own  operation, 
the  machine  he  tends,  or  the  power  that 
drives  the  machine,  or  the  simple  or- 
dinary calculations  used  in  figuring 
speeds,  drafts,  etc.,  he  has  little  oppor- 
tunity to  see;  and  if  he  asks  about  what 
little  he  does  see,  older  workers  will 
tell  him  to  find  out  as  they  did.  The 
whole  atmosphere  around  the  mill  is 
such  as  to  stifle  the  propensity  of  young 


GERMAN  AND  AMERICAN   METHODS  OF  PRODUCTION     655 


people  to  know.  If  the  boy  desires  to 
change  to  another  department  in  order 
to  learn  the  different  processes,  the 
overseer  will  refuse  him  because  he  is 
most  useful  in  his  present  position.  The 
outcome  of  a  boy  spending  these  pre- 
cious years  doing  work  which  requires 
no  thinking,  and  receiving  no  system- 
atic training  outside  or  inside  of  the 
mill,  is  that  he  loses  the  power  of  ini- 
tiative, the  habit  of  thinking,  and  all 
interest  in  his  work.  By  the  time  he 
reaches  manhood  he  knows  less  than 
when  he  left  school,  and  has  not  suf- 
ficient education  to  take  the  respons- 
ibility attached  to  a  better  position. 
Such  is  the  universal  condition  in  large 
industrial  centres. 

Experience  has  shown  that  evening 
schools  do  not  appeal  to  tired  children. 
Boys  between  fourteen  and  eighteen 
have  the  'gang  spirit'  in  them,  and 
after  working  hard  all  day  they  desire 
companionship  of  their  fellow  workers 
on  the  street  corners,  at  music  halls, 
or  moving-picture  shows.  Their  eyes, 
wearied  with  long  labor  in  the  day, 
cannot  endure  the  fatigue  of  book-work 
by  night,  but  they  are  revived  and 
charmed  by  the  splendor  of  gay  lights 
of  the  theatre  and  moving  pictures. 
Physicians  confirm  this  experience  by 
stating  that  children  of  this  age  should 
not  attend  evening  schools. 

We  have  built  up  in  the  United  States 
at  an  enormous  expense  a  colossal  sys- 
tem of  education,  and  we  allow  the  re- 
sults of  it  to  be  very  largely  wasted  and 
lost.  We  cease  to  educate  these  all 
important  years,  during  which  we  all 
know  that  education  is  most  needed 
and  valuable  to  our  working  people. 

England  faced  this  great  educational 
problem  years  ago.  A  half-time  sys- 
tem was  introduced  by  the  Commis- 
sion on  the  Employment  of  Young 
Persons  in  Factories,  in  1833,  to  pre- 
vent overwork  and  under-education. 
The  success  of  this  scheme  is  shown 


by  the  report  of  the  late  Commission 
on  Technical  Education,  which  states : 
*  Half-time  children  of  the  great  manu- 
facturing [factory]  town  of  Keighley, 
England,  numbering  from  fifteen  hun- 
dred to  two  thousand,  although  they 
receive  less  than  fourteen  hours  of  in- 
struction per  week,  and  are  required  to 
attend  the  factory  for  twenty-eight 
hours  in  addition,  yet  obtain  at  the 
examinations  a  higher  percentage  of 
passes  than  the  average  of  children 
throughout  the  whole  country  receiv- 
ing double  the  amount  of  schooling.' 
Similar  experiences  in  different  parts  of 
England  and  the  Continent  show  that 
the  long-tune  system  (all-day  school- 
ing) and  the  omission  of  industrial 
work  are  in  violation  of  the  laws  of 
physiology. 

The  German  Government  has  solved 
its  educational  problems  in  a  more  sat- 
isfactory manner  than  any  other  coun- 
try. According  to  their  scheme  of  edu- 
cation, every  worker  in  a  profession, 
trade,  or  commercial  pursuit,  must 
have  not  only  a  general  education,  but 
technical  preparation  for  the  particu- 
lar work  selected  by  him.  In  the  United 
States  we  believe  in  the  same  policy, 
but  apply  it  to  those  entering  the  pro- 
fessions only,  disregarding  the  great 
mass  —  ninety-five  per  cent  —  that 
leave  school  at  fourteen. 

Germany  insists  that  every  child  be 
under  educational  influence  till  the  age 
of  eighteen.  The  child  leaves  the  com- 
mon school  at  fourteen.  He  may  go 
to  work,  to  a  higher  school  and  prepare 
for  college,  or  to  a  technical  school.  In 
America  he  may  leave  school  at  four- 
teen and  is  not  obliged  to  attend  any 
other  school. 

The  Germans  act  on  the  principle, 
admitted  by  everybody  who  knows  or 
cares  anything  about  education,  that 
the  way  to  secure  a  good  training  for 
the  mind  is  not  to  end  the  school  life 
at  the  most  plastic  period,  fourteen 


656     GERMAN  AND  AMERICAN  METHODS  OF  PRODUCTION 


years  of  age,  or  in  the  case  of  foreigners 
as  soon  as  they  can  pass  an  examina- 
tion, but  to  insist  that  every  boy  shall 
spend  a  certain  number  of  hours  a  week 
under  educational  training  and  sound 
teaching  till  he  reaches  manhood. 
There  is  less  'cramming,'  and  the  in- 
struction is  slower,  more  thorough, 
more  reasoned,  than  it  can  be  under 
our  American  system  of  hurrying  child- 
ren through  the  school.  For  we  must 
remember  that  our  young  men  in  in- 
dustrial plants  are  nothing  more  than 
mere  machines;  they  exercise  no  inde- 
pendent thought  any  more  than  the 
spinning  frames  or  the  machine  lathes, 
and  the  result  is  that  they  become 
deadened. 

The  German  Government  supports 
continuation  schools,  called  Fortbild- 
ung  Schule,  for  boys  above  fourteen  to 
continue  their  instruction  after  leav- 
ing the  regular  day  schools.  Attend- 
ance upon  this  school  is  obligatory  in 
most  places  for  the  boy  till  he  is  eighteen 
years  of  age.  The  weekly  period  of  in- 
struction is  ten  hours,  of  which  three 
hours  come  on  Saturday  morning  from 
9  to  12  o'clock,  and  three  hours  each  on 
two  working  days,  from  9  to  12  in  the 
morning,  or  from  4  to  7  in  the  after- 
noon. This  arrangement  of  hours  can 
be  changed  to  suit  the  needs  of  the 
employer.  No  instruction  is  given  after 
7  P.  M. 

The  instruction  is  adapted  to  the 
needs  of  the  various  trades;  there  are 
classes  in  arithmetic  for  machinists, 
loom-fixers,  etc.  The  terms  used  in  the 
class-room  savor  of  the  shop  and  mill. 
What  is  three  fourths  of  25  y^l  does 
not  mean  so  much  to  the  foundry  man 
as  a  problem  like  this:  If  a  copper 
casting  weighs  25J^  pounds,  and  the 
specific  gravity  of  iron  is  three  fourths 
that  of  copper,  what  will  the  casting 
weigh  if  made  of  iron?  Then  again, 
the  same  problem  would  not  interest 
the  textile  worker  unless  it  involved 


mill  calculations.  Working  people  have 
minds  of  a  distinctly  concrete  order. 
They  have  intensely  practical  aims 
when  they  come  to  school,  and  are  un- 
willing to  study  systematically  an  en- 
tire subject  as  they  did  in  the  common 
schools.  They  demand  that  the  in- 
struction shall  lead  directly  to  the  spe- 
cific things  they  are  dealing  with  in 
their  work.  The  German  continuation 
school  adapts  its  methods  of  instruc- 
tion to  meet  the  needs  of  the  working 
people. 

To  give  an  illustration  —  the  Mu- 
nich Continuation  School  for  Machin- 
ists' Apprentices  offers  the  following 
subjects:  Religion,  machine-shop  cal- 
culations and  bookkeeping,  business 
correspondence  and  reading,  the  study 
of  life  and  citizenship,  mechanical 
drawing,  physics  and  machinery,  ma- 
terials and  shop-work.  The  subjects  of 
instruction  are  in  the  closest  possible 
connection  with  the  requirements  of 
the  machinist's  trade. 

The  instruction  in  physics  and  ma- 
chinery, as  well  as  in  materials  and 
shop-work,  is  undertaken  by  a  skilled 
machinist;  the  remaining  instruction 
is  imparted  by  teachers  of  the  same 
grade  as  those  of  the  common  schools. 

It  is  in  these  schools  that  those  who 
are  to  form  the  rank  and  file  of  the 
metal  trades  receive  their  theoretical 
and  basic  training. 

There  are  in  addition  special  trade- 
schools  for  machinists,  such  as  the  Ber- 
lin School  of  Trades  and  Crafts.  The 
trade-school  for  machinists  aims  to  ren- 
der them  capable  of  acting  as  labora- 
tory assistants,  foremen,  or  superin- 
tendents of  mechanical  establishments. 
It  also  furnishes  a  basis  for  further 
studies  in  special  lines.  The  course 
covers  one  year. 

The  winter  term  begins  in  October, 
the  summer  term  in  April.  The  tuition 
for  each  term  is  fifteen  dollars.  Pupils 
of  small  means  may  be  allowed  free 


GERMAN  AND  AMERICAN  METHODS  OF  PRODUCTION     657 


scholarships  by  the  Board  of  Direct- 
ors. 

When  workingmen  of  the  different 
metal  industries  have  completed  the 
courses  in  the  lower  industrial  schools 
—  continuation  and  trade-schools  — 
and  desire  a  preparation  for  positions 
between  journeyman-machinist  and  en- 
gineer or  draftsman,  they  have  every 
opportunity,  as  there  are  four  classes 
of  middle  technical  schools:  the  schools 
of  industry  (industriel  Schideri),  the 
master-workmen's  schools  (Werkmeis- 
ter's  Schideri),  the  higher  trade-schools 
(hohere  Schulen),  and  the  Technicums. 

The  master-workmen's  schools  are 
more  ambitious  in  their  aims  than  the 
lower  industrial  schools.  They  were 
established  for  the  purpose  of  pre- 
paring the  apprentice-journeymen  to 
become  master-workmen.  Pupils  can- 
not be  admitted  before  the  age  of  six- 
teen, and  they  are  required  to  have 
had  two  or  three  years  of  practical 
experience  in  the  machinist's  trade, 
and  to  show  industry  and  desire  to 
learn.  The  studies  are  chiefly  in  the 
direct  line  of  the  machinist's  trade, 
and  the  course  is  from  one  to  two 
years,  and  requires  the  whole  time  of 
the  pupil. 

These  schools  have  long  been  popu- 
lar in  Germany  among  the  metal-work- 
ers. Some  of  them  are  intended  mainly 
for  men  of  a  much  larger  workshop  ex- 
perience than  the  minimum  limit,  who 
wish  to  broaden  their  trade  horizon. 
They  take  in  the  older  men  in  the  metal 
trades,  those  who  have  been  long  out 
of  school  and  who  never  expect  to 
become  thorough  book  students,  but 
whose  strength  lies  in  their  shop  skill. 
These  men  have  only  moderate  aspir- 
ations for  advancement;  they  may  be 
ambitious  to  own  little  machine-shops 
of  their  own,  but  do  not  expect  to  rise 
high  in  the  scale  or  to  become  heads 
of  great  industries.  Such  men  usually 
have  receptive  minds  and  possess  good 

VOL.  107 -NO.  5 


judgment.  They  expect  to  obtain  in 
the  schools,  through  direct  practical 
teaching,  the  necessary  theory  to  en- 
able them  to  carry  out  the  higher  de- 
mands of  the  trade.  These  schools 
must  of  necessity  be,  to  a  great  extent, 
evening  schools,  for  they  exist  to  give 
a  chance  to  men  already  fully  occupied 
who,  in  all  probability,  have  families 
dependent  upon  them,  and  cannot  give 
up  a  day's  work.  Even  to  exception- 
al men  of  this  stamp,  recognition,  in 
the  shape  of  advancement,  comes  but 
slowly. 

Younger  men  who  attend  the  higher 
trade-schools  for  machinists  and  metal- 
workers have,  in  some  respects,  more 
opportunity.  These  schools  demand  for 
entrance  a  fair  degree  of  advancement 
in  elementary  mathematics  and  physi- 
cal service,  and  accept  only  well-devel- 
oped, ambitious  young  men,  who  may 
expect  to  attain  to  the  higher  positions 
in  larger  machine-shops  and  metal 
manufactories;  some  of  them  may  even 
enter  the  technical  universities  to  pre- 
pare themselves  for  the  highest  engin- 
eering positions. 

The  Technicums  have  in  many  in- 
stances a  lower  age-limit  than  the  other 
schools  —  admitting  at  the  age  of  fif- 
teen, with  the  requirement  of  a  year  or 
two  of  high-school  study,  and  only  one 
year  of  practical  experience  in  the  ma- 
chine shop.  Thus  it  becomes  a  low- 
grade  school  of  practical  technology. 

At  the  head  of  such  institutions 
stands  the  school  of  technology,  corre- 
sponding to  our  similar  school,  giving 
the  highest  possible  training  in  engin- 
eering. The  training  received  in  this 
school  often  exceeds  the  requirement 
of  the  industries;  hence  the  need  of  in- 
stitutions of  lower  grade  to  meet  the 
actual  industrial  demands. 

There  are  also  special  schools  for 
shoemaking,  tanning,  and  other  trades. 
In  the  textile  industry,  German  schools 
hold  high  rank.  The  importance  of 


658     GERMAN  AND  AMERICAN  METHODS  OF  PRODUCTION 


textile  schools  cannot  be  too  highly 
estimated.  They  are  the  main  factor 
by  which  the  German  textile  indus- 
try maintains  its  competitive  power  in 
the  foreign  market.  As  has  been  said 
above,  cheapness  of  labor  is  not  suf- 
ficient to  attain  this  end;  cheap  hands 
must  be  taught,  and  taught  well,  or 
their  work  in  the  end  will  cost  more 
than  that  of  more  expensive  hands  who 
possess  greater  skill  and  have  acquired 
a  more  thorough  understanding  of  their 
trade. 

The  financial  assistance  given  by  the 
German  Government  in  textile  edu- 
cation has  enabled  enormous  progress 
to  be  made.  All  these  schools  have 
large  staffs  of  lecturers  and  assistants ; 
the  fees  are  moderate,  the  usual  charge 
being  fifty  dollars  a  year  for  the  day 
course.  There  is  a  large  attendance,  al- 
though the  entrance  examinations  are 
severe.  The  fees  charged  to  foreigners 
in  all  these  schools  are  enormous,  being 
usually  five  times  the  amount  charged 
to  German  students. 

Most  of  the  textile  schools  have  mu- 
seums attached.  The  one  at  the  Cre- 
feld  Textile  School  is  very  interesting. 
It  is  divided  into  two  parts:  one  a  room 
in  which  modern  styles  are  exhibited, 
the  pieces  being  constantly  changed; 
here  one  will  often  find  local  manufac- 
turers with  their  designers  and  custom- 
ers, studying  the  fabrics  and  making 
new  designs  for  the  trade;  the  other,  the 
museum  proper,  which  is  in  two  rooms, 
each  being  divided  into  sections,  and 
containing  over  ten  thousand  pieces 
from  the  earliest  periods  to  modern 
times.  The  Germans  make  a  specialty 
of  finishing  and  designing,  and  by  the 
use  of  the  museums  are  able  to  outdo 
the  Americans. 

The  German  Government  recognizes 
the  duty,  and  exercises  the  right,  of 
regulating  industries  in  the  interest 
of  the  employed;  but  in  doing  so,  it  is 
careful  to  keep  in  view  the  general  in- 


dustrial interests.  The  German  laws 
are  consequently  in  many  respects 
much  less  stringent  than  ours,  which 
seem  to  have  been  enacted  under  spas- 
modic influences  without  any  guid- 
ing principle.  This  may  be  explained 
by  the  fact  that  the  German  Govern- 
ment has  been  obliged  to  foster  indus- 
tries, and,  in  order  to  do  this  efficiently, 
must  strike,  in  its  legislation,  a  happy 
medium  between  the  claim  of  the  em- 
ployed for  protection,  and  that  of  the 
community  at  large  for  the  promotion 
of  industrial  enterprise.  In  America  and 
England  the  necessity  for  encouraging 
manufactures  so  far  has  not  been  con- 
sidered, and  the  legislatures  have  mere- 
ly from  time  to  time  taken  up  the  duty 
of  protecting  the  employed,  with  such 
drags  upon  their  action  as  the  private 
interests  of  employers  have  been  able 
to  effect.  The  protection,  in  short,  has 
been  all  on  one  side. 

But  the  time  when  this  plan  could 
be  pursued  with  safety  here  and  in  Eng- 
land may  be  said  to  have  passed.  Man- 
ufacturing industries  have  now  come 
to  such  a  delicate  balance  that  the 
possibility  of  their  toppling  over  must 
be  taken  into  account;  and  it  is  for  the 
interest  of  the  community  to  prevent 
such  a  catastrophe.  If  our  industries 
do  not  need  encouragement  from  the 
legislative  branch  of  the  government, 
they  certainly  do  require  protection 
from  serious  shocks.  It  is,  therefore, 
instructive  to  note  the  way  in  which 
the  German  Government  has  dealt  with 
this  matter,  and  the  excellence  of  the 
results. 

The  most  stringent  regulations  passed 
by  the  government  are  those  affecting 
children  and  women,  and  it  is  in  this 
respect  that  the  state  has  clearly  in 
view  the  interests  of  the  community  as 
represented  by  its  workers.  The  total 
number  of  children  under  fourteen  years 
employed  for  special  reasons  and  ex- 
empt by  law  in  the  manufacturing  indus- 


GERMAN  AND  AMERICAN  METHODS  OF  PRODUCTION      659 


tries  in  Germany  is  about  1630.  These 
children  are  between  thirteen  and  four- 
teen, and  the  hours  of  employment  are 
restricted  to  six,  with  half  an  hour  in- 
terval for  meals.  Between  fourteen 
and  sixteen  they  may  work  not  more 
than  ten  hours,  they  must  have  an 
hour's  pause  at  midday,  and  half  an 
hour  both  in  the  forenoon  and  after- 
noon, unless  their  working  day  is  not 
more  than  eight  hours;  no  continuous 
period  exceeds  four  hours.  During  the 
rest  periods,  any  participation  in  work 
is  forbidden,  even  remaining  in  the 
room  is  allowed  only  when  their  own 
department  of  the  work  is  brought  to 
a  complete  standstill. 

When  past  eighteen,  they  cease  to  be 
youthful  workers  and  are  under  no 
special  regulations  except  that  all  un- 
der twenty-one  must  be  provided  with 
a  'work-book'  or  register,  containing 
name,  age,  birthplace,  nature  of  em- 
ployment, date  of  engagement,  dis- 
charge, and  other  particulars.  All  boys 
under  eighteen  are  obliged  to  attend 
a  continuation  school  for  nine  or  ten 
hours  during  the  week,  where  they  re- 
ceive instruction  in  the  technical  know- 
ledge of  their  trade,  and  religious  in- 
struction from  their  own  clergyman. 
This  time  is  taken  out  of  the  regular 
day-work  without  loss  of  pay.  In  a 
number  of  larger  engineering  and  ma- 
chine-shops the  writer  saw  no  youth- 
ful workers. 

Workmen  may  be  fined  to  the  extent 
of  one  half  of  their  earnings,  except  in 
cases  of  acts  against  fellow- workmen, 
of  offenses  against  morality,  or  of  those 
against  regulations,  maintenance  of 
order  and  of  security,  when  fines  may 
be  imposed  to  the  full  extent  of  the 
average  earnings.  All  fines  must  be 
applied  to  the  benefit  of  the  workers, 
and  generally  go  to  the  sick  fund,  but 
this  does  not  affect  the  right  of  em- 
ployers to  obtain  compensation  for 
damage.  All  particulars  of  fines  im- 


posed must  be  entered  in  a  book,  which 
is  open  to  inspection  by  a  government 
officer. 

Every  industrial  establishment  must 
have  a  set  of  rules  hung  up  in  an  ac- 
cessible place  in  each  department,  stat- 
ing the  hours  of  work,  with  the  regular 
interval  for  meals,  the  time  and  man- 
ner of  paying  wages,  the  length  of 
notice  terminating  employment,  and 
the  conditions  under  which  notice  is 
unnecessary;  also  the  particulars  of 
punishment,  including  fines,  and  the 
objects  to  which  they  will  be  applied. 
Punishments  which  wound  self-respect 
or  offend  morality  are  inadmissible. 
These  rules  are  equally  binding  on  em- 
ployer and  employed,  but  before  they 
are  issued,  opportunity  must  be  given 
to  adult  workers  to  express  their  views, 
and  the  rules  to  which  objections  are 
made  must  be  submitted  within  three 
days  of  issue  to  the  factory  inspector, 
who  may  order  amendments  if  they 
are  not  in  accordance  with  the  law  or 
with  special  regulations.  Punishments 
not  provided  for  in  the  rules  cannot  be 
imposed,  nor  can  other  grounds  of 
dismissal  be  included  in  the  contract. 

It  is  a  rare  thing  for  a  firm  to  have 
any  differences  with  its  workmen.  In- 
deed, I  was  definitely  informed  by  one 
firm  that  there  had  been  only  five  cases 
of  dispute  in  nine  years,  and  these  did 
not  come  from  the  workmen  as  a  whole, 
or  any  considerable  number  of  them, 
but  were  cases  of  individual  complaint. 
They  have  in  Germany  an  institu- 
tion corresponding  to  the  Conseil  des 
Prud'hommes  in  France,  which  they 
call  Gewerbe  Gerichte,  to  which  are 
brought  all  cases  of  disputes  of  employ- 
ees and  employers.  The  average  num- 
ber of  cases  tried  by  this  bureau  never 
exceeds  five  hundred  a  year.  The  bureau 
consists  of  five  or  three  people.  The 
government  appoints  a  chairman  who  is 
a  lawyer,  and  there  are  representatives 
of  the  employer  and  the  employee  also 


660     GERMAN  AND  AMERICAN  METHODS  OF  PRODUCTION 


appointed  by  the  government.  Some- 
times two  are  selected  instead  of  one. 
Their  decision  is  not  final,  as  is  that  of 
the  arbitration  board  in  this  country. 
If  a  workman  or  employer  does  not 
accept  this  decision,  it  is  binding  for 
only  two  weeks.  Then  the  workman 
may  leave,  or  the  employer  may  dis- 
charge him.  To  give  an  illustration: 
One  of  the  workmen  in  an  engineering 
firm  thinks  he  should  receive  four 
marks  more  a  week  in  wages.  He  goes 
to  the  firm  and  makes  the  demand. 
They  refuse  him.  He  appeals  to  the 
Gewerbe  Gerichte.  The  Gewerbe  Ge- 
richte  says,  'No,  do  not  pay  it.'  The 
workman  can  leave  at  the  end  of  two 
weeks  by  giving  a  two- weeks'  notice; 
or,  if  the  decision  is  given  in  favor  of 
the  workman,  the  firm  is  obliged  to 
pay  him  the  increase  for  at  least  two 
weeks,  and  then  they  may  give  him  a 
fortnight's  notice  to  quit. 

Notice  of  termination  of  employ- 
ment is  usually  a  fortnight,  but  it  may 
be  dispensed  with  on  the  part  of  an  em- 
ployer on  the  following  grounds:  false 
representation,  theft,  or  other  criminal 
acts;  leaving  work  without  permission, 
or  refusing  to  fulfill  the  contract;  car- 
rying fire  or  lights  about,  contrary  to 
orders;  acts  of  violence  or  gross  abuse 


directed  against  the  employer,  his  re- 
presentatives or  family ;  willful  damage ; 
inducing  member  of  an  employer's  fam- 
ily or  his  representatives,  or  fellow  work- 
men, to  behave  in  a  manner  contrary  to 
law  or  morality;  inability  to  continue 
work;  or  an  alarming  disease.  Notice 
may  be  dispensed  with  by  the  workers 
on  corresponding  grounds;  also  for  non- 
payment of  wages  in  the  prescribed 
manner;  neglect  to  provide  sufficient 
work  for  piece-workers;  or  some  dan- 
ger to  life  and  health  in  the  employ- 
ment which  could  not  be  inferred  from 
the  contract. 

The  rate  of  wages  is  not  included  in 
these  rules.  The  existence  of  such  a 
code,  legally  binding  on  employers  and 
employed,  is  a  characteristically  Ger- 
man method  of  doing  business;  it  is  in 
accordance  with  that  respect  for  law 
and  order  which  is  such  a  marked  fea- 
ture of  German  life,  and  contributes 
materially,  no  doubt,  to  the  smooth 
working  of  the  industries.  The  rights 
and  obligations  of  'work-giver'  and 
'  work-taker  '  —  to  use  the  excellent 
German  terms  —  are  publicly  defined 
and  guaranteed  by  law.  This  conduces 
to  tranquillity,  and  makes  attempts  at 
individual  bullying  or  vague  talk  about 
'  rights  '  palpably  futile. 


OLD  FRIENDS  AND   NEW 


BY   MARGARET   SHERWOOD 


IN  searching  for  standards  of  crit- 
icism in  fiction,  recalling  on  the  one 
hand  the  failure  of  the  purely  dogma- 
tic formula  to  meet  our  need,  and,  on 
the  other,  the  kaleidoscopic  fashion  in 
which  contemporary  appreciations  shift 
and  veer,  one  wonders  whether  an  au- 
thor is  not,  after  all,  hisVvvn  best  judge. 
The  lesser  achievement,  measuring  it- 
self by  the  greater,  needs  little  help 
from  the  critic  in  showing  its  limit- 
ations, while  the  greater  helps  set  a 
standard,  not  only  for  others  but  for 
himself.  There  is  no  other  judge  of  a 
man  that  quite  equals  his  own  best  self; 
there  is  no  other  critic  at  once  so  just 
and  so  severe  as  his  own  best  work; 
and  the  best  work  of  a  serious  writer 
of  prose  fiction  is  that  in  which  he  gives 
the  deepest  interpretation  of  the  hu- 
man spectacle,  penetrating  beneath  the 
mask  of  contemporary  fashion  and  cus- 
tom to  the  struggle  of  those  spiritual 
forces  that  make  for  human  failure  or 
human  growth. 

In  placing  the  poorer  work  of  some 
of  our  contemporary  authors  side  by 
side  with  the  better,  one  is  sometimes 
inclined  to  cry  out  against  the  age  for 
the  way  in  which  it  drags  down  talent. 
Why  does  the  author  of  Peccavi  turn 
to  writing  clever  but  mischievous  tales 
of  burglar  life  ?  Why  does  the  man  who 
could  create  The  Four  Feathers  begin 
to  write  mere  detective  stories?  1  That 
earlier  book  was  a  genuine  contribu- 
tion to  art,  an  unusual  interpretation  of 
human  character,  worked  out  through 

1  At  the  Villa  Rose.  By  A.  E.  W.  MASON. 
New  York:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


a  plot  which  kept  alive  the  finer  sort 
of  suspense  that  comes  from  wonder- 
ing which  way  the  human  will  will 
turn.  Countless  people  are  writing  de- 
tective stories;  many  can  write  them 
worse,  and  some  can  write  them  better 
than  Mr.  Mason  does.  To  readers  of 
this  species  of  fiction,  who  enjoy  the 
clever  processes  of  reasoning  by  which, 
in  logical  succession,  the  many  wrong- 
fully suspected  people  are  eliminated, 
and  attention  is  fixed  on  the  guilty  one, 
it  will  prove  a  disappointment  in  this 
story  to  find  that  nearly  all  the  sus- 
pected people  committed  the  murder. 
There  proves  to  be  one  innocent  per- 
son, but  the  artistic  as  well  as  the  ethic- 
al balance  is  better  when  there  proves 
to  be  one  sinner.  Interesting  as  the 
book  is  in  many  ways  in  its  foreign 
setting,  one  cannot  help  wishing  that 
Mr.  Mason  would  leave  to  lesser  people 
the  mystery  and  murder  stories,  and 
express  in  his  earlier  manner  his  rather 
remarkable  insight  into  character  and 
his  subtle  moral  sense. 

The  same  kind  of  criticism  may  be 
applied  to  Mrs.  Fitz.2  This  lively 
comedy  reverses  the  order  of  the  tot- 
tering-kingdom-and-young-hero  story, 
bringing  princess,  king,  and  the  con- 
spiracy that  doth  hedge  a  king,  into  the 
quiet  atmosphere  of  an  English  coun- 
try house.  The  book  provides  harmless 
amusement,  and  it  is  a  relief  to  find, 
in  an  English  tale,  the  endless  scenes 
about  the  inevitable  tea-table  varied 
by  the  introduction  of  a  bit  of  powder 

2  Mrs.  Fitz.  By  J.  C.  SNAITH.  New  York:  Mof- 
fatt,  Yard  &  Co. 

661 


662 


OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW 


and  shot;  but  one  cannot  help  wishing 
that  Mr.  Snaith  could  see  how  much 
more  original,  how  much  better  of  its 
kind,  was  Broke  of  Covenden  than  is  his 
lighter  work,  be  it  historical  comedy, 
pseudo-historical,  or  mere  comedy. 
Except  in  the  case  of  Nevil  Fitzwaren, 
the  rake  who  becomes  the  hero  of  the 
tale,  there  is  nothing  distinctive  in 
the  character-study;  while  the  plot  is, 
as  has  been  suggested,  only  the  familiar 
one  of  the  Prisoner  of  Zenda  turned  the 
other  way  about. 

From  Arnold  Bennett  comes  another 
of  his  realistic  novels,1  so  long  that  they 
bid  fair  to  be  as  long  as  life  itself,  and 
yet  are  full  of  interest.  Again  a  section 
of  life  in  one  of  the  Five  Towns  is 
presented,  dreary,  smoky,  sordid;  and 
against  this  background  moves  Clay- 
hanger's  lad,  '  the  spitten  image  of  his 
poor  mother.'  'The  fat  old  women  .  .  . 
who,  in  child-bed  and  at  grave-sides, 
had  been  at  the  very  core  of  life  for 
long  years,'  see,  when  he  passes,  only 
a  fresh  lad  with  fair  hair  and  gawky 
knees  and  elbows,  '  but  they  could  not 
see  the  mysterious  and  holy  flame  of 
desire  for  self-perfecting  blazing  with- 
in that  tousled  head.'  Through  seven 
hundred  pages  he  holds  your  atten- 
tion as  he  slowly  gives  up  his  plans 
and  hopes,  reluctantly  abandons  his 
own  ambitions  and  enters  his  father's 
business,  loves  a  woman  who  unac- 
countably proves  false,  and,  believing 
in  her  throughout,  wins  her  at  the  end, 
when  life  has  played  with  her  and 
cast  her  off  and  she  brings  him  only 
her  wrongs.  It  is  apparently  a  story 
of  slow  defeat,  wrought  inch  by  inch 
with  terrible  thoroughness,  yet  the  last 
words  are,  'He  braced  himself  to  the 
exquisite  burden  of  life.' 

It  is  a  rather  fine  thing,  the  art  of 
Arnold  Bennett,  though  one  would 
not  be  exaggerating  in  saying  that  it 

1  Clayhanger.  By  ARNOLD  BENNETT.  New 
York:  E.  P.  Button  &  Co. 


lacks  selective  power.  He  denies  him- 
self the  spectacular;  here  is  none  of  the 
picturesque  misery  of  the  slums;  here 
is  no  vivid  rendering  of  quick  sensa- 
tions, only  the  endless  jogging  on  along 
humdrum  ways.  Slowly  the  personal- 
ities emerge,  going  the  round  of  their 
dreary  tasks,  and  as  you  follow  you 
have  no  sense  of  reading  a  book,  only 
a  half-painful,  half-pleasant  feeling  of 
sharing  human  experience,  difficult  in 
a  thousand  homely  ways.  The  actual 
uncertainty  of  daily  life  attends  you. 
Was  it,  or  was  it  not,  a  pity  that  the 
boy  had  to  give  up  his  hope  of  being  an 
architect?  You  never  know,  any  more 
than  he  did;  and  the  same  blind  force? 
seem  to  carry  you  forward  that  carry 
you  on  in  existence  itself.  This  grim 
clinging  to  life  and  the  best  one  has 
found  in  it,  though  it  be  but  a  decent 
habit,  the  fashion  of  stumbling  blindly 
along  the  trail  of  old  hopes,  brings  to 
the  reader  at  times  an  almost  intol- 
erable sense  of  reality.  Maggie,  who 
never  suspects  her  own  heroism ;  Hilda 
Lessways,  revealed  to  you  chiefly 
through  her  sympathy  with  the  old 
Methodist  parson,  whose  only  offense 
against  society  was  that  he  had  for- 
gotten to  die;  the  father,  with  his  hard 
idealism  wrought  out  in  his  stationer's 
business,  are  more  real  than  many 
personages  in  fiction  more  vividly 
sketched;  and  the  father's  illness  and 
death  bring  before  you  with  almost 
unendurable  pathos  the  manifold  piti- 
fulnesses  of  life.  If,  at  times,  you  stop, 
resenting  the  author's  power,  saying 
that  this  is  a  rendering  of  experience 
without  faith,  without  beauty,  with 
no  windows  left  open  for  the  soul;  if 
you  cry  out  against  the  intolerable 
thoroughness  with  which  the  author 
seems  to  represent  all  of  life  except  the 
point,  you  realize,  upon  longer  consider- 
ation, that  this  is  an  art  of  submerged 
ideals,  and  of  faiths  that  live  on  un- 
conscious of  themselves.  After  all, 


OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW 


663 


Clayhanger  is  a  story  of  the  slow,  sure 
shaping  of  the  clay  in  the  light  of  a 
divine  idea. 

Two  comedies,  also  from  the  hand  of 
this  indefatigable  author,  appear  among 
the  new  books:  Helen  with  the  High 
Hand,1  and  Denry  the  Audacious,2  the 
former  a  study  of  feminine,  the  latter, 
of  masculine  audacity,  of  power  to 
work  one's  will,  just  the  quality  lacking 
in  the  hero  of  Clayhanger.  Helen  with 
the  High  Hand  has  a  touch  of  the  arti- 
ficial in  the  heroine's  character,  suggest- 
ing old  comedy  types;  and  the  best  of 
the  book  consists  in  the  presentation 
of  the  old  uncle,  with  all  the  minute 
realism  of  a  Dutch  portrait.  The  second 
comedy  is  by  far  the  better  of  the  two, 
and  the  account  of  the  hero  who  knows 
invariably  how  to  grasp  the  opportun- 
ity of  the  moment  is  amusing  through- 
out. How,  one  wonders,  did  the  Five 
Towns  happen  to  produce  a  type 
which  seems  American  rather  than 
English,  possessing  in  such  marked  de- 
gree the  qualities  that  have  led  here 
to  success  in  business  and  in  states- 
manship? But  the  irony  of  Clayhanger 
and  The  Old  Wives'  Tale  is  better  than 
the  humor  of  the  lighter  stories. 

Celt  and  Saxon,3  an  unfinished  novel 
found  among  the  papers  of  George 
Meredith,  has  a  brilliant  opening,  with 
promise  of  vital  delineation  of  inter- 
esting characters.  It  is,  however,  frag- 
mentary, and  it  is  impossible,  from 
the  chapters  left,  even  to  guess  at  the 
scheme  of  the  book,  or  the  dramatic  re- 
lationships of  the  many  personages  in- 
troduced. It  may  be  that,  in  the  deter- 
mination to  contrast,  in  as  many  ways 
as  possible,  the  impulsive  and  imagin- 
ative Celt  with  the  steadier  and  more 

1  Helen  with  the  High  Hand.  By  ARNOLD  BEN- 
NETT. New  York:  The  George  H.  Doran  Com- 
pany. 

1  Denry  the  Audacious.  By  ARNOLD  BENNETT. 
New  York:  E.  P.  Button  &  Co. 

3  Celt  and  Saxon.  By  GEORGE  MEREDITH. 
New  York:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


dogmatic  Saxon,  the  story  would  have 
suffered.  Certainly,  the  latter  part, 
as  it  now  stands,  is  more  a  disquisition 
with  illustrations,  than  a  story,  and 
the  sadness  of  realizing  that  this  is  the 
last  work  to  come  from  the  great  au- 
thor is  tempered  by  the  fear  that  his 
brilliant  rendering  of  human  beings, 
alive  and  capable  of  growth,  would 
have  been  henceforward  vivid  in  mo- 
ments only.  It  is  with  deep  regret  that 
we  say  farewell  to  the  only  one  of  our 
great  novelists  in  whose  work  a  know- 
ledge of  evolution  was  real  and  vital 
as  part  and  parcel  of  his  being,  the  very 
condition  of  his  perception.  In  George 
Eliot's  novels,  the  knowledge  of  the 
newly  discovered  scientific  laws  lies 
side  by  side,  in  solid  blocks,  with  the 
creative  parts  of  the  work;  in  Meredith 
it  is  subtly  back  of  all  perception  and 
of  all  imaginative  creation,  so  that  his 
characters,  to  an  extent  unprecedented 
in  fiction,  seem  directly  related  to  the 
mainspring  of  life. 

In  several  of  the  Tales  of  Men  and 
Ghosts 4  the  psychological  subtleties  of 
Mrs.  Wharton's  art  are  carried  into  the 
realm  of  illusion,  or  even  into  the  dim 
border-lands  of  insanity.  There  is  one 
real  ghost  story,  'Afterward,'  which 
achieves  the  prime  object  of  its  species 
in  making  you  believe  in  the  ghost; 
while  in  '  The  Eyes,'  a  haunting  illu- 
sion, described  by  its  victim,  suddenly 
betrays  a  crisis  in  the  life  of  one  of  the 
listeners.  For  sheer  cleverness,  'The 
Bolted  Door '  perhaps  stands  out  as 
the  best  in  the  book.  It  is  a  story  of  ap- 
parent insanity,  centring  hi  a  delusion 
of  murder;  the  circumstantial  accounts 
of  the  murderer,  growing  more  and 
more  improbable  as  he  tries  to  confess 
to  one  person  after  another,  become 
evidence  of  growing  insanity,  —  only 
to  prove  true  at  the  end.  The  shrewd 
handling  of  the  intricate  mazes  of 

4  Tales  of  Men  and  Ghosts.  By  EDITH  WHAR- 
TON.  New  York:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


664 


OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW 


thought  in  this  incipient  mental  un- 
balancing are  admirable,  and  here,  as 
in  all  the  tales,  we  have  the  mastery  of 
a  story-teller  who  knows  how  to  man- 
age her  climaxes. 

Mrs.  Wharton's  skill  in  handling  her 
material,  the  balance,  measure,  re- 
straint of  her  work,  are  too  well  recog- 
nized to  need  comment.  It  is  a  pleas- 
ure to  watch  her  unfolding  of  a  story, 
the  deft  way  in  which  descriptive 
phrase,  unobtrusive  incident,  and  bit 
of  conversation  play  into  one  another's 
hands,  until  the  working  of  the  inner 
life  stands  fully  revealed.  Here,  as  is 
usual,  we  have  that  indefinable  atmo- 
sphere of  satire,  pungent,  purifying,  if 
not  always  satisfying.  In  one  or  two 
stories  of  the  group  we  have  something 
deeper  than  satire,  as  in ' The  Debt, 'an 
all-too-brief  tale,  having  the  technical 
skill  of  the  others  and  something  more. 
This  analysis  of  the  mind  and  heart  of 
a  man  on  the  advance  wave  of  modern 
thought  brings  one  a  longing  for  more 
work  of  this  kind  from  the  author's 
hand.  The  finer  sense  of  honor  re- 
corded here,  the  passion  for  truth  that 
burns  through  all  else,  leave  one  with 
the  hope  that  our  immense  gain  in  outer 
matters,  mere  material  matters,  mere 
knowledge  of  external  things,  has  not 
meant,  as  so  many  would  have  it,  re- 
trogression for  the  soul.  Another  phase 
of  the  new  morality  shows,  with  a  bit  less 
of  originality  than  in  'The  Debt,'  in 
'The  Blond  Beast.'  In  both,  the  posi- 
tive note  somewhat  shames  the  lighter, 
cleverer,  merely  satiric  work  of  this 
gifted  author.  If  she  can  discern  in  this 
fashion  the  underlying  forces  making 
for  truth  and  righteousness,  discern 
with  an  insight  granted  to  but  few,  why 
is  not  more  of  her  work  constructive, 
positive,  instead  of  negative?  Why  does 
she  not  write  a  tale  of  the  height  and 
scope  of  The  House  of  Mirth,  designed 
to  build  up  where  that  tore  down?  The 
least  of  us  can  satirize,  can  see  many 


of  the  things  that  are  wrong  with  the 
world,  though  few  can  tell  with  such 
skill  the  tale  of  the  things  that  are 
wrong;  but  few,  perhaps,  can  detect, 
in  the  rush  and  stir  of  modern  life, 
sweeping  our  old  ideals  away,  the  pre- 
sence of  permanent  sources  of  consola- 
tion, of  hope,  of  self-respect  for  the 
rapidly  advancing  race.  One  wishes 
that  'The  Debt'  were  a  three- vol- 
umed  novel,  that  it  might  outweigh 
the  desolating  influence  of  The  House 
of  Mirth. 

The  idealism  that  sets  high  the 
prizes  of  life  and  of  art,  as  high  as  the 
artist's  best  endeavor,  and  high  above 
mere  success  of  the  market-place,  is 
always  welcome,  and  is  rare  enough 
to-day.  In  The  Creators  l  we  enter  an 
atmosphere  of  straining  after  high 
achievement;  and  we  find  that,  in 
many  ways,  the  young,  who  are  trying 
to  win  the  prizes  of  the  world  unseen, 
are  good  company.  And  yet,  the  new 
book  by  the  author  of  The  Divine  Fire 
is  disappointing.  There  is  an  im- 
maturity about  it,  and  a  lack  of  that 
rather  profound  wisdom  that  made 
The  Divine  Fire  so  unusual.  Youthful- 
ness  of  mood  is  refreshing,  but  not  al- 
ways satisfying,  and  an  air  of  unripe- 
ness marks  this  book,  in  which  each 
character  thinks  himself  or  herself  a 
genius,  and  recognizes  geniuses  in  all 
his  friends.  England  has  not  in  a  cen- 
tury produced  so  many  geniuses  as 
walk  through  the  pages  of  this  book, 
and  the  word  is  repeated  with  a  dis- 
tressing frequency  that  makes  one  won- 
der what  the  author  means  by  it.  It 
is  a  surprise  to  come  upon  something 
so  akin  to  the  callowness  of  spirit  of 
the  young  German  Romanticists  in  the 
work  of  a  writer  capable  of  such  se- 
vere analysis  as  Miss  May  Sinclair. 
The  lack  of  measure,  of  judgment,  is 
apparent  in  many  ways,  and  nowhere 

1  The  Creators.  By  MAT  SINCLAIR.  New  York: 
The  Century  Company. 


OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW 


665 


more  apparent  than  in  the  snobbish- 
ness voicing  itself  in  the  outcry  of  the 
geniuses  against  the  'dreadful,  clever 
little  people.' 

The  immaturity  of  spirit  is  reflected 
in  the  workmanship.  There  is  a  lack  of 
centralization;  it  is  everybody's  story; 
it  is  nobody's  story.  That  power  of  de- 
veloping a  central  character,  so  amaz- 
ingly good  in  The  Divine  Fire,  is'absent 
from  The  Creators,  and  one  turns  back 
to  the  earlier  book  with  a  feeling  of 
satisfaction  that,  whatever  present  or 
future  brings  from  this  gifted  writer, 
she  has  the  permanent  satisfaction  of 
having  produced  a  masterpiece. 

One  must  approach  the  work  l  of 
Mr.  Henry  James  with  all  the  respect 
due  to  our  master  of  fiction,  who  has, 
for  many  years,  held  a  great  part  of  our 
discriminating  public  in  an  attitude  of 
unquestioning  discipleship,  and  whose 
influence  is  stronger  than  any  other 
upon  several  of  our  cleverest  younger 
writers  of  fiction.  Many  of  those  un- 
able to  assume  the  role  of  disciples  are 
silent  in  their  doubt,  so  potent  is  this 
author's  name;  and  we  have  grown  to 
accept,  as  one  of  the  conventions  of 
our  criticism,  a  belief  that  his  work 
stands  upon  an  almost  impossibly  high 
level.  Yet,  if  I  may  speak  out  boldly, 
much  of  the  later  work  rouses  ques- 
tion in  my  mind,  question  in  regard  to 
the  depth  of  its  interpretative  power; 
and  more  than  one  tale  leaves  an  im- 
pression, both  as  regards  theme  and 
style,  of  a  straining  after  effect  that 
does  not  belong  to  the  highest  artistic 
achievement. 

The  power  of  the  earlier  work  is  not 
difficult  to  recognize;  the  power  of 
dealing  with  the  apparently  trivial,  as 
in  Daisy  Miller,  and  of  making  it  the 
medium  of  large  interpretations;  the 
appealing  power  of  a  delicate  and  subtle 
character-study,  as  in  The  Portrait  of 

1  The  Finer  Grain.  By  HENRY  JAMES.  New 
York:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


a  Lady.  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  the 
balance  has  been  slowly  changing  in 
Mr.  James's  work,  more  and  more  of 
the  sensational  in  situation  and  in  style 
creeping  into  it,  more  and  more  of  the 
trivial  that  is  merely  trivial,  and  that 
has  not  larger  interpretations  to  offer. 
What  Maisie  Knew  exemplifies  the 
point;  so,  surely,  does  part  of  The 
Golden  Bowl;  so  do  some  of  the  stories 
in  this  new  book,  especially  the  first 
one,  'The  Velvet  Glove,'  whose  central 
plot  is  this,  that  the  gifted  American 
author,  instead  of  praising  the  work 
of  the  novelist  bearing  the  pseudonym 
Amy  Evans,  kisses  her.  The  second 
story,  'Mora  Montravers,'  gives  you 
the  character-sketch  of  a  girl  of  mod- 
ern type,  independent  and  audacious, 
against  a  background  of  old-fashioned 
conventions.  She  is  never  directly 
presented,  and  it  is  only  by  combining, 
with  the  author's  help,  the  various 
somewhat  distorted  reflections  in  her 
relatives'  minds,  eliminating,  and  set- 
ting straight,  that  you  get  an  idea  of 
her.  '  The  Bench  of  Desolation '  is  a 
clever  study  of  some  of  the  ironies  of 
the  human  affections;  the  'Round  of 
Visits '  is  perhaps  the  best  of  the  tales, 
with  its  sudden,  illuminating  flash  of 
character-contrasts;  and  here  the  dis- 
proportion between  matter  and  manner 
is  not  so  apparent  as  in  the  others. 

It  requires  courage  to  challenge  the 
style  of  Mr.  James,  who  so  long  has 
stood  as  the  master  that  we  take  for 
granted  in  all  that  comes  from  his  pen 
a  masterfulness.  Delicate  shades  of 
thought  and  of  feeling  are  his  province, 
and  he  is  granted  subtlety  of  style 
that  expresses  the  exact  nuances  he 
wishes  to  convey.  Granted  those  qual- 
ities of  delicacy,  distinction,  and  quiet 
charm  which  characterize  innumerable 
passages  in  his  work,  what  is  Mr.  James 
doing  with  expressions  like  these,  deal- 
ing with  minor  situations?  'With  the 
sense  somehow  that  there  were  too 


666 


many  things,  and  that  they  were  all 
together,  terribly,  irresistibly,  doubt- 
less blessedly  in  her  eyes  and  her  own 
person.'  'The  logic  of  his  having  so 
tremendously  ceased,  in  the  shape  of 
his  dark  storm-gust,  to  be  engaged  to 
another  woman.'  'Her  motive,  in  fine, 
disconcerting,  deplorable,  dreadful  in 
respect  to  the  experience  otherwise  so 
boundless.'  'The  adventure  that  .  .  . 
he  would  have  been  all  so  stupidly,  all 
so  gallantly,  and,  by  every  presump- 
tion, so  prevailingly  ready  for.'  'This 
so  prodigiously  different,  beautiful  and 
dreadful  truth';  'idiotized  surrender'; 
'inordinately';  'betrayingly,'  'ting- 
lingly,'  'tortuously,'  'immensely  ex- 
posed and  completely  abashed,'  — 
pages  bristle  with  expressions  like 
these. 

Delicate  shadings  of  thought  are 
not  usually  brought  out  by  such  highly 
colored  adjectives  and  adverbs.  The 
great  artist  is  known  always  by  the 
measure  and  the  mastery  of  his  style; 
he  saves  the  great  word  for  the  great 
moment,  and  the  great  word,  which  sug- 
gests the  depth  of  human  experience, 
is  characterized  by  its  power  of  sug- 
gestion rather  than  by  its  violence.  Mr. 
James,  in  'The  Velvet  Glove,'  amuses 
himself  with  the  style  of  Amy  Evans's 
book,  a  commonplace  love-story  of 
the  superlative  type,  but  her  vocabu- 
lary, with  its '  passionate,'  its '  flowering 
land,'  its  'blighting  desolation,'  is  no 
more  extreme  than  his  own,  though  his 
words  are  more  far-sought.  Is  he  not 
doing  just  that  which  he  accuses  Amy 
Evans  of  doing,  straining  to  make  the 
moment  assume  greater  significance 
than  it  has,  lashing  adjective  and  ad- 
verb to  a  fictitious  value?  The  story 
which  he  is  writing  and  the  story  at 
which  he  is  laughing  are  both,  though 
in  widely  different  spheres,  lacking  in 
that  simplicity  and  sincerity  which  are 
the  marks  of  genuine  art. 

A  reviewer  in   a  recent   magazine 


challenges  the  reader  to  produce  an- 
other author  whose  processes  of  thought 
are  so  labyrinthine,  who  can  express  so 
many  shades  and  phases  of  human  feel- 
ing. At  times  I  cannot  help  wondering 
if  the  thought  is  really  as  labyrinthine 
as  the  expression.  Does  not  the  ambi- 
guity that  results  from  a  brigand  law- 
lessness in  the  fashioning  of  sentences 
cause  often  a  look  of  intricacy  of  thought 
which  vanishes  upon  closer  considera- 
tion? 'That  would  be  an  answer,  how- 
ever, he  continued  intensely  to  see, 
only  to  inanely  importunate,  to  utterly 
superfluous  Amy  Evans  —  not  a  bit 
to  his  at  last  exquisitely  patient  com- 
panion, who  was  clearly  now  quite 
taking  it  from  him  that  what  kept  him 
in  his  attitude  was  the  spring  of  the 
quick  desire  to  oblige  her,  the  charming 
loyal  impulse  to  consider  a  little  what 
he  could  do  for  her,  say  "handsomely 
yet  conscientiously"  (oh,  the  loveli- 
ness!) before  he  should  commit  him- 
self.' 

In  kindly  spirit  we  may  grant  much 
of  license  to  this  master  of  unchallenged 
position,  whose  whims  lead  him  to  most 
individual  views  in  regard  to  the  parts 
of  speech,  and  whose  relative  pronouns 
may  or  not  emerge  from  these  sentence- 
heaps  to  attach  themselves  to  the  right 
nouns,  but  surely  we  are  not  bound  to 
consider  this  a  great  style,  or  even  a 
good  style.  Measure,  balance,  lucid- 
ity, —  these  qualities  are  not  too  much 
to  ask  of  the  prose  style  of  great  mas- 
ters of  English,  and  the  spell  of  a  great 
name  should  not  keep  us  from  recog- 
nizing the  lack  of  these  qualities  in  Mr. 
James's  later  work.  Few  can  doubt  the 
value  and  the  charm  of  his  long  line 
of  character-interpretations  of  national 
and  of  international  interest.  Can  any 
readers  who  recall  the  clarity  of  the 
earlier  style  deny  that  for  Mr.  James 
to  rewrite  his  earlier  work  in  his  later 
manner  is  almost  a  national  calamity? 

A   novel   of  great   originality  and 


OLD  FRIENDS  AND   NEW 


667 


depth  comes  to  us  in  Hearts  Contend- 
ing,1 by  Georg  Schock,  who  has  here- 
tofore been  known  only  as  a  writer 
of  short  stories  dealing,  as  does  this 
work,  with  Pennsylvania  Germans. 
This  is  a  tale  of  primitive  lives  and 
passions,  among  a  people  shut  away 
in  their  mountain  valley  from  the 
stream  of  modern  life.  Its  basic  idea 
is  that  of  the  Book  of  Job,  and  the  tale 
is  in  many  ways  almost  as  primitive  as 
the  Book  of  Job.  The  slow  and  power- 
ful unfolding  of  the  story  compels  the 
deepest  interest;  more  and  more  the 
reader  finds  himself  in  the  grip  of  real 
tragedy,  brought  about,  not  by  exter- 
nal causes,  but  by  natural  human  feel- 
ing and  innocent  human  motives. 
Not  every  writer  of  tragedy  has,  com- 
bined with  such  deep  insight  into  the 
causes  of  human  trouble,  so  much  bal- 
ance and  moderation  of  judgment.  The 
way  in  which,  after  the  many-sided, 
fatal  misunderstandings,  all  slowly 
rights  itself,  has  something  of  the  slow 
sanity  of  Nature's  very  self. 

The  author  of  this  book  betrays  the 
rare  combination  of  the  power  to  ob- 
serve with  the  power  to  think  out  the 
results  of  observation;  too  many  real- 
ists have  an  excess  of  the  former  gift, 
and  crowd  their  fiction  with  insignifi- 
cant details.  Here  every  touch  pictur- 
ing the  people,  their  customs,  and  their 
background  has  interpretative  power, 
and  relates  itself  to  the  underlying  idea 
of  the  book.  Moreover,  there  is  a  gen- 
uinely poetic  quality  in  the  nature- 
interpretations,  whereby  you  are  per- 
mitted to  see  the  gray  sweep  of  the 
Blaueberg,  the  green  Heiligthal,  and 
to  share  the  color  and  the  mystery  of 
spring,  the  depth  of  life  in  summer  days. 
A  Homeric  simplicity  and  dignity  at- 
tend the  life;  husband  and  wife  salute 
each  other  from  opposite  sides  of  the 
kitchen  like  a  pair  of  friendly  sovereigns 

1  Hearts  Contending.  By  GEORG  SCHOCK. 
New  York:  Harper  &  Brothers. 


meeting,  and* the  son  Anthony,  emerg- 
ing from  the  gray  mist,  riding  his  white 
steed  and  leading  a  pair  of  gray  roans, 
is  worthy  to  stand  by  the  heroes  who 
fought  about  Troy. 

So  simple  and  natural  are  the  people 
that  we  find  ourselves,  in  watching 
them,  doubly  bewildered  that  life 
should  so  cast  its  net  to  entangle  them. 
Job,  the  house  father,  and  Susanna  his 
wife;  Anthony,  the  eldest  son;  Jona- 
than, who,  drawn  by  the  smell  of  the 
earth  and  the  love  of  a  girl,  gives  up 
the  ministry  and  breaks  his  parents' 
hearts,  are  brought  before  us  by  simple 
and  vivid  touches;  and  two  of  the  char- 
acters, the  son  Jesse,  and  Bertha,  who 
innocently  starts  all  the  trouble,  are 
made  still  more  real  by  means  of  that 
subtler  fashion  of  suggestion,  of  tracing 
their  effect  upon  other  people. 

The  language  of  these  people  strikes 
one  as  being  a  bit  stilted  and  over- 
correct.  Though  this  gives  an  effect 
of  quaint  dignity  which  in  certain  ways 
suits  the  majestic  story,  and  is  a  relief 
after  the  over-insistence  and  dialect 
in  other  tales,  it  detracts  in  certain 
ways  from  the  naturalness  that  at- 
tends everything  else  in  the  book.  In 
spite  of  this  defect,  the  author's  style 
shows  unusual  restraint,  and  unusual 
suggestive  power,  not  in  mere  epi- 
gram or  in  intellectual  snap-shots,  but 
in  brief  and  pregnant  sayings  that  sum 
up  an  immense  amount  of  experience 
and  of  wisdom  regarding  life. 

There  is  a  tonic  quality,  a  tonic  real- 
ity about  the  book,  and  one  will  go  far 
in  the  new  fiction  without  finding  any- 
thing to  equal  it  in  picturesque  reality 
and  simplicity.  Nowhere  else,  among 
the  new  books,  are  there  scenes  of  such 
tragic  power  as  that  of  the  quarrel  in 
the  harvest  field,  or  of  the  chapter  giv- 
ing Anthony's  revenge,  ending  with  the 
scene  where  Job  took  his  dead  son  on 
his  back, '  reversing  the  way  of  gener- 
ations,' and  carried  him  to  the  top  and 


668 


OLD  FRIENDS  AND   NEW 


over  the  slope,  along  the  road  toward 
home. 

The  season's  output  of  fiction  brings 
before  us  many  interesting  phases  of 
American  life.  The  Married  Life  of  the 
Frederick  Carrolls1  presents  the  dom- 
estic difficulties  and  adventures  of  a 
young  artist  and  his  wife  in  a  somewhat 
alien  suburban  atmosphere.  The  tales 
are  at  once  humorous  and  thought- 
ful, and  there  is  a  refreshing  originality 
about  the  two  young  folk,  who  face  the 
world-old  situation  with  their  minds 
full  of  new  ideas  and  questions.  The 
frank  speech  of  a  newer  day  strengthens 
the  bond  between  them,  as  the  struggle 
to  carry  out  an  artist's  ideals  in  a 
material  and  mechanical  civilization 
strengthens  the  man's  hold  on  his  art. 
One  might  perhaps  plead  with  the  au- 
thor not  to  explain  so  fully  at  times  by 
reflective  comment  that  which  his  own 
deft  turning  of  the  narrative  has  al- 
ready explained;  but  one  would  not 
quarrel  with  work  so  full  of  vitality, 
in  which  very  real  people  face  the  facts 
of  life  with  courage,  and  with  eyes  wide 
open. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  find  Richard  Hard- 
ing Davis  returning,  in  his  book  of  short 
stories,2  to  his  earlier  manner,  which 
many  of  his  readers  prefer  to  his  later 
style  in  the  stories  of  romantic  adven- 
ture. Most  of  these  new  tales,  simple 
in  motif  and  in  execution,  emphasize 
the  permanent  and  genuine  in  human 
affection,  and  certain  clear  distinctions 
between  right  and  wrong.  Several 
play  pleasantly,  in  the  fashion  which 
the  author  likes,  on  moral  ideals  made 
a  bit  more  piquant  by  social  contrasts, 
and  here  and  there,  as  in  some  of  the 
earlier  work,  the  social  contrast  is  made 
more  important  than  the  moral  issue. 

1  The  Married  Life  of  the  Frederick  Carrolls.  By 
JESSE  LYNCH  WILLIAMS.     New  York:    Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 

2  Once  Upon  a  Time.    By  RICHARD  HARDING 
DAVIS.  New  York:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


The  Prodigious  Hickey 3  and  The  Var- 
mint,*  by  Owen  Johnson,  give  lively 
pictures  of  American  boys  at  board- 
ing school,  and  are,  in  many  ways, 
amusing  enough.  Various  types  are 
vigorously  represented,  and  the  prac- 
tical jokes,  the  inexhaustible  spirits, 
the  worship  »of  physical  courage  make 
the  pictures  seem,  to  those  who  know 
boys,  true  to  life.  The  notices  that 
state  kinship  between  this  work  and 
Tom  Brown's'  School-Days  at  Rugby 
are,  however,  misleading,  and  rouse 
misgiving.  There  are  plenty  of  hard 
knocks  in  'Tom  Brown,'  and  there 
is  much  emphasis  on  the  passion  for 
tarts  and  the  love  of  jokes;  but  all 
through,  you  are  aware  of  shaping 
forces :  the  school  trains  the  boys,  and 
the  reader  can  feel,  through  the  rough- 
and-tumble  deeds,  the  influences  mak- 
ing them  gentlemen,  holding  up  a 
high  sense  of  honor,  and  leading  the 
ideals  of  school-boy  pluck  to  finer  is- 
sues. Here,  there  is  nothing  of  this; 
the  authorities  are  mere  ciphers.  Lu- 
cius Cassius,  the  professor  of  Latin, 
has  methods  so  outgrown  and  pedantic 
that  the  intellectual  part  of  the  school 
life  must  be,  if  he  represents  its  best, 
worse  than  useless.  Of  moral  influ- 
ence from  the  elders  there  is  as  little 
as  of  intellectual,  and  though  the  lads 
have  a  rough-and-ready  code  of  their 
own,  it  sadly  needs  strengthening. 
In  Hickey's  selling  to  his  comrades 
the  silver  clappers  as  if  they  were 
genuine  souvenirs  of  the  missing  col- 
lege bell,  and  earning  much  money 
thereby,  there  is  a  touch  of  American 
business  trickery  that  would  be  below 
the  English  boy's  sense  of  honor.  If 
the  American  boy  in  school  is  as  abso- 
lutely unrestrained  as  this  would  seem 
to  indicate,  the  schools  sadly  need  re- 

1  The  Prodigious  Hickey.  By  OWEN  JOHNSON. 
New  York:  The  Baker  Taylor  Company. 

4  The  Varmint.  By  OWEN  JOHNSON.  New 
York:  The  Baker  Taylor  Company. 


OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW 


669 


form;  for  football,  though  it  undoubt- 
edly has  its  uses,  can  hardly  serve  as 
the  one  and  only  civilizing  force  brought 
to  bear  upon  the  young. 

Among  the  books  are  certain  local 
studies,  some  by  people  with  well- 
known  names,  some  by  new-comers, 
representing  different  degrees  of  art- 
istic and  interpretative  value. 

Opal,1  a  tale  of  common  life  and  folk 
in  the  middle  west,  is  a  racy  account 
of  character  and  event,  with  more  sub- 
stance than  its  name  would  imply.  The 
shrewd  turns  of  characterization  be- 
tray a  nice  sense  of  humor,  and  much 
insight  into  the  quips  and  cranks  of 
human  nature,  which,  in  this  author's 
gentle  philosophy,  are  but  minor  dis- 
cords in  the  music  of  humanity.  If  a 
bit  too  much  of  the  obviously  didactic 
sways  conversation,  incident,  and  char- 
acter; if  some  of  the  characters  turn 
almost  too  suddenly  from  hard  feelings 
to  kindly  deeds;  at  least  the  author  is 
aware  of  the  actual  motives  of  change 
and  the  depths  from  which  they  sprung. 

Jim  Hands,2  a  tale  of  a  factory  town, 
is  the  story  of  the  love  of  the  proprie- 
tor's son  for  a  daughter  of  one  of  the 
employees.  While  it  has  many  of  the 
conventional  features  of  its  type,  it 
digs  down  much  deeper  than  the  ordi- 
nary dialect  story  into  the  sources  and 
meaning  of  our  democracy;  and  the 
scene  where  the  elderly  Irish  woman 
gives  the  governor  her  opinions  on 
corrupt  politics,  is  enough  to  revive 
fading  hopes  in  regard  to  the  per- 
manency of  a  republic.  The  wit  and 
wisdom  of  the  book,  though  poured 
out  too  lavishly  at  first,  too  sparingly 
at  the  last,  are  real  wit  and  real  wisdom. 

Just  Folks,3  is  a  series  of  sketches  of 

1  Opal.  By  BESSIE  R.  HOOVER.  New  York: 
Harper  &  Brothers. 

1  Jim  Hands.  By  RICHARD  WASHBURN  CHILD. 
New  York:  The  Macmillan  Company. 

1  Just  Folks.  By  CLARA  E.  LAUGHLIN.  New 
York:  The  Macmillan  Company. 


life  in  a  poor  quarter  of  Chicago,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  a  young  woman 
who  is  acting  as  truant  officer.  It  is 
valuable  in  bringing  to  the  reader  a 
sense  of  the  complexities  of  life  in  such 
a  quarter,  where  many  nationalities 
and  countless  temperaments  are  jos- 
tling one  another.  The  fact  that  the 
book  is  not  fitted  to  a  certain  theme, 
cutting  off  all  other  issues,  lends  it  a 
certain  effectiveness,  as  it  permits  the 
author  to  present  the  many  daily  crises 
of  life  in  their  human  rather  than  in 
their  artistic  relationship.  The  story 
of  lost  Angela  Ann  is  full  of  deep 
significance;  and  the  picture  of  Mary 
Casey,  her  mother,  with  the  indomitable 
Irish  love  enfolding  sinning  daughter, 
erring  son,  and  vagabond  husband,  is 
beautifully  wrought.  The  book  is  full 
of  concrete  suggestions  and  incidents, 
which,  bringing  the  lives  of  the  sub- 
merged vividly  before  us,  may  set  many 
minds  at  work,  and  at  work  hopefully, 
upon  some  of  our  innumerable  social 
problems. 

Regarding  a  record,  as  terrible  as 
that  contained  in  The  House  of  Bond- 
age,4 of  a  side  of  life  not  usually  con- 
fessed, comments  on  art  or  lack  of  art 
would  be  almost  as  great  an  impertin- 
ence as  discussion  of  aesthetic  values 
in  the  cloud-effects  of  the  judgment 
day.  Yet,  if  these  things  are  true,  and 
the  quiet  massing  of  detail  carries  con- 
viction with  it,  this  presentation  of  the 
most  cruel  of  all  the  cruel  human  trage- 
dies of  our  modern  life  cannot  be  ig- 
nored. Suffice  it  to  say  that  this  story 
of  the  traffic  in  the  bodies  and  the  souls 
of  women  is  told  with  high  dignity,  and, 
in  spite  of  its  full  revelations,  a  certain 
reserve.  There  is  close  centralization, 
and  all  the  network  of  political  chicane- 
ry and  corruption,  all  the  many  mani- 
festations of  unscrupulous  greed,  are 

4  The  House  of  Bondage.  By  REGINALD  WRIGHT 
KATJFFMAN.  New  York;  Moffat,  Yard  &  Com- 
pany. 


670 


THE  PACE  THAT  KILLS 


closely  interwoven  about  the  central 
figure  of  the  one  helpless  girl.  She  is 
all  the  more  appealing  because  there 
is  nothing  especially  notable  about  her; 
she  has  no  unusual  power  or  grace;  she 
is  only  one' of  the  many  victims  of  what 
we  call  our  civilization;  and  one  fol- 
lows with  increasing  horror  the  Neme- 
sis worked  out  in  the  story,  as  a  fate 
worse  than  the  worst  of  Greek  tragedy 
becomes  the  consequence  of  an  initial 
slight  mistake.  The  book  is,  primarily, 
an  arraignment  of  men,  but  there  is 
another  side  also,  best  expressed,  per- 
haps, in  the  words  of  one  of  Olive 
Schreiner's  Dreams:  — 

'  I  thought  I  stood  in  Heaven  before 
God's  throne,  and  God  asked  me  what 
I  had  come  for.  I  said  I  had  come  to 
arraign  my  brother,  Man. 

'God  said,  "What  has  he  done?" 
'I  said,  "He  has  taken  my  sister, 
Woman,  and  has  stricken  her,   and 


wounded  her,  and  thrust  her  out  into 
the  streets;  she  lies  there  prostrate. 
His  hands  are  red  with  blood.  I  am  here 
to  arraign  him,  that  the  kingdom  be 
taken  from  him,  because  he  is  not 
worthy,  and  given  unto  me.  My  hands 
are  pure." 

'I  showed  them. 

'God  said,  "Thy  hands  are  pure. 
Lift  up  thy  robe." 

'I  raised  it;  my  feet  were  red,  blood- 
red,  as  if  I  had  trodden  in  wine. 

'God  said,  "How  is  this?" 

'I  said,  "Dear  Lord,  the  streets  on 
earth  are  full  of  mire.  If  I  should  walk 
straight  on  in  them  my  outer  robe 
might  be  bespotted;  you  see  how  white 
it  is!  Therefore  I  pick  my  way." 

' God  said,  "On  what?" 

'I  was  silent,  and  I  let  my  robe  fall. 
I  wrapped  my  mantle  about  my  head. 
I  went  out  softly.  I  was  afraid  that 
the  angels  would  see  me.' 


THE  PACE  THAT  KILLS 


BY   FORD   MADOX   HUEFFER 


IN  New  York  the  thing  that  most 
impresses  the  newly  arrived  stranger 
'  —  coming  at  any  rate  from  London  — 
is  the  pace  set  by  foot-passengers  in  the 
streets.  On  the  other  side  we  are  ac- 
customed to  hear  and  to  believe  that 
America  is  the  land  of  hurry;  here,  if 
anywhere,  we  think,  the  adage  that 
time  is  money  will  be  appreciated.  We 
expect  to  find  streets  filled  with  mes- 
senger boys  rushing  on  errands;  tele- 
graph boys  running;  shops  in  which  the 
serving  is  done  at  lightning  speed,  and 
trains  that  the  eye  can  hardly  follow. 
We  expect  to  find,  in  short,  a  new  se- 


cret of  speed  —  which  is  equivalent  to 
saying  highly-organized  service  of  all 
kinds.  So  that,  riding  in  a  trolley  up 
Broadway  for  the  first  time  (and  you 
cannot  imagine  how  romantic  a  thing 
it  is  to  be  on  that  Broadway  of  which 
one  has  heard  so  much!),  I  rubbed  my 
eyes  in  astonishment. 

Between,  say,  Union  Square  —  or 
perhaps  between  Ninth  Street  —  and 
Bowling  Green,  Broadway  is  the  more 
or  less  exact  counterpart  of  the  London 
Strand.  It  is  actually  broader,  but  it 
appears  more  narrow  because  the 
houses  are  so  much  higher,  and  it  is  a 


THE  PACE  THAT  KILLS 


671 


little  straighter  because  it  is  a  made 
road,  not  a  road  evolved  from  what  was 
once  a  path  along  river-mud.  The  gen- 
eral effect  is  identical:  there  are  the 
same  kinds  of  shops,  and  a  crowd  of  the 
same  type  passing  to  or  from  the  busi- 
ness quarter  of  the  city.  But,  as  I  have 
said,  one  rubs  one's  eyes,  looking  out 
at  the  crowd  on  the  sidewalk.  It  is 
the  Strand  crowd  —  cosmopolitan,  va- 
ried; people  touching  one  another  so 
closely  that  the  tops  of  their  heads  ap- 
pear to  form  another  tier  on  the  street : 
a  tier  paved  with  hats  instead  of  wood 
blocks  or  granite  sets.  There  it  is,  the 
crowd.  But  it  appears  to  stop  still! 

In  one's  first  astonishment  one  thinks 
that  all  these  people  are  waiting  for  a 
procession  to  pass;  one  cannot  believe 
that  they  are  the  procession.  Never- 
theless, as  the  slow  trolley  passes  on- 
ward one  realizes  that  the  crowd  is 
actually  in  motion ;  that  it  is  the  thing 
itself,  not  the  procession.  It  is  an  extra- 
ordinary shock  —  this  first  impression 
of  the  land  of  hurry. 

For  the  dweller  in  great  cities  grows 
accustomed  to  the  tempo  of  his  streets, 
and  for  me,  to  whom  the  Strand  sets 
the  tone  of  life,  this  slow  progress  of 
the  crowd  on  Broadway  is  a  standing 
bewilderment.  I  have  looked  at  it 
again  and  again,  and  although  I  have 
long  since  given  up  expecting  to  see  it 
accelerate  its  pace,  the  words  still  rise 
to  my  lips,  the  question  still  remains 
unanswered  in  my  subconsciousness : 
'When  are  they  going  to  hurry  up?'  . 

For,  in  the  Strand,  all  the  heads  bob 
up  and  down  to  the  time  of  a  quick- 
step waltz;  on  Broadway  they  go  with 
the  slow  stride  of  a  processional  march. 
And  the  Londoner,  jumping  off  the 
Broadway  trolley  at  a  block  in  the  traf- 
fic, expecting  that,  as  he  would  in  the 
Strand,  he  will  be  able  to  get  along 
faster  on  foot  and  will  be  able  to  jump 
on  another  trolley  higher  up  and  so  gain 
a  minute  or  two,  this  Londoner  dis- 


covers, bewildered  and  irritated,  that 
there  is  no  getting  through  the  crowd 

—  and  there 's  no  getting  the  crowd  to 
hurry  up.   It  is,  for  his  quicker-tuned 
pulse,  a  solid,  packed  mass  with  which 
he  must  fall  in  step.    And  for  him  in 
New  York  it  is  always  the  same.  There 
is  no  saving  a  minute  or  two,  and  no  one 
appears  to  wish  to  do  it.    In  London 
you  may  save  a  little  by  sending  a  dis- 
trict messenger  to  do  an  errand;  in 
New  York  you  will  do  it  quicker  your- 
self.  In  London  the  motor-bus  dodges 
through  a  jam;  the  hansom  cuts  in  be- 
tween a  great  wagon  and  the  curb,  slips 
round  a  side  street  and  into  the  main 
thoroughfare,  and  there  is  that  glorious 
thing,  your  'minute  saved.'    But  here 
the  trolley  cannot  dodge  traffic;  the 
driver  of  the  hansom  is  an  autocrat  who 
says,  'Wall!'  if  you  tell  him  to  look 
sharp.   And,  personally,  I  am  inclined 
to  see  the  reason  for  all  this  in  the  fact 
that  the  New  York  crowd  does  not 
sympathize  with  hurry. 

All  Nature  loves  a  lover  —  and  all 
London  loves  a  Londoner  in  a  hurry. 
If  in  London  you  tell  a  cabman  that 
you  have  only  seven  minutes  in  which 
to  catch  a  train  —  two  miles  off,  he  will 
say,  'Yes,  sir,'  and  whip  up  his  horse, 
gallop  through  a  square,  taking  his 
chance  of  a  fine  if  a  bobby  sees  him; 
he  will  put  his  hand  to  the  trap-door 
and  say,  'I  think  we  shall  do  it,  sir,' 

—  and  he  does  do  it.     He  enters,  in 
fact,  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing  —  it 
is  a  sporting  matter  for  him.  And  it  is 
the   same  with   messenger-boys,  rail- 
way-porters, or  fellow  passengers.     I 
have  even  made  a  South  Eastern  train 
come  in  'on  time,'  and  catch  an  almost 
impossible  connection,  by  telling  the 
guard  that  I  was  in  a  hurry. 

But  I  cannot  imagine  myself  doing 
any  of  these  things  in  New  York.  I 
received  too  many  rebuffs  in  my  first 
day  or  two.  I  should  positively  dread 
to  tell  a  hotel  clerk  to  hurry  up  with 


672 


THE   PACE  THAT  KILLS 


my  bill  because  I  wanted  to  catch  a 
train.  Instead,  I  must  miss  two  engage- 
ments and  reckon  that  I  can  do  in  the 
day  in  New  York  only  two  thirds  of 
what  I  can  do  in  London.  The  New 
Yorker,  in  fact,  may  be  in  a  hurry  at 
times  —  but  he  finds  no  one  to  help 
him.  This  is  of  course  a  free  country, 
and  there  is  no  reason  why  a  servant 
should  put  himself  out  to  oblige  his 
master;  there  is  no  reason  why  a  servant 
should  work  at  top  speed.  And,  indeed, 
he  is  n't,  your  New  Yorker,  even  a  serv- 
ant. The  railway  officials,  the  ticket 
clerks,  the  baggage-men,  the  brake- 
men,  are  officials,  and  there  it  ends.  In 
London  every  official  is  a  servant  of  the 
Public.  In  London  every  railway  official 
is  there  to  help  you;  in  New  York 
he  is  there  to  give  you  your  ticket,  to 
see  that  you  have  a  ticket,  or  to  see 
that  you  do  not  travel  without  a  ticket. 
And  you  cannot  hurry. 

At  Charing  Cross  Station  in  Lon- 
don there  are  three  hundred  baggage- 
porters  whose  duty  it  is  to  help  pass- 
engers. I  dash  up  in  my  cab,  with  my 
trunk,  five  minutes  before  the  train 
starts;  one  porter  takes  my  ticket, 
another  takes  my  trunk;  I  am  driven 
to  the  basement  of  the  station,  throw 
myself  into  the  barber's  chair,  say  I 
have  three  minutes  to  be  shaved  in,  am 
shaved,  and  catch  my  train.  I  could 
not  do  that  in  New  York.  And  think 
what  a  difference  that  makes  to  the 
amount  of  work  one  can  do  in  the  year. 
At  Charing  Cross  Station  there  are 
three  hundred  porters;  in  the  Boston 
North  Station  there  are  seven  baggage- 
men. To  get  your  baggage  checked 
yourself  you  must  be  in  the  depot 
twenty  minutes  before  the  train  starts, 
you  must  bribe  a  baggage-man  extra- 
vagantly, and  even  then  your  trunk 
will  not  come  on  the  train  by  which 
you  travel.  As  for  a  shave  — ! 

I  think  that  the  New  Yorker's  shave 
is  symptomatic  of  the  whole  rate  of  life 


in  New  York.  It  is,  if  you  will,  luxuri- 
ous, but  you  have  to  allow  twenty 
minutes  out  of  your  day  for  it.  In 
London  I  never  allow  more  than  five 
minutes.  Here  I  lie  down  in  a  chair 
and  say,  'I'm  in  a  hurry.  Be  as  quick 
as  you  can,  please.'  My  barber  surveys 
me  with  no  look  of  interest  and  goes  to 
talk  for  five  minutes  to  the  lady  mani- 
curist. When  he  returns  I  say  from  my 
recumbent  position,  'I'm  in  a  great 
hurry.'  He  says,  'Yep?'  interroga- 
tively, as  if  I  had  given  him  a  piece  of 
quite  uninteresting  information.  He 
goes  to  a  mirror  and  for  some  moments 
examines  a  wart  on  his  cheek.  Event- 
ually he  shaves  me.  It  is  the  same  in 
the  banks.  In  Boston  I  had  to  wait 
exactly  seventeen  minutes  to  cash  a 
letter  of  credit.  The  clerk  was  talking 
to  a  lady-typist  about  a  clam-bake.  — 
Well :  he  was  a  free  man  —  so  he  told 
me  when  I  remonstrated. 

Fortunes  are  made  with  great  rapid- 
ity in  the  United  States.  But  think 
how  fast  they  might  be  made.  For  time 
is  money.  I  have  made  this  little  cal- 
culation: my  time  is  worth  say  ten 
shillings  —  or  two  dollars  and  a  half  — 
an  hour.  I  travel  by  rail  with  luggage 
one  hundred  and  twenty  times  a  year; 
in  London  I  gain  fifteen  minutes  per 
time,  or  in  the  year  thirty  hours,  or 
seventy-five  dollars.  In  London  I  am 
shaved  three  hundred  times  in  the 
year  and  on  each  shave,  in  comparison 
with  New  York,  I  gain  one  quarter  of 
an  hour.  In  the  year  this  saves  me  up- 
wards of  thirty  pounds  sterling.  And, 
when  I  take  into  account  the  time  lost 
over  meals,  over  the  purchase  of  things 
in  stores,  everything  that  depends  upon 
quick  and  efficient  service,  I  figure  out 
that  my  working  efficiency  in  London 
is  at  least  one  third  greater  than  it  is 
here.  The  baggage-check  system  alone 
in  America  is  responsible  for  an  incal- 
culable loss  of  time;  it  is  absolutely 
unnecessary  —  and  anyhow  I  would  a 


THE   PACE  THAT  KILLS 


673 


hundred  times  rather  lose  my  baggage 
than  be  kept  waiting  for  a  check. 

Let  me,  however,  at  once  say  that 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  taken  as  implying 
that  the  New  Yorker  is  not  in  the  right 
in  thus  sacrificing  his  time  to  the  men- 
tal attitude  of  his  servants.  Each  na- 
tion without  a  doubt  has  the  type  of 
service  that  it  most  desires  —  and  I  very 
well  know  that  the  New  Yorker  is  proud 
of  the  independence  of  his  —  I  was 
going  to  say  dependants,  but  that  is 
not  the  word;  and  I  cannot  quite  think 
of  any  word  that  is  le  mot  juste.  It  is, 
of  course,  part  of  the  American's  fine 
idealism;  of  his  reverence  for  humanity, 
and  of  his  irresponsibility.  London  is 
a  serious  place:  we  are  all  so  terribly 
in  earnest.  New  York,  and  that  is  part 
of  its  fascination,  is  absolutely  irrespon- 
sible. A  thing  may  get  done,  or  it  may 
not.  It  is  all  part  of  the  day's  journey. 
At  any  rate,  no  man's  personal  dignity 
is  lessened.  If  you  have  not,  in  the 
large,  any  very  efficient  public  service 
in  New  York,  you  have  not  at  all  the 
menial  spirit.  And  it  is  a  good  thing 
to  have  crushed  that  out  of  life.  For 
there  is,  in  the  world,  nothing  more 
disagreeable  than  the  thoroughly  effi- 
cient English  servant  who  sneers  at  his 
master  behind  his  back.  At  the  same 
time  there  is  nothing  more  agreeable 
than  the  English  spirit  of  efficient  serv- 
ice when  the  servant  is  thoroughly  in- 
terested in  his  work,  likes  his  master, 
and  is  anxious,  in  the  English  phrase,  to 
'make  a  good  job  of  it.'  I  don't,  but 
then  I  am  an  Englishman,  know  of 
any  feeling  more  delightful  than  that 
of  directing  thoroughly  efficient  subor- 
dinates with  a  love  of  their  and  my  par- 
ticular organization,  the  feeling  that  I 
am  getting  the  most  out  of  myself,  out 
of  my  helpers,  and  out  of  the  whole 
machine.  That  of  course  happens  only 
when  things  are  at  their  best  in  London, 
but  when  it  does  happen  there  is  no 
human  feeling  for  me  so  nearly  divine. 

VOL.  107  -  NO.  6 


New  York,  of  course,  has  another 
problem  before  it.  It  has  to  go  the  one 
step  further;  it  has  to  show  London 
and  the  Eastern  world  how  something 
still  more  nearly  divine  can  be  extracted 
from  human  con  tacts.  It  has  done  a  way 
with  the  menial  spirit,  which  is  the  re- 
verse of  the  European  medal;  it  has 
done  away,  very  largely,  with  the  feel- 
ing of  responsibility  which  over  there 
furrows  so  many  brows  and  renders 
so  many  lives  so  burdensome.  That  is 
why  New  York  is  gay,  and  London 
heavy  and  solemn.  New  York  has  an- 
other problem:  it  has  evolved  the  proud, 
free,  independent,  and  non-menial  man. 
Before  it  will  have  definitely  taken  its 
poor  humanity  the  one  stage  further 
forward  on  the  long  road  toward  the 
millennium,  it  must  evolve  a  spirit 
—  perhaps  it  is  only  a  spirit  —  of  co- 
ordinate effort,  of  noble  discipline.  It 
has  produced  a  fine  individualism;  it 
has  not  yet,  it  seems  to  me,  evolved  a 
system  of  getting  from  each  individ- 
ual his  very  best  in  the  interests  of  the 
whole  machine  of  the  state.  For  it 
must  be  remembered  that  the  problem 
of  humanity  is  really  that;  that  what 
humanity  really  needs  is  the  time  to 
think.  And  while  men  lose  time  at  their 
work  they  have  no  leisure,  or  less  leis- 
ure to,  in  the  American  phrase,  loaf 
and  invite  their  souls. 

\nd,  if  I  have  any  criticism  to  make 
of  a  life  that  excites,  interests,  and  fills 
me  with  wonder,  it  is  simply  this:  in 
Europe  we  have  evolved  a  leisure  class, 
which  is  a  good  thing.  America  is  in 
the  way  to  evolve  a  much  better  thing : 
not  a  class,  but  a  race  with  leisure;  not 
a  race  that  does  no  work,  but  one  that 
gets  rid  of  the  necessary  daily  toil,  with 
a  minimum  of  wasted  effort,  in  a  min- 
imum of  time.  For  the  man  who  does 
this  is  indeed  the  free  man.  And  that 
America  will  evolve  this  type  when  it 
has  had  time  to  settle  down,  who  shall 
doubt? 


THE  PATRICIANS 


BY  JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


XLVI 

LEFT  alone  among  the  little  mahog- 
any tables  of  Gustard's,  where  the  scent 
of  cake  and  orange-flower  water  made 
happy  all  the  air,  Barbara  had  sat  for 
some  minutes,  her  eyes  cast  down,  as  a 
child  from  whom  a  toy  has  been  taken 
contemplates  the  ground,  not  knowing 
precisely  what  she  is  feeling.  Then, 
paying  one  of  the  middle-aged  females, 
she  went  out  into  the  Square.  There 
a  German  band  was  playing  Delibes' 
Coppelia;  and  the  murdered  tune  came 
haunting  her,  a  ghost  of  incongruity. 

She  went  straight  back  to  Valleys 
House.  In  the  room  where  three  hours 
ago  she  had  been  left  alone  after  lunch 
with  Harbinger,  her  sister  was  seated 
in  the  window,  looking  decidedly  dis- 
turbed. In  fact,  Agatha  had  just  spent 
an  awkward  hour.  Chancing,  with 
little  Ann,  into  that  confectioner's 
where  she  could  best  obtain  a  particu- 
larly gummy  sweet  which  she  believed 
wholesome  for  her  children,  she  had 
been  engaged  in  purchasing  a  pound, 
when,  looking  down,  she  perceived 
Ann  standing  stock-still,  with  her  sud- 
den little  nose  pointed  down  the  shop, 
and  her  mouth  opening;  glancing  in 
the  direction  of  those  frank,  inquiring 
eyes,  Agatha  saw  to  her  amazement 
her  sister  and  a  man  whom  she  recog- 
nized as  Courtier.  With  a  readiness 
which  did  her  complete  credit,  she 
placed  a  sweet  in  Ann's  mouth,  and 
saying  to  the  middle-aged  female, 
'Then  you'll  send  those,  please.  Come 
Ann ! '  went  out. 

674 


Shocks  never  coming  singly,  she  had 
no  sooner  reached  home  than  from  her 
father  she  learned  of  the  development 
of  Milton's  love-affair.  When  Barbara 
returned,  she  was  sitting,  unfeignedly 
upset  and  grieved;  unable  to  decide 
whether  or  no  she  ought  to  divulge 
what  she  herself  had  seen,  but  withal 
buoyed  up  by  that  peculiar  indigna- 
tion of  the  essentially  domestic  woman 
whose  ideals  have  been  outraged. 

Judging  at  once  from  the  expression 
of  her  face  that  she  must  have  heard 
the  news  of  Milton,  Barbara  said, '  Well, 
my  dear  Angel,  any  lecture  for  me?' 

Agatha  answered  coldly,  'I  think 
you  were  quite  mad  to  take  Mrs.  Noel 
to  him.' 

'The  whole  duty  of  woman,'  mur- 
mured Barbara, '  includes  a  little  mad- 
ness.' 

Agatha  looked  at  her  in  silence. 

'I  can't  make  you  out,'  she  said  at 
last;  'you're  not  a  fool!' 

'Only  a  knave.' 

'  You  may  think  it  right  to  joke  over 
the  ruin  of  Milton's  life,'  murmured 
Agatha;  'I  don't.' 

Barbara's  eyes  grew  bright;  and  in 
a  hard  voice  she  answered,  'The  world 
is  not  your  nursery,  Angel ! ' 

Agatha  closed  her  lips  very  tightly, 
as  who  should  imply,  'Then  it  ought 
to  be!'  But  she  only  answered,  'I 
don't  think  you  know  that  I  saw  you 
just  now  in  Gustard's.' 

Barbara  eyed  her  for  a  moment  in 
amazement,  and  began  to  laugh. 

'I  see,'  she  said;  'monstrous  de- 
pravity —  poor  old  Gustard's ! ' 


THE  PATRICIANS 


675 


And  still  laughing  that  dangerous 
laugh,  she  turned  on  her  heel  and  went 
out. 

At  dinner  and  afterwards  that  even- 
ing she  was  very  silent,  having  on  her 
face  the  same  look  that  she  wore  out 
hunting,  especially  when  in  difficulties 
of  any  kind,  or  if  advised  to  'take  a 
pull.'  When  she  got  away  to  her  own 
room  she  had  a  longing  to  relieve  her- 
self by  some  kind  of  action  that  would 
hurt  some  one,  if  only  herself.  To  go 
to  bed  and  toss  about  in  a  fever  —  for 
she  knew  herself  in  these  thwarted 
moods — was  of  no  use!  For  a  moment 
she  thought  of  going  out.  That  would 
be  fun,  and  hurt  them,  too;  but  it  was 
difficult.  She  did  not  want  to  be  seen, 
and  have  the  humiliation  of  an  open 
row.  Then  there  came  into  her  head 
the  memory  of  the  roof  of  the  tower, 
where  she  had  once  been  as  a  little 
girl.  She  would  be  in  the  air  there,  she 
would  be  able  to  breathe,  to  get  rid 
of  this  feverishness.  With  the  unhappy 
pleasure  of  a  spoiled  child  taking  its 
revenge,  she  took  care  to  leave  her 
bedroom  door  open,  so  that  her  maid 
would  wonder  where  she  was,  and 
perhaps  be  anxious,  and  make  them 
anxious. 

Slipping  through  the  moonlit  picture- 
gallery,  to  the  landing  outside  her 
father's  sanctum,  whence  rose  the  stone 
staircase  leading  to  the  roof,  she  began 
to  mount.  She  was  quite  breathless 
when,  after  that  unending  flight  of 
stairs,  she  emerged  on  the  roof  at 
the  extreme  northern  end  of  the  big 
house,  where,  below  her,  was  a  sheer 
drop  of  a  hundred  feet.  At  first  she 
stood,  a  little  giddy,  grasping  the  rail 
that  ran  round  that  garden  of  lead,  still 
absorbed  in  her  brooding,  rebellious 
thoughts.  Gradually  she  lost  conscious- 
ness of  everything  save  the  scene  be- 
fore her.  High  above  all  neighboring 
houses,  she  was  almost  appalled  by  the 
majesty  of  what  she  saw.  This  night- 


clothed  city,  so  remote  and  dark,  so 
white-gleaming  and  alive,  on  whose 
purple  hills  and  valleys  grew  such 
myriads  of  golden  flowers  of  light,  from 
whose  heart  came  this  deep  incessant 
murmur  —  could  it  possibly  be  the 
same  city  through  which  she  had  been 
walking  that  very  day !  From  its  sleep- 
ing body  the  supreme  wistful  spirit 
had  emerged  in  dark  loveliness,  and 
was  low-flying  down  there,  tempting 
her. 

Barbara  turned  round,  to  take  in  all 
that  amazing  prospect,  from  the  black 
glades  of  Hyde  Park,  in  front,  to  the 
powdery  white  ghost  of  a  church- 
tower,  away  to  the  east.  How  marvel- 
ous was  this  city  of  night!  And  as,  in 
presence  of  that  wide  darkness  of  the 
sea  before  dawn,  her  spirit  had  felt 
little  and  timid  within  her  —  so  it  felt 
now,  in  face  of  this  great,  brooding, 
beautiful  creature,  whom  man  had 
made.  She  singled  out  the  shapes  of 
the  Piccadilly  hotels,  and  beyond  them 
the  palaces  and  towers  of  Westminster 
and  Whitehall ;  and  everywhere  the  in- 
extricable loveliness  of  dim  blue  forms 
and  sinuous  pallid  lines  of  light,  under 
an  indigo-dark  sky.  Near  at  hand,  she 
could  see  plainly  the  still-lighted  win- 
dows, the  motor-cars  gliding  by  far 
down,  even  the  tiny  shapes  of  people 
walking;  and  the  thought  that  each 
of  them  meant  some  one  like  herself, 
seemed  strange. 

Drinking  of  this  wonder-cup,  she  be- 
gan to  experience  a  queer  intoxication, 
and  lost  the  sense  of  being  little;  rather 
she  had  the  feeling  of  power,  as  in  her 
dream  at  Monkland.  She  too,  as  well 
as  this  great  thing  below  her,  seemed  to 
have  shed  her  body,  to  be  emancipated 
from  every  barrier — floating  delicious- 
ly  identified  with  air.  She  seemed  to 
be  one  with  the  enfranchised  spirit  of 
the  city,  drowned  in  perception  of  its 
beauty.  Then  all  that  feeling  went, 
and  left  her  frowning,  shivering,  though 


676 


THE   PATRICIANS 


the  wind  from  the  west  was  warm. 
Her  whole  adventure  of  coming  up 
here  seemed  bizarre,  ridiculous.  Very 
stealthily  she  crept  down,  and  had 
reached  once  more  the  door  into  the 
picture-gallery,  when  she  heard  her  mo- 
ther's voice  in  amazement  say,  'That 
you,  Babs?'  And  turning,  saw  her  com- 
ing from  the  doorway  of  the  sanctum. 

Of  a  sudden  very  cool,  with  all  her 
faculties  about  her,  Barbara  only  stood 
looking  at  Lady  Valleys,  who  said  with 
hesitation,  'Come  in  here,  dear,  a 
minute,  will  you?' 

In  that  room,  resorted  to  for  comfort, 
Lord  Valleys  was  standing  with  his  back 
to  the  hearth,  and  an  expression  on  his 
face  that  wavered  between  vexation 
and  decision.  The  doubt  in  Agatha's 
mind  whether  she  should  tell  or  no, 
had  been  terribly  resolved  by  little 
Ann,  who  in  a  pause  of  conversation 
had  announced,  '  We  saw  Auntie  Babs 
and  Mr.  Courtier  in  Gustard's,  but  we 
did  n't  speak  to  them.' 

Upset  by  the  events  of  the  afternoon, 
Lady  Valleys  had  not  shown  her  usual 
savoirfaire.  She  had  told  her  husband. 
A  meeting  of  this  sort  in  a  shop  cele- 
brated for  little  save  its  wedding-cakes 
was,  in  a  sense,  of  no  importance;  but, 
being  both  disturbed  already  by  the 
news  of  Milton,  it  seemed  to  them  no- 
thing less  than  sinister,  as  though  the 
heavens  were  in  league  for  the  demo- 
lition of  their  house.  To  Lord  Valleys 
it  was  peculiarly  mortifying,  because 
of  his  real  admiration  for  his  daughter, 
and  because  he  had  paid  so  little  at- 
tention to  his  wife's  warning  of  some 
weeks  back.  In  consultation,  however, 
they  had  only  succeeded  in  deciding 
that  Lady  Valleys  should  talk  with 
her.  Though  without  much  spiritual 
insight,  both  these  two  had  a  certain 
cool  judgment;  and  they  were  fully 
alive  to  the  danger  of  thwarting  Bar- 
bara. This  had  not  prevented  Lord 
Valleys  from  expressing  himself  strong- 


ly on  the  'confounded  unscrupulous- 
ness  of  that  fellow,'  and  secretly  form- 
ing his  own  plan  of  dealing  with  this 
matter.  Lady  Valleys,  more  deeply 
conversant  with  her  daughter's  nature, 
and  by  reason  of  femininity  more  leni- 
ent toward  the  other  sex,  had  not  tried 
to  excuse  Courtier,  but  had  thought 
privately,  'Babs  is  rather  a  flirt.'  For 
she  could  not  altogether  help  remem- 
bering herself  at  the  same  age. 

Summoned  thus  unexpectedly,  Bar- 
bara, her  lips  very  firmly  pressed  to- 
gether, took  her  stand  coolly  enough 
by  her  father's  writing-table. 

Seeing  her  thus  suddenly  appear, 
Lord"  Valleys  instinctively  relaxed  his 
frown ;  his  experience  of  men  and  things, 
his  thousands  »of  diplomatic  hours, 
served  to  give  him  an  air  of  coolness 
and  detachment  which  he  was  very 
far  from  feeling.  In  truth,  he  would 
rather  have  faced  a  hostile  mob  than 
his  favorite  daughter  in  such  circum- 
stances. His  tanned  face,  with  its  crisp, 
gray  moustache,  his  whole  head  indeed, 
took  on,  unconsciously,  a  more  than 
ordinarily  soldier-like  appearance.  His 
eyelids  drooped  a  little,  his  brows  rose 
slightly. 

She  was  wearing  a  blue  wrap  over 
her  evening  frock,  and  he  seized  in- 
stinctively on  that  indifferent  trifle  to 
begin  this  talk. 

'Ah!   Babs,  have  you  been  out?' 

Alive  to  her  very  finger-nails,  with 
every  nerve  tingling,  but  showing  no 
sign,  Barbara  answered,  'No;  on  the 
roof  of  the  tower.' 

It  gave  her  a  malicious  pleasure  to 
feel  the  real  perplexity  beneath  her 
father's  dignified  exterior.  And  detect- 
ing that  covert  mockery,  Lord  Valleys 
said  dryly,  'Star-gazing?' 

Then,  with  that  sudden  resolution 
peculiar  to  him,  as  though  he  were 
bored  with  having  to  delay  and  tem- 
porize, he  added, '  Do  you  know,  I  doubt 
whether  it's  wise  to  make  appoint- 


THE   PATRICIANS 


677 


ments  in  confectioners'  shops  when  Ann 
is  in  London.' 

The  dangerous  little  gleam  in  Bar- 
bara's eyes  escaped  his  vision,  but  not 
that  of  Lady  Valleys,  who  said  at  once, 
'  No  doubt  you  had  the  best  of  reasons, 
my  dear.' 

Barbara  curled  her  lip,  inscrutably. 
Indeed,  had  it  not  been  for  the  scene 
they  had  been  through  that  day  with 
Milton,  and  for  their  very  real  anxiety, 
both  would  have  seen  then,  that,  while 
their  daughter  was  in  this  mood,  least 
said  was  soonest  mended.  But  their 
nerves  were  not  quite  within  control; 
and  with  more  than  a  touch  of  im- 
patience Lord  Valleys  ejaculated,  'It 
does  n't  appear  to  you,  I  suppose,  to 
require  any  explanation?' 

Barbara  answered,  'No.' 

'Ah!' said  Lord  Valleys.  'I  see.  An 
explanation  can  be  had,  no  doubt,  from 
the  gentleman  whose  sense  of  propor- 
tion was  such  as  to  cause  him  to  sug- 
gest such  a  thing.' 

'He  did  not  suggest  it.   I  did.' 

Lord  Valleys's  eyebrows  rose  still 
higher. 

*  Indeed ! '  he  said, 

*  Geoffrey ! '  murmured  Lady  Valleys, 
'I  thought  /  was  to  talk  to  Babs.' 

'It  would  no  doubt  be  wiser.' 

In  Barbara,  thus  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  seriously  reprimanded,  there 
was  at  work  the  most  peculiar  sensa- 
tion she  had  ever  felt,  as  if  something 
were  scraping  her  very  skin  —  a  sick, 
and  at  the  same  time  devilish,  feeling. 
At  that  moment  she  could  have  struck 
her  father  dead.  But  she  showed  no- 
thing, having  lowered  the  lids  of  her 
eyes. 

'Anything  else?'  she  said. 

Lord  Valleys's  jaw  had  become  sud- 
denly more  prominent. 

'As  a  sequel  to  your  share  in  Mil- 
ton's business,  it  is  peculiarly  entranc- 
ing.' 

'My  dear,'  broke  in  Lady  Valleys 


very  suddenly,  '  Babs  will  tell  me.  It 's 
nothing,  of  course.' 

Barbara's  calm  voice  said  again, 
'Anything  else?' 

The  repetition  of  this  phrase  in  that 
maddening  cool  voice  almost  broke 
down  her  father's  sorely-tried  control. 

'Nothing  from  you,'  he  said  with 
deadly  coldness.  'I  shall  have  the 
honor  of  telling  this  gentleman  what  I 
think  of  him.' 

At  those  words  Barbara  drew  her- 
self together,  and  turned  her  eyes  from 
one  face  to  the  other. 

Under  that  gaze,  which,  for  all  its 
cool  hardness,  was  so  furiously  alive, 
neither  Lord  nor  Lady  Valleys  could 
keep  quite  still.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
stripped  from  them  the  well-bred  mask 
of  those  whose  spirits,  by  long  un- 
questioning acceptance  of  themselves, 
have  become  inelastic,  inexpansive, 
commoner  than  they  knew.  In  fact,  a 
rather  awful  moment!  Then  Barbara 
said, '  If  there 's  nothing  else,  I  'm  going 
to  bed.  Good-night!' 

And  as  calmly  as  she  had  come  in, 
she  went  out. 

When  she  had  regained  her  room, 
she  locked  the  door,  threw  off  her 
cloak,  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass. 
With  pleasure  she  saw  how  firmly  her 
teeth  were  clenched,  how  her  breast 
was  heaving,  how  her  eyes  seemed  to 
be  stabbing  herself.  And  all  the  time 
she  thought,  'Very  well!  my  dears! 
Very  well ! ' 

XLVII 

In  that  mood  of  rebellious  mortifica- 
tion she  fell  asleep.  And,  curiously 
enough,  dreamed  not  of  him  whom  she 
had  in  mind  been  so  furiously  defend- 
ing, but  of  Harbinger.  She  fancied 
herself  in  prison,  lying  in  a  cell  fash- 
ioned like  the  drawing-room  at  Sea 
House ;  and  in  the  next  cell,  into  which 
she  could  somehow  look,  Harbinger 
was  digging  at  the  wall  with  his  nails. 


678 


THE  PATRICIANS 


She  could  distinctly  see  the  hair  on  the 
back  of  his  hands,  and  hear  him  breath- 
ing. The  hole  he  was  making  grew 
larger  and  larger.  Her  heart  began  to 
beat  furiously;  she  awoke. 

She  rose  with  a  new  and  malicious 
resolution  to  show  no  sign  of  rebellion, 
to  go  through  the  day  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  to  deceive  them  all,  and 
then — !  Exactly  what  'and  then' 
meant,  she  did  not  explain  even  to  her- 
self. 

In  accordance  with  this  plan  of  ac- 
tion she  presented  an  untroubled  front 
at  breakfast,  went  out  riding  with 
little  Ann,  and  shopping  with  her  mo- 
ther afterwards.  Owing  to  this  news 
of  Milton,  the  journey  to  Scotland  had 
been  postponed.  She  parried  with 
cool  ingenuity  each  attempt  made  by 
Lady  Valleys  to  draw  her  into  conver- 
sation on  the  subject  of  that  meeting 
at  Gustard's,  nor  would  she  talk  of  her 
brother;  in  every  other  way  she  was 
her  usual  self. 

In  the  afternoon  she  even  volun- 
teered to  accompany  her  mother  to 
old  Lady  Harbinger's,  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Prince's  Gate.  She  knew 
that  Harbinger  would  be  there,  and 
with  the  thought  of  meeting  that  other 
at  'five  o'clock,'  had  a  cynical  pleas- 
ure in  thus  encountering  him.  It  was 
so  complete  a  blind  to  them  all !  Then, 
feeling  that  she  was  accomplishing  a 
master-stroke,  she  even  told  him,  in 
her  mother's  hearing,  that  she  would 
walk  home,  and  he  might  come  if  he 
cared.  He  did  care. 

But  when  once  she  had  begun  to 
swing  along  in  the  mellow  afternoon, 
under  the  mellow  trees,  where  the  air 
was  sweetened  by  the  southwest 
wind,  all  that  mutinous,  reckless  mood 
of  hers  vanished,  she  felt  suddenly 
happy  and  kind,  glad  to  be  walking 
with  him.  To-day  too  he  was  cheerful, 
as  if  determined  not  to  spoil  her  gayety ; 
and  she  was  grateful  for  this.  Once  or 


twice  she  even  put  her  hand  up  and 
touched  his  sleeve,  calling  his  atten- 
tion to  birds  or  trees,  friendly,  and 
glad,  after  all  those  hours  of  bitter  feel- 
ings, to  be  giving  happiness.  When 
they  parted  at  the  door  of  Valleys 
House,  she  looked  back  at  him,  with 
a  queer,  half-rueful  smile.  For,  now 
the  hour  had  come! 

In  a  little  unfrequented  ante-room, 
all  white  panels  and  polish,  she  sat 
down  to  wait.  The  entrance  drive  was 
visible  from  here;  and  she  meant  to 
encounter  Courtier  casually  in  the  hall. 
She  was  excited,  and  a  little  scornful 
of  her  own  excitement.  She  had  ex- 
pected him  to  be  punctual,  but  it  was 
already  past  five;  and  soon  she  began 
to  feel  uneasy,  almost  ridiculous,  sit- 
ting in  this  room  where  no  one  ever 
came.  Going  to  the  window,  she  looked 
out. 

A  sudden  voice  behind  her  said, 
*  Auntie  Babs!' 

Turning,  she  saw  little  Ann  regard- 
ing her  with  those  wide,  frank,  hazel 
eyes.  A  shiver  of  nerves  passed  through 
Barbara. 

'  Is  this  your  room?  It 's  a  nice  room, 
is  n't  it?' 

She  answered,  'Quite  a  nice  room, 
Ann.' 

'Yes.  I 've  never  been  in  here  before. 
There's  somebody  just  come,  so  I  must 
go  now.' 

Barbara  involuntarily  put  her  hands 
up  to  her  cheeks,  and  quickly  passed 
with  her  niece  into  the  hall.  At  the 
very  door  the  footman  William  handed 
her  a  note.  She  looked  at  the  super- 
scription. It  was  from  Courtier.  She 
went  back  into  the  room.  Through  its 
half-closed  door  the  figure  of  little  Ann 
could  be  seen,  with  her  legs  rather  wide 
apart,  and  her  hands  clasped  on  her 
low-down  belt,  pointing  up  at  William 
her  sudden  little  nose.  Barbara  shut 
the  door  abruptly,  broke  the  seal,  and 
read :  — 


THE   PATRICIANS 


679 


DEAR  LADY  BARBARA,  —  I  am  sorry 
to  say  my  interview  with  your  brother 
was  fruitless. 

I  happened  to  be  sitting  in  the  Park 
just  now,  and  I  want  to  wish  you  every 
happiness  before  I  go.  It  has  been  the 
greatest  pleasure  to  know  you.  I  shall 
never  have  a  thought  of  you  that  will 
not  be  my  pride;  nor  a  memory  that  will 
not  help  me  to  believe  that  life  is  good. 
If  I  am  tempted  to  feel  that  things  are 
dark,  I  shall  remember  that  you  are 
breathing  this  same  mortal  air.  And 
to  beauty  and  joy  I  shall  take  off  my 
hat  with  the  greater  reverence,  that 
once  I  was  permitted  to  walk  and  talk 
with  you.  And  so,  good-bye,  and  God 
bless  you. 

Your  faithful  servant, 

CHARLES  COURTIER. 

Her  cheeks  burned,  quick  sighs  es- 
caped her  lips ;  she  read  the  letter  again, 
but  before  getting  to  the  end  could 
not  see  the  words  for  mist.  If  in  that 
letter  there  had  been  a  word  of  com- 
plaint or  even  of  regret !  She  could  not 
let  him  go  like  this,  without  good-bye, 
without  any  explanation  at  all.  He 
should  not  think  of  her  as  a  cold,  stony 
flirt,  who  had  been  merely  stealing  a 
few  weeks'  amusement  out  of  him.  She 
would  explain  to  him  at  all  events  that 
it  had  not  been  that.  She  would  make 
him  understand  that  it  was  not  what 
he  thought  —  that  something  in  her 
wanted  —  wanted  — !  Her  mind  was 
all  confused.  'What  was  "it?'  she 
thought;  'what  did  I  do?'  And  sore 
with  anger  at  herself,  she  screwed  the 
letter  up  in  her  glove,  and  ran  out.  She 
walked  swiftly  down  to  Piccadilly,  and 
crossed  into  the  Green  Park.  There 
she  passed  Lord  Malvezin  and  a  friend 
strolling  up  toward  Hyde  Park  Cor- 
ner, and  gave  them  a  very  faint  bow. 
The  composure  of  those  two  precise  and 
well-groomed  figures  sickened  her  just 
then.  She  wanted  to  run,  to  fly  to  this 


meeting  that  should  remove  from  him 
the  odious  feeling  he  must  have,  that 
she,  Barbara  Caradoc,  was  a  vulgar 
enchantress,  a  common  traitress  and 
coquette!  And  his  letter  —  without 
a  syllable  of  reproach!  Her  cheeks 
burned  so  that  she  could  not  help  try- 
ing to  hide  them  from  people  who 
passed. 

As  she  drew  nearer  to  his  rooms  she 
walked  slower,  forcing  herself  to  think 
what  she  should  do,  what  she  should 
let  him  do!  But  she  continued  reso- 
lutely forward.  She  would  not  shrink 
now  —  whatever  came  of  it !  Her  heart 
fluttered,  seemed  to  stop  beating,  flut- 
tered again.  She  set  her  teeth;  a  sort  of 
desperate  hilarity  rose  in  her.  It  was 
an  adventure!  Then  she  was  gripped 
by  the  feeling  that  had  come  to  her 
on  the  roof.  The  whole  thing  was  bi- 
zarre, ridiculous!  She  stopped,  and 
drew  the  letter  from  her  glove.  It  might 
be  ridiculous,  but  it  was  due  from  her; 
and  closing  her  lips  very  tight,  she 
walked  on.  In  thought  she  was  already 
standing  close  to  him,  her  eyes  shut, 
waiting,  with  her  heart  beating  wildly, 
to  know  what  she  would  feel  when  his 
lips  had  spoken,  perhaps  touched  her 
face  or  hand.  And  she  had  a  sort  of 
mirage  vision  of  herself,  with  eyelashes 
resting  on  her  cheeks,  lips  a  little 
parted,  arms  helpless  at  her  sides.  Yet, 
incomprehensibly,  his  figure  was  invis- 
ible. She  discovered  then  that  she  was 
standing  before  his  door. 

She  rang  the  bell  calmly,  but  instead 
of  dropping  her  hand,  pressed  the  little 
bare  patch  of  palm  left  open  by  the 
glove  to  her  face,  to  see  whether  it  was 
indeed  her  own  cheek  flaming  so. 

The  door  had  been  opened  by  some 
unseen  agency,  disclosing  a  passage  and 
flight  of  stairs  covered  by  a  red  carpet, 
at  the  foot  of  which  lay  an  old,  tan- 
gled, brown-white  dog  full  of  fleas  and 
sorrow.  Unreasoning  terror  seized  on 
Barbara;  her  body  remained  rigid,  but 


680 


THE   PATRICIANS 


her  spirit  began  flying  back  across  the 
Green  Park,  to  the  very  hall  of  Valleys 
House.  Then  she  saw  coming  towards 
her  a  youngish  woman  in  a  blue  apron, 
with  mild,  reddened  eyes. 

'Is  this  where  Mr.  Courtier  lives?' 

'Yes,  Miss.'  The  teeth  of  the  young 
woman  were  few  in  number  and  rather 
black;  and  Barbara  could  only  stand 
there  saying  nothing,  as  if  her  body 
had  been  deserted  between  the  sun- 
light and  this  dim  red  passage,  which 
led  to  —  what? 

The  woman  spoke  again,  '  I  'm  sorry 
if  you  was  wanting  him,  Miss,  he's  just 
gone  away.' 

Barbara  felt  a  movement  in  her 
heart,  like  the  twang  and  quiver  of  an 
elastic  band,  suddenly  relaxed.  She 
bent  to  stroke  the  head  of  the  old  dog, 
who  was  smelling  her  shoes. 

The  woman  said,  'And,  of  course,  I 
can't  give  you  his  address,  because 
he's  gone  to  foreign  parts.' 

With  a  murmur,  of  whose  sense  she 
knew  nothing,  Barbara  hurried  out  into 
the  sunshine.  Was  she  glad?  Was  she 
sorry?  At  the  corner  of  the  street  she 
turned  and  looked  back;  the  two  heads, 
of  the  woman  and  the  dog,  were  there 
still,  poked  out  through  the  doorway. 

A  horrible  inclination  to  laugh  seized 
her,  followed  by  as  horrible  a  desire  to 
cry. 

XLVIII 

By  the  river  the  west  wind,  whose 
murmuring  had  visited  Courtier  and 
Milton  the  night  before,  was  bringing 
up  the  first  sky  of  autumn.  Slow-creep- 
ing and  fleecy  gray,  the  clouds  seemed 
trying  to  overpower  a  sun  that  shone 
but  fitfully  even  thus  early  in  the  day. 
While  Audrey  Noel  was  dressing,  sun- 
beams danced  desperately  on  the  white 
wall,  like  little  lost  souls  with  no  to- 
morrow, or  gnats  that  wheel  and  wheel 
in  brief  joy,  leaving  no  footmarks  on 
the  air.  Through  the  chinks  of  a  side 


window  covered  by  a  dark  blind,  some 
smoky  filaments  of  light  were  tethered 
to  the  back  of  her  mirror.  Compounded 
of  trembling  gray  spirals,  so  thick  to 
the  eye  that  her  hand  felt  astonish- 
ment when  it  failed  to  grasp  them,  and 
as  jealous  as  ghosts  of  the  space  they 
occupied,  they  brought  a  moment's 
distraction  to  a  heart  not  happy.  For 
how  could  she  be  happy,  her  lover  hav- 
ing been  away  from  her  now  thirty 
hours,  without  having  overcome  with 
his  last  kisses  the  feeling  of  disaster 
which  had  settled  on  her  when  he  told 
her  of  his  resolve.  Her  eyes  had  seen 
deeper  than  his;  her  instinct  had  re- 
ceived a  message  from  Fate. 

To  be  the  dragger-down,  the  destroy- 
er of  his  usefulness;  to  be  not  the  help- 
mate, but  the  clog;  not  the  inspiring 
sky,  but  the  cloud!  And  because  of 
a  scruple  which  she  could  not  under- 
stand! She  had  no  anger  with  that 
unintelligible  scruple;  but  her  fatalism 
and  her  sympathy  had  followed  it  out 
into  his  future.  Things  being  so,  it 
could  not  be  long  before  he  felt  that 
her  love  was  maiming  him;  even  if  he 
went  on  desiring  her,  it  would  be  only 
with  his  body.  And  if,  for  this  scruple, 
he  were  capable  of  giving  up  his  public 
life,  he  would  be  capable  of  living  on 
with  her  after  his  love  was  dead!  This 
thought  she  could  not  bear.  It  stung 
to  the  very  marrow  of  her  nerves.  And 
yet  surely  life  could  not  be  so  cruel 
as  to  have  given  her  such  happiness, 
meaning  to  take  it  from  her!  Surely 
her  love  was  not  to  be  only  one  sum- 
mer's day;  his  love  but  an  embrace, 
and  then  —  forever  nothing ! 

This  morning,  fortified  by  despair,  she 
admitted  her  own  beauty.  He  would, 
he  must  want  her  more  than  that  other 
life,  at  the  very  thought  of  which  her  face 
darkened.  That  other  life  was  so  hard, 
and  far  from  her!  So  loveless,  formal, 
and  yet  —  to  him  so  real,  so  desperate- 
ly, accursedly  real !  If  he  must  indeed 


THE   PATRICIANS 


681 


give  up  his  career,  then  surely  the  life 
they  could  live  together  would  make 
up  to  him  —  a  life  among  simple  and 
sweet  things,  all  over  the  world,  with 
music  and  pictures,  and  the  flowers  and 
all  Nature,  and  friends  who  sought 
them  for  themselves,  and  in  being  kind 
to  every  one,  and  helping  the  poor  and 
the  unfortunate,  and  loving  each  other! 
But  he  did  not  want  that  sort  of  life! 
What  was  the  good  of  pretending  that 
he  did?  It  was  right  and  natural  that  he 
should  want  to  use  his  powers !  To  lead 
and  serve!  She  would  not  have  him 
otherwise.  With  these  thoughts  hover- 
ing and  darting  within  her,  she  went 
on  twisting  and  coiling  her  dark  hair, 
and  burying  her  heart  beneath  its  lace 
defenses.  She  noted  too,  with  her  usual 
care,  two  fading  blossoms  in  the  bowl 
of  flowers  on  her  dressing-table,  and, 
removing  them,  emptied  out  the  water 
and  refilled  the  bowl. 

Before  she  left  her  bedroom  the  sun- 
beams had  already  ceased  to  dance,  the 
gray  filaments  of  light  were  gone.  Au- 
tumn sky  had  come  into  its  own.  Pass- 
ing the  mirror  in  the  hall  which  was 
always  rough  with  her,  she  had  not 
courage  to  glance  at  it.  Then  suddenly 
a  woman's  belief  in  the  power  of  her 
charm  came  to  her  aid ;  she  felt  almost 
happy — surely  he  must  love  her  better 
than  his  conscience!  But  that  confid- 
ence was  very  tremulous,  ready  to  yield 
to  the  first  rebuff.  Even  the  friendly, 
fresh-cheeked  maid  seemed  that  morn- 
ing to  be  regarding  her  with  compas- 
sion; and  all  the  innate  sense,  not  of 
'good  form,'  but  of  form,  which  made 
her  shrink  from  anything  that  should 
disturb  or  hurt  another,  or  make  any 
one  think  she  was  to  be  pitied,  rose  up 
at  once  within  her;  she  became  more 
than  ever  careful  to  show  nothing  even 
to  herself. 

So  she  passed  the  morning,  mechan- 
ically doing  the  little  usual  things.  An 
overpowering  longing  was  with  her  all 


the  time,  to  get  him  away  with  her  from 
England,  and  see  whether  the  thousand 
beauties  she  could  show  him  would  not 
fire  hun  with  love  of  the  things  she 
loved.  As  a  girl  she  had  spent  nearly 
three  years  abroad.  And  Eustace  had 
never  been  to  Italy,  nor  to  her  beloved 
mountain  valleys!  Then,  the  remem- 
brance of  his  rooms  at  the  Temple 
broke  in  on  that  vision,  and  shattered 
it.  No  Titian's  feast  of  gentian,  tawny 
brown,  and  alpenrose  could  intoxicate 
the  lover  of  those  books,  those  papers, 
that  great  map.  And  the  scent  of  lea- 
ther came  to  her  now  as  poignantly  as 
if  she  were  once  more  flitting  about 
noiselessly  on  her  business  of  nursing. 
Then  there  rushed  through  her  again 
the  warm,  wonderful  sense  that  had 
been  with  her  all  those  precious  days 
—  of  love  that  knew  secretly  of  its  ap- 
proaching triumph  and  fulfillment;  the 
delicious  sense  of  giving  every  minute 
of  her  time,  every  thought  and  move- 
ment; and  all  the  sweet  unconscious 
waiting  for  the  divine,  irrevocable  mo- 
ment when  at  last  she  would  give  her- 
self and  be  his.  The  remembrance  too 
of  how  tired,  how  sacredly  tired,  she 
had  been,  and  of  how  she  had  smiled 
all  the  time  with  her  inner  joy  of  being 
tired  for  him. 

The  sound  of  the  bell  startled  her. 
His  telegram  had  said,  the  afternoon! 
She  determined  to  show  nothing  of  the 
trouble  darkening  the  whole  world  for 
her,  and  drew  a  deep  breath,  waiting 
for  his  kiss. 

It  was  not  Milton,  but  Lady  Caster- 
ley. 

The  shock  sent  the  blood  buzzing 
into  her  temples.  Then  she  noticed  that 
the  little  figure  before  her  was  also 
trembling;  drawing  up  a  chair,  she  said, 
'Won't  you  sit  down?' 

The  tone  of  that  old  voice,  thanking 
her,  brought  back  sharply  the  memory 
of  her  garden  at  Monkland,  bathed  in 
the  sweetness  and  shimmer  of  summer, 


682 


THE   PATRICIANS 


and  of  Barbara  standing  at  her  gate, 
towering  above  this  little  figure,  which 
now  sat  there  so  silent,  with  very  white 
face.  Those  carved  features,  those  keen, 
yet  veiled  eyes,  had  too  often  haunted 
her  thoughts;  they  were  like  a  bad 
dream  come  true. 

'My  grandson  is  not  here,  is  he?' 

Audrey  shook  her  head. 

'We  have  heard  of  his  decision.  I 
will  not  beat  about  the  bush  with  you. 
It  is  a  disaster  —  for  me  a  calamity.  I 
have  known  and  loved  him  since  he 
was  born,  and  I  have  been  foolish 
enough  to  dream  dreams  about  him. 
I  wondered  perhaps  whether  you  knew 
how  much  we  counted  on  him.  You 
must  forgive  an  old  woman's  coming 
here  like  this.  At  my  age  there  are  few 
things  that  matter,  but  they  matter 
very  much.' 

And  Audrey  thought,  'And  at  my 
age  there  is  but  one  thing  that  matters, 
and  that  matters  worse  than  death.' 
But  she  did  not  speak.  To  whom,  to 
what  should  she  speak?  To  this  hard 
old  woman,  who  personified  the  world? 
Of  what  use,  words  ? 

'I  can  say  to  you,'  went  on  the  voice 
of  the  little  figure,  that  seemed  so  to 
fill  the  room  with  its  gray  presence, 
'  what  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  say 
toothers;  for  you  are  not  hard-hearted.' 

A  quiver  passed  up  from  the  heart  so 
praised  to  the  still  lips.  No,  she  was  not 
hard-hearted!  She  could  even  feel  for 
this  old  woman  from  whose  voice  anxi- 
ety had  stolen  its  despotism. 

'Eustace  cannot  live  without  his 
career.  His  career  is  himself;  he  must 
be  doing,  and  leading,  and  spending 
his  powers.  What  he  has  given  you  is 
not  his  true  self.  I  don't  want  to  hurt 
you,  but  the  truth  is  the  truth,  and  we 
must  all  bow  before  it.  I  may  be  hard, 
but  I  can  respect  sorrow.' 

To  respect  sorrow!  Yes,  this  gray 
visitor  could  do  that,  as  the  wind  pass- 
ing over  the  sea  respects  its  surface,  as 


the  air  respects  the  surface  of  a  rose, 
but  to  penetrate  to  the  heart,  to  under- 
stand her  sorrow,  that  old  age  could  not 
do  for  youth!  As  well  try  to  track  out 
the  secret  of  the  twistings  in  the  flight 
of  those  swallows  out  there  above  the 
river,  or  to  follow  to  its  source  the  faint 
scent  of  the  lilies  in  that  bowl!  How 
should  she  know  what  was  passing  in 
here  —  this  little  old  woman  whose 
blood  was  cold?  And  Audrey  had  the 
sensation  of  watching  some  one  pelt 
her  with  the  rind  and  husks  of  what  her 
own  spirit  had  long  devoured.  She  had 
a  longing  to  get  up,  and  take  the  hand, 
the  chill,  spidery  hand  of  age,  and 
thrust  it  into  her  breast,  and  say,  '  Feel 
that,  and  cease!' 

But,  withal,  she  never  lost  her  queer 
dull  compassion  for  the  owner  of  that 
white  carved  face.  It  was  not  her  visit- 
or's fault  that  she  had  come!  Again 
Lady  Casterley  was  speaking. 

'  It  is  early  days.  If  you  do  not  end  it 
now,  at  once,  it  will  only  come  harder 
on  you  presently.  You  know  how  deter- 
mined he  is.  He  will  not  change  his 
mind.  If  you  cut  him  off  from  his  work 
in  life,  it  will  but  recoil  on  you.  I  can 
only  expect  your  hatred,  for  talking 
like  this;  but,  believe  me,  it's  for  your 
good,. as  well  as  his,  in  the  long  run.' 

A  tumultuous  heart-beating  of  iron- 
ical rage  seized  on  the  listener  to  that 
speech.  Her  good !  The  good  of  a  corse 
that  the  breath  is  just  abandoning;  the 
good  of  a  flower  beneath  a  heel;  the 
good  of  an  old  dog  whose  master  leaves 
it  for  the  last  time!  Slowly  a  weight 
like  lead  stopped  all  that  fluttering  of 
her  heart.  If  she  did  not  end  it  at  once! 
The  words  had  now  been  spoken  that 
for  so  many  hours,  she  knew,  had  lain 
unspoken  within  her  own  breast.  Yes, 
if  she  did  not,  she  could  never  know 
a  moment's  peace,  feeling  that  she  was 
forcing  him  to  a  death  in  life,  desecrat- 
ing her  own  love  and  pride!  And  the 
spur  had  been  given  by  another!  The 


THE  PATRICIANS 


thought  that  some  one  —  this  hard  old 
woman  of  the  hard  world — should  have 
shaped  in  words  the  hauntings  of  her 
love  and  pride  through  all  those  ages 
since  Milton  spoke  to  her  of  his  resolve; 
that  some  one  else  should  have  had  to 
tell  her  what  her  heart  had  so  long 
known  it  must  do  —  this  stabbed  her 
like  a  knife!  This,  at  all  events,  she 
could  not  bear! 

She  stood  up,  and  said, '  Please  leave 
me  now!  I  have  a  great  many  things 
to  do,  before  I  go.' 

With  a  sort  of  pleasure  she  saw  a  look 
of  bewilderment  cover  that  old  face; 
with  a  sort  of  pleasure  she  marked  the 
trembling  of  the  hands  raising  their 
owner  from  the  chair,  and  heard  the 
stammering  in  the  voice:  'You  are  go- 
ing? Before  —  before  he  comes?  You 
—  you  won't  be  seeing  him  again?' 
With  a  sort  of  pleasure  she  marked  the 
hesitation,  which  did  not  know  whether 
to  thank,  or  bless,  or  just  say  nothing 
and  creep  away.  With  a  sort  of  pleas- 
ure she  watched  the  flush  mount  in  the 
faded  cheeks,  the  faded  lips  pressed 
together.  Then,  at  the  scarcely  whis- 
pered words,  'Thank  you,  my  dear!' 
she  turned,  unable  to  bear  further  sight 
or  sound.  She  went  to  the  window  and 
pressed  her  forehead  against  the  glass, 
trying  to  think  of  nothing.  She  heard 
the  sound  of  wheels  —  Lady  Casterley 
had  gone.  And  then,  of  all  the  awful 
feelings  man  or  woman  can  know,  she 
experienced  the  worst:  she  could  not 
cry! 

At  this  most  bitter  and  deserted 
moment  of  her  life,  she  felt  strangely 
calm,  foreseeing  clearly,  exactly,  what 
she  must  do,  and  where  go.  Quickly 
it  must  be  done,  or  it  would  never  be 
done!  Quickly!  And  without  fuss !  She 
put  some  things  together,  sent  the  maid 
out  for  a  cab,  and  sat  down  to  write. 

She  must  do  and  say  nothing  that 
could  excite  him,  and  bring  back  his  ill- 
ness. Let  it  all  be  sober,  reasonable! 


It  would  be  easy  to  let  him  know  where 
she  was  going,  to  write  a  letter  that 
would  bring  him  flying  after  her.  But 
to  write  the  calm  reasonable  words  that 
would  keep  him  waiting  and  thinking, 
till  he  never  again  came  to  her,  broke 
her  heart. 

When  she  had  finished  and  sealed 
the  letter,  she  sat  motionless,  with  a 
numb  feeling  in  hands  and  brain,  try- 
ing to  realize  what  she  had  next  to  do. 
To  go,  and  that  was  all! 

Her  trunks  had  been  taken  down  al- 
ready. She  chose  the  little  hat  that  he 
liked  her  best  in,  and  over  it  fastened 
her  thickest  veil.  Then,  putting  on  her 
traveling-coat  and  gloves,  she  looked 
in  the  long  mirror,  and  seeing  that  there 
was  nothing  more  to  keep  her,  lifted 
her  dressing-bag,  and  went  down. 

Over  on  the  embankment  a  child 
was  crying;  and  the  passionate  scream- 
ing sound,  broken  by  the  gulping  of 
tears,  made  her  cover  her  lips,  as  if 
she  had  heard  her  own  escaped  soul 
wailing  out  there. 

She  leaned  out  of  the  cab  to  say  to 
the  maid, '  Go  and  comfort  that  crying, 
Ella.' 

Only  when  she  was  alone  in  the  train, 
secure  from  all  eyes,  did  she  give  way 
to  desperate  weeping.  The  white  smoke 
rolling  past  the  windows  was  not  more 
evanescent  than  her  joy  had  been.  For 
she  had  no  illusions  —  it  was  over! 
From  first  to  last,  not  quite  a  year! 
But  even  at  this  moment,  not  for  all 
the  world  would  she  have  been  with- 
out her  love,  gone  to  its  grave,  like  a 
dead  child  that  evermore  would  be 
touching  her  breast  with  its  wistful 
fingers. 

XLIX 

Barbara,  returning  from  her  visit  to 
Courtier's  deserted  rooms,  was  met  at 
Valleys  House  with  the  message: 
Would  she  please  go  at  once  to  Lady 
Casterley? 


684 


THE   PATRICIANS 


When,  in  obedience,  she  reached 
Ravensham,  she  found  her  grand- 
mother and  Lord  Dennis  in  the  white 
room.  They  were  standing  by  one  of 
the  tall  windows,  apparently  contem- 
plating the  view.  They  turned  indeed 
at  sound  of  Barbara's  approach,  but 
neither  of  them  spoke  or  nodded.  Not 
having  seen  her  grand-uncle  since  be- 
fore Milton's  illness,  Barbara  found  it 
strange  to  be  so  treated;  she  too  took 
her  stand  silently  before  the  window. 
A  very  large  wasp  was  crawling  up  the 
pane,  then  slipping  down  with  a  faint 
buzz. 

Suddenly  Lady  Casterley  spoke. 

'Kill  that  thing!' 

Lord  Dennis  drew  forth  his  hand- 
kerchief. 

'  Not  with  that,  Dennis.  It  will  make 
a  mess.  Take  a  paper-knife.' 

'  I  was  going  to  put  it  out,'  murmured 
Lord  Dennis. 

'Let  Barbara  with  her  gloves.' 

Barbara  moved  towards  the  pane. 

'It's  a  hornet,  I  think,'  she  said. 

*  So  he  is !'  said  Lord  Dennis  dreamily. 

'Nonsense,'  murmured  Lady  Caster- 
ley,  'it's  a  common  wasp.' 

'I  know  it's  a  hornet,  granny.  The 
rings  are  darker.' 

Lady  Casterley  bent  down ;  when  she 
raised  herself  she  had  a  slipper  in  her 
hand. 

'Don't  irritate  him!'  cried  Barbara, 
catching  her  wrist. 

But  Lady  Casterley  freed  her  hand. 
'I  will,'  she  said,  and  brought  the  sole 
of  the  slipper  down  on  the  insect,  so 
that  it  dropped  on  the  floor,  dead.  '  He 
has  no  business  in  here.' 

And,  as  if  that  little  incident  had 
happened  to  three  other  people,  they 
again  stood  silently  looking  through 
the  window. 

Then  Lady  Casterley  turned  to 
Barbara.  '  Well,  have  you  realized  the 
mischief  that  you've  done?' 

'Ann!'  murmured  Lord  Dennis. 


'Yes,  yes;  she  is  your  favorite,  but 
that  won't  save  her.  This  woman  —  to 
her  great  credit  —  I  say  to  her  great 
credit  —  has  gone  away,  so  as  to  put 
herself  out  of  Eustace's  reach,  until  he 
has  recovered  his  senses.' 

With  a  sharp-drawn  breath  Barbara 
said,  'Oh!  poor  thing!' 

But  on  Lady  Casterley's  face  had 
come  an  almost  cruel  look. 

'Ah!' she  said.  'Exactly.  But,  curi- 
ously enough,  I  am  thinking  of  Eustace. ' 
Her  little  figure  was  quivering  from 
head  to  foot.  'This  will  be  a  lesson  to 
you  not  to  play  with  fire!' 

'Ann!'  murmured  Lord  Dennis  again, 
slipping  his  arm  through  Barbara's. 

'The  world,'  went  on  Lady  Caster- 
ley,  '  is  a  place  of  facts,  not  of  romantic 
fancies.  You  have  done  more  harm 
than  can  possibly  be  repaired.  I  went 
to  her  myself.  I  was  very  much  moved. 
If  it  had  n't  been  for  your  foolish  con- 
duct—' 

'  Ann ! '  said  Lord  Dennis  once  more. 

Lady  Casterley  paused,  tapping  the 
floor  with  her  little  foot. 

Barbara's  eyes  were  gleaming.  'Is 
there  anything  else  you  would  like  to 
squash,  dear?' 

'Babs!'  murmured  Lord  Dennis. 

But,  unconsciously  pressing  his  hand 
against  her  heart,  the  girl  went  on,  — 
'You  are  lucky  to  be  abusing  me  to- 
day —  if  it  had  been  yesterday  — ' 

At  these  dark  words  Lady  Casterley 
turned  away,  her  shoes  leaving  little 
dull  stains  on  the  polished  floor. 

Barbara  raised  to  her  cheek  the 
fingers  which  she  had  been  so  convuls- 
ively embracing.  '  Don't  let  her  go  on, 
uncle,'  she  whispered,  'not  just  now!' 

'  No,  no,  my  dear,'  Lord  Dennis  mur- 
mured, 'certainly  not  —  it  is  enough.' 

'It  has  been  your  sentimental  folly,' 
came  Lady  Casterley's  voice  from  a  far 
corner,  'which  has  brought  this  on  the 
boy.' 

Responding  to  the  pressure  of  the 


THE  PATRICIANS 


685 


hand,  back  now  at  her  waist,  Barbara 
did  not  answer;  and  the  sound  of  the 
little  feet  retracing  their  steps  rose  in 
the  stillness.  Neither  of  those  two  at 
the  window  turned  their  heads;  once 
more  the  feet  receded,  and  again  began 
coming  back. 

Suddenly  Barbara,  pointing  to  the 
floor,  cried,  'Oh,  granny,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  stand  still;  have  n't  you  squashed 
the  hornet  enough,  even  if  he  did  come 
in  where  he  had  n't  any  business?' 

Lady  Casterley  looked  down  at  the 
debris  of  the  insect.  'Disgusting!'  she 
said;  but  when  she  next  spoke  it  was 
in  a  less  hard,  more  querulous  voice. 
'That  man  —  what  was  his  name  — 
have  you  got  rid  of  him?' 

Barbara  went  crimson.  'Abuse  my 
friends,  and  I  will  go  straight  home 
and  never  speak  to  you  again.' 

For  a  moment  Lady  Casterley  looked 
almost  as  if  she  might  strike  her  grand- 
daughter; then  a  little  sardonic  smile 
broke  out  on  her  face.  'A  creditable 
sentiment!'  she  said. 

Letting  fall  her  uncle's  hand,  Bar- 
bara cried,  'In  any  case,  I'd  better  go. 
I  don't  know  why  you  sent  for  me.' 

Lady  Casterley  answered  coldly : '  To 
let  you  and  your  mother  know  of 
this  woman's  most  unselfish  behavior; 
to  put  you  on  the  qui  vive  for  what  Eus- 
tace may  do  now;  to  give  you  a  chance 
to  make  up  for  your  folly.  Moreover, 
to  warn  you  against  — '  she  paused. 

'Yes?' 

'  Let  me — '  interrupted  Lord  Dennis. 

'No,  Uncle  Dennis,  let  granny  take 
her  shoe!' 

She  had  withdrawn  against  the  wall, 
tall,  and  as  it  were,  formidable,  with 
her  head  up.  Lady  Casterley  remained 
silent. 

'Have  you  got  it  ready?'  cried  Bar- 
bara. '  Unfortunately  he 's  flown ! ' 

A  voice  said,  'Lord  Milton.' 

He  had  come  in  quietly  and  quickly, 
preceding  the  announcement,  and  stood 


almost  touching  that  little  group  at 
the  window  before  they  caught  sight 
of  him.  His  face  had  the  rather  ghastly 
look  of  sunburnt  faces  from  which  emo- 
tion has  driven  the  blood;  and  his  eyes, 
always  so  much  the  most  living  part 
of  him,  were  full  of  such  stabbing  an- 
ger, that  involuntarily  they  all  looked 
down. 

'I  want  to  speak  to  you  alone,'  he 
said  to  Lady  Casterley. 

Visibly,  for  perhaps  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  that  indomitable  little  figure 
flinched.  Lord  Dennis  drew  Barbara 
away,  but  at  the  door  he  whispered, 
'Stay  here  quietly,  Babs;  I  don't  like 
the  look  of  this.' 

Unnoticed,  Barbara  remained  hover- 
ing. 

The  two  voices,  low,  and  so  far  off 
in  the  long  white  room,  were  uncannily 
distinct,  emotion  charging  each  word 
with  preternatural  power  of  penetra- 
tion ;  and  every  movement  of  the  speak- 
ers had  to  the  girl's  excited  eyes  a  weird 
precision,  as  of  little  figures  she  had 
once  seen  at  a  Paris  puppet-show.  She 
could  hear  Milton  reproaching  his 
grandmother  in  words  terribly  dry  and 
bitter.  She  edged  nearer  and  nearer, 
till,  seeing  that  they  paid  no  more  heed 
to  her  than  if  she  were  an  attendant 
statue,  she  had  regained  her  position  by 
the  window. 

Lady  Casterley  was  speaking. 

'I  was  not  going  to  see  you  ruined 
before  my  eyes,  Eustace.  I  did  what 
I  did  at  very  great  cost.  I  did  my  best 
for  you.' 

Barbara  saw  Milton's  face  trans- 
figured by  a  dreadful  smile  —  the  smile 
of  one  defying  his  torturer  with  hate. 

Lady  Casterley  went  on.  'Yes,  you 
stand  there  looking  like  a  devil.  Hate 
me  if  you  like  —  but  don't  betray  us, 
moaning  and  moping  because  you  can't 
have  the  moon.  Put  on  your  armor, 
and  go  down  into  the  battle.  Don't 
play  the  coward,  boy!' 


THE  PATRICIANS 


'By  God!  Be  silent!' 

Milton's  answer  cut  like  the  lash  of  a 
whip. 

And  weirdly,  there  was  silence.  It 
was  not  the  brutality  of  the  words,  but 
the  sight  of  force  suddenly  naked  of  all 
disguise  —  like  a  fierce  dog  let  for  a 
moment  off  its  chain  —  which  made 
Barbara  utter  a  little  dismayed  sound. 
Lady  Casterley  had  dropped  into  a 
chair,  trembling.  And  without  a  look 
Milton  passed  her. 

If  their  grandmother  had  fallen  dead, 
Barbara  knew  he  would  not  have  stop- 
ped to  see.  She  ran  forward,  but  the 
old  woman  waved  her  away.  '  Go  after 
him,'  she  said;  'don't  let  him  go  alone.' 

And  infected  by  the  fear  in  that 
wizened  voice,  Barbara  flew. 

She  caught  her  brother  as  he  was 
entering  the  taxi-cab  in  which  he  had 
come,  and  without  a  word  slipped  in 
beside  him.  The  driver's  face  appeared 
at  the  window,  but  Milton  only  mo- 
tioned with  his  head,  as  if  to  say,  'Any- 
where, away  from  here!' 

The  thought  flashed  through  Bar- 
bara, 'If  only  I  can  keep  him  in  here 
with  me!'  She  leaned  out,  and  said 
quietly,  'To  Nettlefold,  in  Sussex  — 
never  mind  your  petrol  —  get  more  on 
the  road.  You  can  have  what  fare  you 
like.  Quick!' 

The  man  hesitated,  looked  in  her 
face,  and  said,  'Very  well,  Miss.  By 
Dorking,  ain't  it?' 

Barbara  nodded. 


The  clock  over  the  stables  was  chim- 
ing seven  when  Milton  and  Barbara 
passed  out  of  the  tall  iron  gates,  in  their 
swift-moving  small  world,  that  smelled 
faintly  of  petrol.  Though  the  cab  was 
closed,  light  spurts  of  rain  drifted  in 
through  the  open  windows,  refreshing 
the  girl's  hot  face,  relieving  a  little  her 
dread  of  this  drive.  For,  now  that  Fate 


had  been  really  cruel,  now  that  it  no 
longer  lay  in  Milton's  hands  to  save 
himself  from  suffering,  her  heart  bled 
for  him;  and  she  remembered  to  forget 
herself.  The  immobility  with  which  he 
had  received  her  intrusion  was  ominous. 
And  though  silent  in  her  corner,  she 
was  desperately  working  all  her  woman's 
wits  to  discover  a  way  of  breaking  into 
the  house  of  his  secret  mood.  He  ap- 
peared not  even  to  have  noticed  that 
they  had  turned  their  backs  on  London 
and  passed  into  Richmond  Park. 

Here  the  trees,  made  dark  by  rain, 
seemed  to  watch  gloomily  the  progress 
of  this  whirring-wheeled  red  box,  unre- 
conciled even  yet  to  such  harsh  intrud- 
ers on  their  wind-scented  tranquillity. 
And  the  deer,  pursuing  happiness  on 
the  sweet  grasses,  raised  disquieted 
noses,  as  who  should  say, '  Poisoners  of 
the  fern,  defilers  of  the  trails  of  air!' 

Barbara  vaguely  felt  the  serenity  out 
there  in  the  clouds,  and  the  trees,  and 
the  wind.  If  it  would  but  creep  into 
this  dim,  traveling  prison,  and  help 
her;  if  it  would  but  come,  like  sleep, 
and  steal  away  dark  sorrow,  and  in 
one  moment  make  grief  —  joy.  But 
it  stayed  outside  on  its  wistful  wings; 
and  that  grand  chasm  which  yawns 
between  soul  and  soul  remained  un- 
abridged. For  what  could  she  say? 
How  make  him  speak  of  what  he  was 
going  to  do?  What  alternatives  indeed 
were  now  before  him?  Would  he  sul- 
lenly resign  his  seat,  and  wait  till  he 
could  find  Audrey  Noel  again?  But 
even  if  he  did  find  her,  they  would  only 
be  where  they  were.  She  had  gone,  in 
order  not  to  be  a  drag  on  him  —  it 
would  only  be  the  same  thing  all  over 
again!  Would  he  then,  as  granny  had 
urged  him,  put  on  his  armor,  and  go 
down  into  the  fight?  But  that  indeed 
would  mean  the  end,  for  if  she  had  had 
the  strength  to  go  away  now,  she  would 
surely  never  come  back  and  break  in 
on  his  life  a  second  time.  And  a  grim 


THE   PATRICIANS 


687 


thought  swooped  down  on  Barbara. 
What  if  he  resigned  everything!  Went 
out  into  the  dark!  Men  did  sometimes 

—  she  knew  —  caught  like  this  in  the 
full  flush  of  passion.     But  surely  not 
Milton,  with  his  faith!    'If  the  lark's 
song  means  nothing  —  if  that  sky  is  a 
morass  of  our  invention  —  if  we  are 
pettily  creeping  on,  furthering  nothing 

—  persuade  me  of  it,  Babs,  and  I  '11 
bless  you.'  But  had  he  still  that  anchor- 
age, to  prevent  his  slipping  out  to  sea? 

This  sudden  thought  of  death  to  one 
for  whom  life  was  joy,  who  had  never 
even  seen  the  Great  Stillness,  was  very 
terrifying.  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
back  of  the  chauffeur,  in  his  drab  coat 
with  the  red  collar,  finding  some  com- 
fort in  its  solidity.  They  were  in  a 
taxi-cab,  in  Richmond  Park!  Death 

—  incongruous,  incredible  death!     It 
was  stupid  to  be  frightened !  She  forced 
herself  to  look  at  Milton.    He  seemed 
to  be  asleep;  his  eyes  were  closed,  his 
arms  folded  —  only  a  quivering  of  his 
eyelids  betrayed  him.     Impossible  to 
tell  what  was  going  on  in  that  grim 
waking  sleep,  which  made  her  feel  that 
she  was  not  there  at  all,  so  utterly  did 
he  seem  withdrawn  into  himself! 

He  opened  his  eyes,  and  said  sud- 
denly, 'So  you  think  I'm  going  to  lay 
hands  on  myself,  Babs?' 

Horribly  startled  by  this  reading  of 
her  thoughts,  Barbara  could  only  edge 
away  and  stammer,  'No;  oh,  no!' 

'Where  are  we  going  in  this  thing?' 

'Nettlefold.  Would  you  like  him 
stopped?' 

'It  will  do  as  well  as  anywhere.' 

Terrified  lest  he  should  relapse  into 
that  grim  silence,  she  timidly  possessed 
herself  of  his  hand. 

It  was  fast  growing  dark;  the  cab, 
having  left  the  villas  of  Surbiton  be- 
hind, was  flying  along  at  great  speed 
among  pine  trees  and  stretches  of 
heather,  gloomy  with  faded  daylight. 

Milton  said  presently,  in  a  queer, 


slow  voice,  'If  I  want,  I  have  only  to 
open  that  door  and  jump.  You  who 
believe  that  "to-morrow  we  die"  — 
give  me  the  faith  to  feel  that  I  can  free 
myself  by  that  jump,  and  out  I  go!' 
Then,  seeming  to  pity  her  terrified 
squeeze  of  his  hand,  he  added, '  It 's  all 
right,  Babs ;  we  shall  sleep  comfortably 
enough  in  our  beds  to-night.' 

But  so  desolate  to  the  girl  was  his 
voice,  that  she  hoped  now  for  silence. 

'Let  us  be  skinned  quietly,'  mut- 
tered Milton, '  if  nothing  else.  Sorry  to 
have  disturbed  you.' 

Pressing  close  up  to  him,  Barbara 
murmured,  'If  only  —  Talk  to  me!' 

But  Milton,  though  he  stroked  her 
hand,  was  silent. 

The  cab,  moving  at  unaccustomed 
speed  along  these  deserted  roads, 
moaned  dismally;  and  Barbara  was 
possessed  now  by  a  desire  which  she 
dared  not  put  in  practice,  to  pull  his 
head  down,  and  rock  it  against  her. 
Her  heart  felt  empty,  and  timid;  to 
have  something  warm  resting  on  it 
would  have  made  all  the  difference. 
Everything  real,  substantial,  comfort- 
ing, seemed  to  have  slipped  away. 
Among  these  flying  dark  ghosts  of  pine 
trees  —  as  it  were  the  unfrequented 
borderland  between  two  worlds  —  the 
feeling  of  a  cheek  against  her  breast 
alone  could  help  muffle  the  deep  dis- 
quiet in  her,  lost  like  a  child  in  a  wood. 

The  cab  slackened  speed;  the  driver 
was  lighting  his  lamps,  and  his  red  face 
appeared  at  the  window. 

'We'll  'ave  to  stop  here,  Miss;  I'm 
out  of  petrol.  Will  you  get  some  dinner, 
or  go  through?' 

'Through,'  answered  Barbara. 

While  they  were  passing  the  little 
town,  buying  their  petrol,  asking  the 
way,  she  felt  less  miserable,  and  even 
looked  about  her  with  a  sort  of  eager- 
ness. Then  when  they  had  started 
again,  she  thought:  If  I  could  get  him 
to  sleep  —  the  sea  will  comfort  him! 


688 


THE  PATRICIANS 


But  his  eyes  were  staring,  wide  open. 
She  feigned  sleep  herself;  letting  her 
head  slip  a  little  to  one  side,  causing 
small  sounds  of  breathing  to  escape. 
The  whirring  of  the  wheels,  the  moan- 
ing of  the  cab-joints,  the  dark  trees 
slipping  by,  ,the  scent  of  the  wet  fern 
drifting  in,  all  these  must  surely  help! 
And  presently  she  felt  that  he  was  in- 
deed slipping  into  darkness  —  and 
then  —  she  felt  nothing. 

When  she  awoke  from  the  sleep  into 
which  she  had  seen  Milton  fall,  the 
cab  was  slowly  mounting  a  steep  hill, 
above  which  the  moon  had  risen.  The 
air  smelled  strong  and  sweet,  as  though 
it  had  passed  over  leagues  of  grass. 

'The  Downs!'  she  thought.  'I  must 
have  been  asleep!' 

In  sudden  terror,  she  looked  round 
for  Milton.  But  he  was  still  there, 
exactly  as  before,  leaning  back  rigid 
in  his  corner  of  the  cab,  with  staring 
eyes,  and  no  other  signs  of  life.  And 
still  only  half  awake,  like  a  great  warm 
sleepy  child  startled  out  of  too  deep 
slumber,  she  clutched,  and  clung  to 
him.  The  thought  that  he  had  been 
sitting  like  that,  with  his  spirit  far 
away,  all  the  time  that  she  had  been 
betraying  her  watch  in  sleep,  was  dread- 
ful. But  to  her  embrace  there  was  no 
response,  and  awake  indeed  now, 
ashamed,  sore,  Barbara  released  him, 
and  turned  her  face  to  the  air. 

Out  there,  two  thin,  dense-black, 
long  clouds,  shaped  like  the  wings  of  a 
hawk,  had  joined  themselves  together, 
so  that  nothing  of  the  moon  showed 
but  a  living  brightness  imprisoned,  like 
the  eyes  and  life  of  a  bird,  between'those 
swift  sweeps  of  darkness.  This  great 
uncanny  spirit,  brooding  malevolent 
over  the  high  leagues  of  moon-wan 
grass,  seemed  waiting  to  swoop,  and 
pluck  up  in  its  talons,  and  devour,  all 
that  intruded  on  the  wild  loneness  of 
these  far-up  plains  of  freedom.  Bar- 
bara almost  expected  to  hear  coming 


from  it  the  lost  whistle  of  the  buzzard 
hawks.  And  her  dream  came  back  to 
her.  Where  were  her  wings — the  wings 
that  in  sleep  had  borne  her  to  the  stars; 
the  wings  that  would  never  lift  her  — 
waking  —  from  the  ground?  Where 
too  were  Milton's  wings?  She  crouch- 
ed back  into  her  corner;  a  tear  stole  up 
and  trickled  out  between  her  closed 
lids  —  another  and  another  followed. 
Faster  and  faster  they  came.  Then 
she  felt  Milton's  arm  round  her,  and 
heard  him  say,  'Don't  cry,  Babs!'  In- 
stinct telling  her  what  to  do,  she  laid 
her  head  against  his  chest,  and  sobbed 
bitterly.  Struggling  with  those  sobs, 
she  grew  less  and  less  unhappy — know- 
ing that  he  could  never  again  feel  quite 
so  desolate  as  before  he  tried  to  give 
her  comfort.  It  was  all  a  bad  dream, 
and  they  would  soon  wake  from  it! 
And  they  would  be  happy;  as  happy 
as  they  had  been  before  —  before  these 
last  months!  And  she  whispered,  'Only 
a  little  while,  EustyP 

LI 

Old  Lady  Harbinger  dying  in  the 
early  February  of  the  following  year, 
the  marriage  of  Barbara  with  her  son 
was  postponed  till  June. 

Much  of  the  wild  sweetness  of  spring 
still  clung  to  the  high  moor  borders  of 
Monkland  on  the  early  morning  of  the 
wedding-day. 

Barbara  was  already  up  and  dressed 
for  riding  when  her  maid  came  to  call 
her;  and  noting  Stacey's  astonished 
eyes  fix  themselves  on  her  boots,  she 
said,  'Well,  Stacey?' 

'It'll  tire  you.' 

'  Nonsense ;  I  'm  not  going  to  be  hung.' 

Refusing  the  company  of  a  groom, 
she  made  her  way  towards  the  stretch 
of  high  moor  where  she  had  ridden  with 
Courtier  a  year  ago.  Here,  over  the 
short  and  as  yet  unflowering  heather, 
there  was  a  mile  or  more  of  level  gal- 


THE   PATRICIANS 


689 


loping  ground.  She  mounted  steadily, 
and  her  spirit  rode,  as  it  were,  before 
her,  longing  to  get  up  there  among  the 
peewits  and  curlew,  to  feel  the  crisp, 
peaty  earth  slip  away  under  her,  and 
the  wind  drive  in  her  face,  under  that 
deep  blue  sky.  Carried  by  this  warm- 
blooded sweetheart  of  hers,  ready  to 
jump  out  of  his  smooth  hide  with 
pleasure,  snuffling  and  sneezing  in  sheer 
joy,  whose  eye  she  could  see  straying 
round  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  inten- 
tions, from  whose  lips  she  could  hear 
issuing  the  sweet  bit-music,  whose  vag- 
aries even  seemed  designed  to  startle 
from  her  a  closer  embracing — she  was 
filled  with  a  sort  of  delicious  impa- 
tience with  everything  that  was  not  this 
perfect  communing  with  vigor. 

Reaching  the  top,  she  put  him  into 
a  gallop.  With  the  wind  furiously  as- 
sailing her  face  and  throat,  every  mus- 
cle crisped,  and  all  her  blood  tingling 

—  this  was  a  very  ecstasy  of  motion ! 
She  reined  in  at  the  cairn  whence  she 

and  Courtier  had  looked  down  at  the 
herds  of  ponies.  It  was  the  merest  mem- 
ory now,  vague  and  a  little  sweet,  like 
the  remembrance  of  some  exceptional 
spring  day,  when  trees  seem  to  flower 
before  your  eyes,  and  in  sheer  wanton- 
ness exhale  a  scent  of  lemons.  The 
ponies  were  there  still,  and  in  distance 
the  shining  sea.  She  sat  thinking  of 
nothing  but  how  good  it  was  to  be 
alive.  The  fullness  and  sweetness  of  it 
all,  the  freedom  and  strength!  Away 
to  the  west,  over  a  lonely  farm,  she 
could  see  two  buzzard  hawks  hunting 
in  wide  circles.  She  did  not  envy  them 

—  so  happy  was  she,  as  happy  as  the 
morning.   And  there  came  to  her  sud- 
denly the  true,  the  overmastering  long- 
ing of  mountain-tops. 

' 1  must,'  she  thought,  —  '  I  simply 
must!' 

Slipping  off  her  horse  she  lay  down 
on  her  back,  and  at  once  everything 
was  lost  except  the  sky.  Over  her  body, 

VOL.  107 -NO.  5 


supported  above  solid  earth  by  the 
warm,  soft  heather,  the  wind  skimmed 
without  sound  or  touch.  Her  spirit  be- 
came one  with  that  calm,  unimaginable 
freedom.  Transported  beyond  her  own 
contentment,  she  no  longer  even  knew 
whether  she  was  joyful. 

The  horse  Hal,  attempting  to  eat 
her  sleeve,  aroused  her.  She  mounted 
him,  and  rode  down.  Near  home  she 
took  a  short  cut  across  a  meadow, 
through  which  flowed  two  thin  bright 
streams,  forming  a  delta  full  of  linger- 
ing 'milkmaids,'  mauve  marsh  orchis, 
and  yellow  flags.  From  end  to  end  of 
this  long  meadow,  so  varied,  so  pied 
with  trees  and  stones  and  flowers  and 
water,  the  last  of  Spring  was  passing. 

Some  ponies,  shyly  curious  of  Bar- 
bara and  her  horse,  stole  up,  and  stood 
at  a  safe  distance,  with  their  noses 
dubiously  stretched  out,  swishing  their 
lean  tails.  And  suddenly,  far  up,  fol- 
lowing their  own  music,  two  cuckoos 
flew  across,  seeking  the  thorn  trees  out 
on  the  moor.  While  she  was  watching 
the  arrowy  birds,  she  caught  sight  of 
some  one  coming  towards  her  from  a 
clump  of  beech  trees,  and  suddenly  saw 
that  it  was  Mrs.  Noel. 

She  rode  forward,  flushing.  What 
dared  she  say?  Could  she  speak  of  her 
wedding,  and  betray  Milton's  pre- 
sence? Could  she  open  her  mouth  at  all 
without  rousing  painful  feeling  of  some 
sort?  Then,  impatient  of  indecision, 
she  began,  'I'm  so  glad  to  see  you 
again.  I  did  n't  know  you  were  still 
down  here.' 

'I  only  came  back  to  England  yes- 
terday, and  I  'm  just  here  to  see  to  the 
packing  of  my  things.' 

'Oh!'  murmured  Barbara.  'You 
know  what's  happening  to  me,  I  sup- 
pose?' 

Mrs.  Noel  smiled,  looked  up,  and 
said,  'I  heard  last  night.  All  joy  to 
you!' 

A  lump  rose  in  Barbara's  throat. 


690 


'I'm  so  glad  to  have  seen  you,'  she 
murmured  once  more; '  I  expect  I  ought 
to  be  getting  on ' ;  and  with  the  word 
'Good-bye,'  gently  echoed,  she  rode 
away. 

But  her  mood  of  delight  was  gone; 
even  Hal  seemed  to  tread  unevenly, 
for  all  that  he  was  going  back  to  that 
stable  which  ever  appeared  to  him  de- 
sirable ten  minutes  after  he  had  left  it. 

Except  that  her  eyes  seemed  darker, 
Mrs.  Noel  had  not  changed.  If  she 
had  shown  the  faintest  sign  of  self-pity, 
the  girl  would  never  have  felt,  as  she 
did  now,  so  sorry  and  upset. 

Leaving  the  stables,  she  saw  that 
the  wind  was  driving  up  a  huge,  white, 
shining  cloud.  '  Is  n't  it  going  to  be 
fine  after  all?'  she  thought. 

Reentering  the  house  by  an  old  and 
so-called  secret  stairway  that  led 
straight  to  the  library,  she  had  to  tra- 
verse that  great  dark  room.  There, 
buried  in  an  armchair  in  front  of  the 
hearth,  she  saw  Milton  with  a  book  on 
his  knee,  not  reading,  but  looking  up 
at  the  picture  of  the  old  cardinal.  She 
hurried  on,  tiptoeing  over  the  soft 
carpet,  holding  her  breath,  fearful  of 
disturbing  the  queer  interview,  feeling 
guilty,  too,  of  her  new  knowledge, 
which  she  did  not  mean  to  impart.  She 
had  burnt  her  fingers  once  at  the  flame 
between  them;  she  would  not  do  so  a 
second  time! 

Through  the  window  at  the  far  end 
she  saw  that  the  cloud  had  burst;  it  was 
raining  furiously.  She  regained  her 
bedroom  unseen.  In  spite  of  her  joy 
out  there  on  the  moors,  this  last  adven- 
ture of  her  girlhood  had  not  been  all 
success;  she  had  again  the  old  sensa- 
tions, the  old  doubts,  the  dissatisfac- 
tion which  she  had  thought  dead. 
Those  two!  To  shut  one's  eyes,  and  be 
happy  —  was  it  possible?  A  great  rain- 
bow, the  nearest  she  had  ever  seen,  had 
sprung  up  in  the  park,  and  was  come 
to  earth  again  in  some  fields  close  by. 


The  sun  was  shining  already  through 
the  wind-driven  bright  rain.  Jewels  of 
blue  had  begun  to  star  the  black  and 
white  and  golden  clouds.  A  strange 
white  light  —  ghost  of  Spring  passing 
in  this  last  violent  outburst  —  painted 
the  leaves  of  every  tree;  and  a  hundred 
savage  hues  had  come  down  like  a  mot- 
ley of  bright  birds  on  moor  and  fields. 

The  moment  of  desperate  beauty 
caught  Barbara  by  the  throat.  Its 
spirit  of  galloping  wildness  flew  straight 
into  her  heart.  She  clasped  her  hands 
across  her  breast  to  try  and  keep  that 
moment.  Far  out,  a  cuckoo  hooted  — 
and  the  immortal  call  passed  on  the 
wind.  In  that  call  all  the  beauty  and 
color  and  rapture  of  life  seemed  to  be 
flying  by.  If  she  could  only  seize  and 
evermore  have  it  in  her  heart,  as  the 
buttercups  imprisoned  the  sun,  or  the 
fallen  raindrops  on  the  sweetbriers 
round  the  windows  inclosed  all  chang- 
ing light !  If  only  there  were  no  chains, 
no  walls,  and  finality  were  dead! 

Her  clock  struck  ten.  At  this  time 
to-morrow!  Her  cheeks  turned  hot;  in 
a  mirror  she  could  see  them  burning, 
her  lips  scornfully  curved,  her  eyes 
strange.  Standing  there,  she  looked 
long  at  herself,  till,  little  by  little,  her 
face  lost  every  vestige  of  that  disturb- 
ance, became  solid  and  resolute  again. 
She  ceased  to  have  the  galloping  wild 
feeling  in  her  heart,  and  instead  felt 
cold.  Detached  from  herself,  she 
watched,  with  contentment,  her  own 
calm  and  radiant  beauty  resume  the 
armor  it  had  for  that  moment  put  off. 

After  dinner  that  night,  when  the 
men  left  the  dining-hall,  Milton  slipped 
away  to  his  den.  Of  all  those  present 
in  the  little  church  he  had  seemed  most 
unemotional,  and  had  been  most  mov- 
ed. Though  it  had  been  so  quiet  and 
private  a  wedding,  he  had  resen  ted  all 
cheap  festivity  accompanying  the  pass- 
ing of  his  young  sister.  He  would  have 


THE   PATRICIANS 


691 


had  that  ceremony  in  the  little  dark 
disused  chapel  at  the  Court;  those  two, 
and  the  priest  alone.  Here,  in  this  half- 
pagan  little  country  church,  smothered 
hastily  in  flowers,  with  the  raw  singing 
of  the  half-pagan  choir,  and  all  the 
village  curiosity  and  homage  —  every- 
thing had  jarred,  and  the  stale  after- 
math sickened  him.  Changing  his  swal- 
low-tail to  an  old  smoking-jacket,  he 
went  out  on  to  the  lawn.  In  the  wide 
darkness  he  could  rid  himself  of  his 
exasperation. 

Since  the  day  of  his  election  he  had 
not  once  been  at  Monkland ;  since  Mrs. 
Noel's  flight  he  had  never  left  London. 
In  London  and  work  he  had  buried  him- 
self; by  London  and  work  he  had  saved 
himself!  He  had  gone  down  into  the 
battle. 

Dew  had  not  yet  fallen,  and  he  took 
the  "path  across  the  fields.  There  was 
no  moon,  no  stars,  no  wind;  the  cattle 
were  noiseless  under  the  trees;  there 
were  no  owls  calling,  no  night-jars 
churring,  the  fly-by-night  chafers  were 
not  abroad.  The  stream  alone  was 
alive  in  the  quiet  darkness.  And  as 
Milton  followed  the  wispy  line  of  gray 
path  cleaving  the  dim  glamour  of  daisies 
and  buttercups,  there  came  to  him  the 
feeling  that  he  was  in  the  presence,  not 
of  sleep,  but  of  eternal  waiting.  The 
sound  of  his  footfalls  seemed  desecra- 
tion. So  devotional  was  that  hush, 
burning  the  spicy  incense  of  millions 
of  leaves  and  blades  of  grass. 

Crossing  the  last  stile,  he  came  out, 
close  to  her  deserted  cottage,  under 
her  lime  tree,  which  on  the  night  of 
Courtier's  adventure  had  hung  blue- 
black  round  the  moon.  On  that  side, 
only  a  rail  and  a  few  shrubs  confined 
her  garden. 

The  house  was  all  dark,  but  the 
many  tall  white  flowers,  like  a  bright 
vapor  rising  from  earth,  clung  to  the  air 
above  the  beds.  Leaning  against  the 
tree,  Milton  gave  himself  to  memory. 


From  the  silen  t  boughs  which  drooped 
round  his  dark  figure,  a  little  sleepy 
bird  uttered  a  faint  cheep ;  a  hedgehog, 
or  some  small  beast  of  night,  rustled 
away  in  the  grass  close  by;  a  moth  flew 
past,  seeking  its  candle  flame.  And 
something  in  Milton's  heart  took  wings 
after  it,  searching  for  the  warmth  and 
light  of  his  blown  candle  of  love.  Then, 
in  the  hush  he  heard  a  sound  as  of  a 
branch  ceaselessly  trailed  through  long 
grass,  fainter  and  fainter,  more  and 
more  distinct ;  again  fainter ;  but  nothing 
could  he  see  that  should  make  that 
homeless  sound.  And  the  sense  of 
some  near  but  unseen  presence  crept 
on  him,  till  the  hair  moved  on  his  scalp. 
If  God  would  light  the  moon  or  stars, 
and  let  him  see !  If  God  would  end  the 
expectation  of  this  night,  let  one  wan 
glimmer  down  into  her  garden,  and  one 
wan  glimmer  into  his  breast!  But  it 
stayed  dark,  and  the  homeless  noise 
never  ceased.  The  weird  thought  came 
to  Milton  that  it  was  made  by  his  own 
heart,  wanderingout  there,  trying  to  feel 
warm  again.  He  closed  his  eyes  and  at 
once  knew  that  it  was  not  his  heart, 
but  indeed  some  external  presence,  un- 
consoled.  And  stretching  his  hands 
out,  he  moved  forward  to  arrest  that 
sound.  As  he  reached  the  railing,  it 
ceased.  And  he  saw  a  flame  leap  up, 
a  pale  broad  pathway  of  light  blanch- 
ing the  grass. 

And,  realizing  that  she  was  there, 
within,  he  gasped.  His  finger-nails  bent 
and  broke  against  the  iron  railing  with- 
out his  knowledge.  It  was  not  as  on 
that  night  when  the  red  flowers  on  her 
window-sill  had  wafted  their  scent  to 
him;  it  was  no  sheer  overpowering  rush 
of  passion.  Profounder,  more  terrible, 
was  this  rising  up  within  him  of  yearn- 
ing for  love  —  as  if,  now  defeated,  it 
would  nevermore  stir,  but  lie  dead  on 
that  dark  grass  beneath  those  dark 
boughs.  And  if  victorious — what  then? 
He  stole  back  under  the  tree. 


692 


THE  PATRICIANS 


He  could  see  little  white  moths  trav- 
eling down  that  path  of  lamplight; 
he  could  see  the  white  flowers  quite 
plainly  now,  a  pale  watch  of  blossoms 
guarding  the  dark  sleepy  ones;  and  he 
stood,  not  reasoning,  hardly  any  longer 
feeling;  stunned,  battered  by  struggle. 
His  face  and  hands  were  sticky  with 
the  honey-dew,  slowly,  invisibly  dis- 
tilling from  the  lime  tree.  He  bent 
down  and  felt  the  grass.  And  suddenly 
there  came  over  him  the  certainty  of 
her  presence.  Yes,  she  was  there  — 
out  on  the  veranda!  He  could  see  her 
white  figure  from  head  to  foot;  and, 
not  realizing  that  she  could  not  see  him, 
he  expected  her  to  utter  some  cry.  But 
no  sound  came  from  her,  no  gesture; 
she  turned  back  into  the  house.  Mil- 
ton ran  forward  to  the  railing.  But 
there,  once  more,  he  stopped  —  un- 
able to  think,  unable  to  feel;  as  it  were, 
abandoned  by  himself.  And  he  sud- 
denly found  his  hand  up  at  his  mouth, 
as  though  there  were  blood  there  to 
be  stanched  that  had  escaped  from 
his  heart. 

Still  holding  that  hand  before  his 
mouth,  and  smothering  the  sound  of 
his  feet  in  the  long  grass,  he  crept  away. 

LII 

In  the  great  glass  house  at  Ravens- 
ham,  Lady  Casterley  stood  close  to 
some  Japanese  lilies,  with  a  letter  in 
her  hand.  Her  face  was  very  white, 
for  it  was  the  first  day  she  had  been  al- 
lowed down  after  an  attack  of  influenza; 
nor  had  the  hand  in  which  she  held  the 
letter  its  usual  steadiness.  She  read :  — 

'  MONKLAND  COURT. 

'Just  a  lihe,  dear,  before  the  post 
goes,  to  tell  you  that  Babs  has  gone 
off  happily.  The  child  looked  beautiful. 


She  sent  you  her  love,  and  some  absurd 
message  —  that  you  would  be  glad  to 
hear,  she  was  perfectly  safe,  with  both 
feet  firmly  on  the  ground.' 

A  grim  little  smile  played  on  Lady 
Casterley 's  pale  lips:  Yes,  indeed,  and 
time  too!  The  child  had  been  very 
near  the  edge  of  the  cliffs!  Very  near 
committing  a  piece  of  romantic  folly! 
That  was  well  over!  And  raising  the 
letter  again,  she  read  on:  — 

'  We  were  all  down  for  it,  of  course, 
and  come  back  to-morrow.  Geoffrey  is 
quite  cut  up.  Things  can't  be  what  they 
were  without  our  Babs.  I've  watched 
Eustace  very  carefully,  and  I  really 
believe  he's  safely  over  that  affair  at 
last.  He  is  doing  extraordinarily  well 
in  the  House  just  now.  Geoffrey  says 
his  speech  on  the  Poor  Law  was  head 
and  shoulders  the  best  made.' 

Lady  Casterley  let  fall  the  hand 
which  held  the  letter.  Safe?  Yes,  he 
was  safe!  He  had  done  the  right  — 
the  natural  thing!  And  in  time  he 
would  be  happy!  He  would  rise  now 
to  that  pinnacle  of  desired  authority 
which  she  had  dreamed  of  for  him,  ever 
since  he  was  a  tiny  thing,  ever  since 
his  little  thin  brown  hand  had  clasped 
hers  in  their  wanderings  amongst  the 
flowers,  and  the  furniture  of  tall  rooms. 
But,  as  she  stood  —  crumpling  the 
letter,  gray- white  as  some  small  resolute 
ghost,  among  her  tall  lilies  that  filled 
with  their  scent  the  great  glass  house 
—  shadows  flitted  across  her  face.  Was 
it  the  fugitive  noon  sunshine?  Or  was  it 
some  glimmering  perception  of  the  old 
Greek  saying — 'Character  is  Fate'; 
some  sudden  sense  of  the  universal 
truth  that  all  are  in  bond  to  their  own 
natures,  and  what  a  man  has  most  de- 
sired shall  in  the  end  enslave  him? 


(The  End.} 


AMERICAN  UNTHRIFT 


BY  CHARLES   T.   ROGERS 


IF  the  flat  statement  were  to  be  made 
that  one  city-dweller  in  every  twenty 
—  one  voter  in  every  four  —  finds  it 
necessary  at  some  time  during  the 
course  of  a  year  to  discount  two  days' 
labor  for  the  immediate  price  of  one, 
finds  it  necessary  to  borrow  money  at 
120  per  cent,  the  general  public,  and 
even  economists  too,  perhaps,  would 
exclaim  that  the  thing  was  impossible. 
Yet  such  a  statement  is  approximately 
demonstrable. 

The  loan-office,  with  a  fixed  place  of 
business,  frankly  announced  by  a  sign 
and  advertised  in  the  newspapers,  and 
lending  money  on  salary  or  chattel 
mortgage  to  strangers,  is  virtually  an 
American  institution.  Twenty  years 
ago  it  was  almost  unknown  here,  and  in 
its  organization  and  method  of  doing 
business  it  is  not  known  to-day  outside 
this  country.  To  any  one  who  doubts 
the  startling  percentage  of  city  borrow- 
ers, I  offer  the  following  facts. 

Except  in  one  or  two  New  England 
States  and  some  of  the  Southern  States, 
these  loan-offices  flourish  generally 
throughout  the  country  to-day;  and, 
even  in  the  states  excepted,  there  is  no 
want  of  *  vest-pocket '  lenders,  of  whom 
more  will  be  said  hereafter.  To  get 
information  in  regard  to  the  establish- 
ed offices,  write  to  the  assessors  of  any 
cities  you  may  select;  the  answers  will 
show  that  the  proportion  of  loan- 
offices  to  the  average  city's  population 
is  about  the  same  the  country  over — 
one  such  office  for  every  twenty  thou- 
sand people.  Certain  investigations, 
which  can  readily  be  verified  in  a  sim- 


ilar way,  show  that  the  average  loan- 
office,  during  the  course  of  a  year,  clears 
from  eight  hundred  to  a  thousand 
loans  —  or,  to  come  back  to  my  orig- 
inal assertion,  one  loan  to  one  person  in 
twenty  in  the  city  in  question.  When 
one  considers  the  number  of  'vest- 
pocket  '  lenders  and  persons  who  prac- 
tice usury  as  a  'side  line,'  it  is  apparent 
that  the  proportion  of  borrowers  must 
be  even  greater;  but,  as  these  irregular 
lenders  and  the  extent  of  their  opera- 
tions cannot  be  accurately  traced,  they 
are  left  out  of  the  computation. 

'  It  is  the  oldest,  or  one  of  the  oldest, 
commercial  enterprises  in  the  world,' 
said  the  manager  of  a  loan-office,  as 
I  stood  in  his  office  and  watched  the 
borrowers  come  and  go.  A  surprising 
number  were  respectably  dressed,  and 
a  majority  even  of  the  shabbier  cus- 
tomers afforded,  to  a  close  observer, 
unmistakable  signs  of  being  hi  employ- 
ment. Whenever  a  patron  entered  and 
found  another  borrower  in  the  place, 
there  were  signs  of  mutual  uneasiness. 
The  business  was  accomplished  with 
dispatch,  the  only  hitches,  apparently, 
occurring  in  the  case  of  persons  ap- 
pearing for  the  first  time. 

'And  it  looks  as  though  it  will  never 
become  respectable,'  said  the  manager, 
resuming  his  reflections  after  a  pause. 
'It  is  mentioned  in  the  ethical  writ- 
ings of  the  ancient  Hindus,  and  the 
Chaldeans  had  a  statute  applying  to 
usury  three  thousand  years  before 
Christ  kicked  the  money-changers  out 
of  the  Temple.  And  yet  it  seems  to 
thrive.' 

693 


694 


AMERICAN  UNTHRIFT 


The  manager  was  a  rather  more 
scholarly  person  than  one  would  ex- 
pect to  find  in  his  professional  pursuit. 
He  had,  apparently,  been  driven  into 
the  business  to  satisfy  his.  belly-need; 
and  had  found  that,  for  a  comfortable 
salary,  he  had  put  himself  beyond  the 
reach  of  most  of  those  social  amenities 
which  make  life  worth  while.  Thrown 
upon  his  own  intellectual  resources,  he 
had  evidently  taken  a  certain  flagel- 
lating delight  in  delving  into  the  history 
and  bibliography  of  his  business. 

That  his  statement  as  to  the  growth 
of  usury  was  a  truthful  one  became 
apparent  on  the  most  casual  investiga- 
tion. Every  state  in  the  Union  has  a 
statute  forbidding  the  exaction  of  in- 
terest beyond  a  certain  percentage. 
In  most  states  the  limit  is  six  per  cent 
per  annum;  in  a  few  it  is  eight  percent, 
and  in  some  others  a  rate  of  ten  per 
cent  is  legal  if  stipulated  in  the  paper 
binding  the  loan.  In  a  majority  of  the 
states  these  hoary  statutes  have  been 
supplanted  by  others  imposing  a  heavy 
license  tax  on  those  who  make  a  busi- 
ness of  lending  money,  as  distinguished 
from  banking  operations.  Within  the 
past  decade  there  have  been  written 
into  many  state  codes  laws  imposing 
pains  and  penalties  on  persons  con- 
victed of  practicing  usury;  and  these 
clauses  lie  cheek-by-jowl  on  the  same 
page  with  those  other  statutes  licens- 
ing a  business  that,  apparently,  can- 
not be  suppressed.  Yet,  except  in  some 
eight  or  nine  states,  scattered  through- 
out the  South  and  New  England,  there 
is  scarcely  a  city  of  twenty  thousand 
or  more  inhabitants  lacking  one  or 
more  'loan-offices,'  established  in  a 
professed  place  of  business,  and  with 
signs  and  newspaper  advertisements 
informing  the  man  who  wants  to  bor- 
row money,  'with  or  without  security,' 
where  to  apply  for  it. 

The '  vest-pocket '  usurer,  whose  cli- 
entele is  limited  to  those  with  whom 


he  is  personally  acquainted,  does  busi- 
ness in  every  hamlet.  In  the  cities, 
also,  the  'vest-pocket'  man  may  be 
found,  concealing  his  occupation  and 
avoiding  the  payment  of  high  license 
taxes;  while  few,  indeed,  are  the  fac- 
tories and  mercantile  establishments 
where  one  cannot  find  some  employee 
who  loans  money  to  his  fellows  in  sums 
ranging  up  to  the  amount  of  the  week- 
ly wages,  and  charges  them  therefor 
from  ten  to  twenty  per  cent  interest 
per  week. 

One  firm  of  three  brothers  has  loan- 
offices  bearing  its  name  in  more  than 
twenty  cities,  and,  presumably,  many 
more  conducted  in  the  name  of  the 
local  manager  wherever  such  conceal- 
ment of  identity  seems  expedient.  The 
name  of  another  money-lender  is  blaz- 
oned in  gold  letters  on  the  doors  of 
offices  in  nearly  forty  cities.  Oddly 
enough  his  business  is  conducted  under 
the  active  supervision  of  women  man- 
agers,— a  fact  which  may  furnish  mat- 
ter for  speculation  to  those  who  con- 
tend that  women  are  not  acute  and 
exact  in  such  matters,  as  well  as  to 
persons  who  believe  that  the  usurer's 
most  profitable  occupation  is  snatch- 
ing the  last  crust  from  the  mouths  of 
the  needy.  Still  another  money-lender 

—  the  only  Hebrew  among  those  cited 

—  who  has  offices  scattered  all  over 
the  country  prefers  to  mask  his  iden- 
tity in  different  cities  as  this  or  that 
'Security'  or  'Trust'  company.   Firms 
known  to  conduct  half  a  dozen  or  more 
offices  are  numerous,  and  there  are  a 
vast  number  of  local  houses. 

'Three  features  of  this  business,' said 
my  pessimistic  manager,  'never  fail  to 
furnish  me  with  at  least  one  surprise 
per  week,  each.  They  are:  the  average 
American's  lack  of  thrift,  the  average 
man's  utter  ignorance  of  arithmetic 
and  simple  interest,  and  the  extraor- 
dinary resourcefulness  of  the  people 
who  swindle  us.' 


AMERICAN  UNTHRIFT 


695 


As  soon  as  money-lending  became 
systematic  —  when  the  business  devel- 
oped beyond  the  'vest-pocket'  stage, 
and  lenders  began  lending  money  to 
strangers  without  security  —  the  swin- 
dlers came  into  the  field.  The  com- 
monest scheme  is  for  the  swindler  to 
post  himself  as  to  the  address,  em- 
ployers, etc.,  of  some  workman  who 
may  never  have  had  any  need  to  bor- 
row. Then  the  swindler  comes  to  the 
lender  and  gives  the  other  man's  name 
and  address,  supplementing  the  in- 
formation with  details  as  to  the  work 
he  is  doing,  the  salary  paid  him,  and 
so  forth.  The  lender's  custom,  when 
a  new  patron  appears,  is  to  tell  the 
borrower  to  return  in  a  day  or  two 
and  get  the  money  he  wants  or  a  re- 
fusal. In  the  interim,  of  course,  he  in- 
quires into  the  customer's  statements, 
and  finds  out  everything  possible  con- 
cerning his  financial  standing  and  char- 
acter. 

The  method  originally  employed  by 
the  first  houses  organized  to  lend 
money  to  strangers,  was  to  make  in- 
quiry by  telephone  or  mail,  disguising 
the  queries  so  as  to  make  it  appear 
that  the  information  was  wanted  by  a 
small  tradesman,  or  by  some  one  who 
was  contemplating  hiring  the  prospect- 
ive borrower.  The  thing  that  made 
the  impersonator's  scheme  feasible 
was  the  necessity  for  circumspection 
on  the  part  of  the  lender,  lest  the  pro- 
spective patron's  employer  might  learn 
that  the  man  was  borrowing  money  of 
a  'Shylock.'  In  a  majority  of  such 
cases,  employers  are  prone  to  discharge 
the  workman  forthwith,  rather  than 
be  bothered  with  possible  garnishment 
and  the  like  —  although  such  methods 
are  seldom  resorted  to  by  the  lender 
nowadays.  One  office  where  I  made  es- 
pecial inquiry,  lost,  I  was  told,  through 
dishonest  borrowers  and  impersonat- 
ors, as  much  as  eighteen  per  cent  of 
the  amount  loaned  out  each  month. 


The  agent  told  me  he  knew  not  one 
case,  but  a  score  of  cases,  where  an 
incorrigible  drunkard  or  loafer  impers- 
onated some  wage -earner  in  his  own 
family. 

In  all  such  instances  the  lender 
works  at  a  disadvantage,  for  although 
the  public  has  only  a  vague  idea  of  the 
ethics  of  the  loan  business,  it  is  com- 
monly considered  almost  a  virtue  to 
swindle  a  usurer.  Another  source  of 
heavy  loss  is  the  journeyman  laborer. 
Many  craftsmen  see  the  world  without 
expense  by  wandering  all  over  the 
country;  and,  hi  nearly  every  town  they 
visit,  they  are  too  apt  to  work  only 
long  enough  to  get  themselves  some 
sort  of  a  standing  with  employers.  This 
standing  they  use  for  the  purpose  of 
borrowing  all  the  money  they  can  get 
before 'jumping' the  town.  Sometimes 
they  defraud  three  or  four  lenders  in 
one  city,  but  this  form  of  swindling  is 
passing.  Nowadays,  the  losses  from 
this  source  are  considerably  modified 
by  a  more  or  less  effective  interchange 
of  local  information  as  to  borrowers. 
The  large  concerns  with  offices  scat- 
tered over  the  country  can,  of  course, 
trace  a  defaulting  borrower  still  fur- 
ther. Their  safety,  as  well  as  that  of 
the  smaller  houses,  has  been  increased 
by  the  close  unionizing  of  many  trades. 
Nowadays  a  man  who  travels  to  an- 
other city  for  work  usually  carries  his 
union  card  and,  naturally,  cannot  have 
it  changed  to  fit  a  new  alias  each 
time,  in  case  he  desires  to  defraud  a 
lender. 

When  my  friend  the  manager  spoke 
of  the  ethics  of  his  business  he  was, 
perhaps,  not  far  wrong.  That  the  usu- 
rer fills  a  want  and  meets  a  condition 
is  evident.  The  frowns  of  forty  centu- 
ries have  not  daunted  him.  He  has 
multiplied  as  population  has  increased, 
and  here  he  still  is  taking  his  profit  — 
an  outrageous  profit  it  is  true,  as  the 
borrower  views  it;  but  the  fact  that  he 


696 


AMERICAN  UNTHRIFT 


is  allowed  to  take  it  with  but  scanty 
interference  demonstrates  that  he  is 
firmly  intrenched  behind  the  neces- 
sities of  the  community.  The  greater 
part  of  the  excessive  interest  charged 
is,  according  to  the  showing  made  by 
the  loan-offices,  due  to  the  importance 
of  charging  off  a  large  amount  each 
year  to  profit-and-loss,  on  account  of 
defaulted  loans,  loans  settled  by  bor- 
rowers who  refuse  to  pay  more  than  the 
legal  rate  and  who  cannot  be  bluffed, 
loans  settled  at  less  than  legal  interest, 
expense  of  guarding  against  defaults, 
and,  finally,  heavy  license  taxes,  legal 
or  illegal. 

A  brief  summary  of  conditions  re- 
vealed by  the  books  and  card-indexes 
of  three  firms  in  three  different  cities 
may  throw  some  light  on  this  condi- 
tion. In  the  case  of  one  of  the  cities 
mentioned,  the  books  and  indexes  of 
the  loan-offices  were  gone  over  by  ac- 
countants appointed  by  a  court,  and 
found  to  be  in  good  condition.  The 
court  was  trying  an  action  brought 
by  certain  loan-offices  in  a  Middle 
Western  city  to  enjoin  the  imposition 
of  a  license  tax,  which  they  claimed 
amounted  to  confiscation.  After  some 
difficulty,  for  capital  is  proverbially 
timid  in  these  matters,  the  books  of 
the  firms  in  the  other  cities  were  avail- 
able for  inspection.  The  entries  of  the 
three  firms  were  averaged,  and  the  re- 
sult proved  as  follows:  — 

Average  capital:  $10,000. 

Average  number  of  loans  outstand- 
ing the  year  round :  400. 

Average  size  of  loan :  $20. 

Terms  of  loan:  usually  to  be  paid 
in  four  monthly  installments,  averag- 
ing $7  each.  On  smaller  loans  the  rate 
is  somewhat  higher;  and  on  larger  ones, 
made  to  the  better  class  of  borrowers, 
a  trifle  less. 

Fixed  expenses:  salaries,  $3000  per 
year;  office-rent,  $600;  advertising, 
$400;  license  (legal  or  illegal),  $1500. 


Losses  on  defaults  and  settlements, 
at  legal  or  less  than  legal  interest: 
$1500. 

By  totaling  the  expense  and  the 
losses  it  will  be  seen  that  a  loan -office 
doing  business  with  strangers  on  a 
standing  capital  of  $10,000  must  charge 
off  seventy  per  cent  of  the  standing 
(not  the  working)  capital  for  all  oper- 
ating charges  before  it  can  earn  any- 
thing for  itself. 

When  one  begins  to  calculate  pro- 
fits, several  considerations  must  be  in- 
cluded within  the  scope  of  the  problem. 
A  glance  at  the  terms  of  the  loans  will 
show  that  each  borrower  paid  $8  in- 
terest on  a  loan  of  $20,  the  loan  being 
cleared  in  four  months.  Comparing 
the  number  of  loans  outstanding,  on 
the  average,  throughout  the  year,  it 
is  obvious  that  the  loan-office  was  able 
to  keep  about  $8000  at  work.  Inas- 
much as  the  average  loan  is  closed  in 
four  months,  it  follows  that  the  loan- 
office  turns  over  its  average  working 
capital  three  times  each  year  at  simple 
interest. 

Setting  the  problem  down  in  dollars, 
and  supposing  that  the  office  started 
the  year  with  an  absolutely  clean  slate, 
the  account  would  stand  something  like 
this:  — 

First  four  months:  amount  loaned 
$8000;  interest  due  at  the  end  of  the 
first  four  months,  under  the  terms  of 
the  average  $20  loan,  $3200. 

Second  period  of  four  months:  the 
same. 

Third  period  of  four  months:  the 
same;  making  a  total  gross  interest 
profit  of  $9600  for  the  year,  on  an  act- 
ive capital  of  $8000. 

From  this,  deduct  the  $7000  before 
itemized  as  expense  and  losses,  and  it 
will  be  seen  that  the  three  loan-offices 
furnishing  the  average  here  set  down 
cleared  an  average  profit  for  the  year 
(1908)  of  $2600.  This  was  an  even 
26  per  cent  on  the  average  capital  set 


AMERICAN  UNTHRIFT 


697 


aside  by  the  various  owners  of  the 
offices  named. 

It  will  be  noted  that  no  mention  is 
made  in  the  foregoing  computation  of 
the  possibilities  of  compounding.  This 
omission  is  due  to  the  fact,  heretofore 
indicated,  that  the  average  loan-office, 
with  a  capital  of  $10,000,  is  able,  as 
a  rule,  to  keep  only  four  fifths  of  its 
money  employed.  Experience,  com- 
paratively recent,  has  taught  the  back- 
er of  the  loan-office  that  the  most 
economical  results  are  to  be  obtained 
from  an  office  working  on  $10,000, 
or,  at  the  outside  figure,  $15,000  capi- 
tal, and  employing  four  persons.  At- 
tempts to  extend  the  business  of  any 
one  office  beyond  this  scale  have  re- 
sulted disastrously. 

The  American  loan-office  as  it  is 
conducted  to-day  can  be  successful- 
ly conducted  only  by  rigid  adherence 
to  the  rule  —  'personal  investigation 
of  each  borrower.'  If  the  man  who 
finances  a  loan-office  desires  to  com- 
pound his  interest,  he  can  do  so  only 
by  opening  new  offices  working  on  the 
plan  outlined  in  the  foregoing  para- 
graphs —  which  could  hardly  be  called 
compounding.  Aside  from  the  econom- 
ical working  of  an  office  of  the  sort 
mentioned,  borrowers  fight  shy  of  a 
crowded  office,  the  majority  of  them, 
for  sufficient  reasons,  not  caring  to 
extend  their  list  of  personal  acquaint- 
ances while  borrowing  from  a  loan-of- 
fice— much  less,  to  run  the  risk  of  meet- 
ing old  friends  at  an  office  patronized 
by  more  than  an  average  number  of 
clients. 

Considered  in  its  larger  aspects, 
after  the  brief  survey  already  made  of 
its  nation-wide  extent,  the  business 
of  lending  money  as  it  is  conducted  in 
the  United  States  to-day  is,  perhaps, 
most  interesting  as  an  appalling  ex- 
hibit of  prevalent  American  un thrift. 
When  one  considers  that,  in  addition 
to  the  loan-offices  with  a  fixed  place  of 


business,  there  are  heaven  only  knows 
how  many  lesser  usurers,  the  problem 
becomes  a  nice  one  for  the  experts  who 
are  attempting  to  diagnose  the  commer- 
cial ills  that  affect  the  nation  —  despite 
our  seeming  prosperity  and  enormous 
commerce.  Some  few  of  the  econo- 
mists who  have  considered  the  pro- 
blem have  fastened  the  guilt  of  the  pre- 
sent stringency  in  the  financial  affairs 
of  the  body  of  the  nation,  upon  the  in- 
creased production  .f  gold  —  alleging 
that,  as  money  has  become  more  plen- 
tiful, it  naturally  requires  more  money 
to  buy  a  given  article.  The  general 
public,  less  contemplative  in  so  vital  a 
case,  has  chosen  to  lay  the  blame  for 
the  higher  cost  of  living  upon  certain 
rich  men  who  are  believed  to  possess 
secret  control  of  the  transportation  and 
marketing  of  a  considerable  portion  of 
the  food  and  staple  supplies.  For  an 
economist  who,  instead  of  undertaking 
a  survey  of  the  affairs  of  the  nation  as 
a  whole,  should  study  carefully  and  in 
detail  the  movement  of  money,  the 
figures  here  cited  might  prove  inter- 
esting. When  one  urban  dweller  in 
every  twenty  finds  it  necessary  at 
some  tune  during  the  year  to  borrow 
money  at  the  rate  of  120  per  cent  per 
annum,  it  ought  to  be  fairly  evident 
that  the  increased  production  of  gold 
—  the  world's  accepted  standard  of 
value  —  has  not  wrought  any  bene- 
ficent change  in  the  status  of  the  aver- 
age American. 

What  is  perhaps  the  most  disheart- 
ening phase  of  the  business  becomes 
apparent  when  one  undertakes  to  es- 
timate the  benefit  that  the  loan-office 
affords  to  the  really  needy — the  class 
popularly  supposed  to  furnish  the  bulk 
of  its  business.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  modern  American  money-lending 
establishment  fails  utterly  to  reach  the 
really  poor.  Three  fifths  of  the  loans 
made  nowadays  by  the  established 
loan-offices  are  made  on  salaries  — 


698 


AMERICAN  UNTHRIFT 


that  is,  to  persons  in  employment  who 
sign  a  note-of-hand  secured  by  nothing 
more  than  the  fact  that  they  have  a 
job. 

The  loan-office  affords  no  relief  to 
persons  out  of  work  and  in  want  — 
no  matter  how  honest  they  may  be. 
It  prefers  to  lend  money  on  a  salary 
rather  than  on  a  chattel  mortgage  on 
personal  effects.  Some  offices  even 
scorn  jewelry  left  in  pledge.  Experi- 
ence has  taught  both  borrower  and 
lender  that  a  man  established  in  a 
salaried  position  will  make  a  greater 
effort  to  pay  promptly  than  one  who 
gives  a  chattel  mortgage. 

'Three  fourths  of  the  loans  on  chattel 
mortgage  have  to  be  extended,'  has  be- 
come a  maxim  among  money-lenders. 
The  reason  is  obvious.  No  man  contem- 
plates with  equanimity  any  prospect 
of  losing  his  employment;  and  troubles 
with  money-lenders,  once  they  become 
public,  result  almost  invariably  in  the 
discharge  of  the  borrower  by  his  em- 
ployer. This  fear,  it  is  true,  is  usually 
a  vague  one.  The  lender  in  nearly  all 
cases  finds  it  to  his  interest  to  conduct 
his  operations  discreetly,  and  will  not 
air  the  business  except  in  extreme  cases. 
He  may  be  trusted  not  to  kill  the  goose 
that  lays  the  golden  egg  until  the  fowl 
stops  laying,  and  is  apparently  pluming 
for  a  flight  to  another  roost. 

Newspaper  men,  who  are  called  upon 
to  investigate  a  large  number  of  cases 
involving  alleged  rapacity  on  the  part 
of  the  money-lender,  are  generally 
somewhat  cynical  in  such  matters.  In 
most  instances  the  foreclosure  of  a 
chattel  mortgage  by  the  lender  means 
that  he  has  an  uncomfortably  long  line 
of  such  loans  outstanding  in  some  par- 
ticular neighborhood,  and  that  he  is 
taking  the  action  for  the  sake  of  the 
moral  effect  it  may  have  in  the  cases  of 
the  other  delinquents.  A  reputation  for 
persistent  and  consistent  hard-heart- 
edness  in  such  matters  is  likely  to 


bring  results  as  disastrous  to  the  usurer 
as  it  does  to  the  small  tradesman.  He 
has  his  prospective,  as  well  as  his  pre- 
sent clientele  to  consider;  and  both  are 
limited. 

Money-borrowing  —  or  rather  bor- 
rowing and  discounting  the  future, 
which  seems  to  be  unusually  popular 
at  present  —  may  be  termed  a  great 
national  palliative,  which,  in  turn,  has 
had  other  palliatives  applied  to  it  by 
well-meaning  persons;  but  thus  far 
the  remedies  suggested  have  all  been 
offered  by  one  class  of  people.  These 
would-be  healers  are  well-meaning 
folk  whose  hearts  have  been  wrung  by 
tales  of  atrocities  practiced  upon  the 
poor  by  *  loan-sharks.'  Legislation 
has  proved  of  no  use.  Some  few  phil- 
anthropists have  given  sufficient  nt- 
tention  to  the  problem  to  make  them 
chary  of  law,  and  have  attempted  to 
meet  the  condition  by  'competition.' 
Loan-companies  designed  to  serve  the 
laudable  double  purpose  of  furnishing 
needy  persons  with  money  at  a  fair  rate 
of  interest,  and  of  lowering  the  rates 
charged  by  the  ordinary  loan-office, 
have  been  experimented  with  in  a  num- 
ber of  cities.  These  quasi-philanthropic 
concerns  have  as  a  rule  been  planned 
either  as  offices  organized  and  con- 
ducted in  the  same  way  as  the  regular 
loan-offices,  or  as  loan-funds  operated 
in  factories,  etc.,  for  the  sole  benefit 
of  the  employees. 

The  philanthropic  loan-office,  de- 
signed to  deal  with  all  comers  and  to 
meet  the  professional  usurer  on  his  own 
ground,  is  naturally  the  more  inter- 
esting, because  it  offers  a  fair  basis 
for  comparison  with  its  rival,  and  fur- 
nishes a  reasonable  opportunity  of  test- 
ing the  veracity  of  statements  made 
as  to  returns.  In  nearly  every  case, 
the  philanthropic  loan-office  dealing 
with  strangers  has  been  abandoned  by 
the  backers  after  they  found  that  do- 
ing business  along  regular  loan-office 


AMERICAN  UNTHRIFT 


699 


lines  at  a  'fair'  rate  of  interest  meant 
simply  the  furnishing  of  benefactions 
instead  of  loans.  In  most  instances,  no 
detailed  financial  statement  as  to  de- 
faults, extensions,  etc.,  can  be  had  from 
them,  but  one  case,  that  of  a  Cincin- 
nati institution,  affords  some  interest- 
ing figures. 

The  Cincinnati  concern  was  set  in  mo- 
tion by  a '  practical '  man,  who  hoped  to 
get  into  running  order  a  machine  that 
would  provide  loans  on  chattels  at  mod- 
erate rates  for  the  self-respecting  poor. 
The  necessary  capital  was  furnished 
by  local  philanthropists,  and  the  plan 
was  given  a  fair  and  prolonged  trial. 
After  successive  readjustments  of  terms 
and  practice,  the  office  was  finally 
brought  to  a  point  where  it  met  the 
conditions  imposed  by  the  backers  — 
that  it  be  self-supporting.  When  it 
reached  that  point  the  manager  found 
to  his  disgust  that  he  was  charging  48 
per  cent  per  annum  on  the  smaller 
loans;  furthermore,  that  he  was  not 
reaching  really  needy  folk  at  all;  and, 
finally,  that,  in  order  to  remain  self- 
supporting,  the  office  was  compelled 
to  refuse  applications  from  persons, 
a  considerable  number  of  whom  were 
afterwards  able  to  obtain  loans  from 
the  'Shylocks,'  at  the  latter's  higher 
rate.  The  manager  gave  the  public  a 
detailed  statement  of  the  case,  which 
was  investigated  and  found  to  be 
correct. 

There  are  now,  principally  in  the 
Eastern  States,  a  number  of  loan-or- 
ganizations conducted  for  the  benefit 
of  the  employees  of  various  factories, 
department  stores,  and  the  like.  Inas- 
much as  these  are  close  corporations, 
doing  business  only  with  the  employ- 
ees of  the  particular  concerns  in  ques- 
tion, they  do  not  offer  a  fair  basis  for 
comparison  with  the  operations  of  the 
professional  usurer.  They  do  not  lend 
money  to  strangers,  but  to  persons 
known  to  those  having  the  loan-fund 


in  charge;  also,  in  collecting  payments 
on  loans  they  have  obvious  advant- 
ages over  the  usurer.  Some  of  them 
have  a  system  whereby  the  amount 
due  on  the  loan  is  withheld  from  the 
employee's  pay  envelope,  without  re- 
gard to  his  ability  to  make  some  par- 
ticular payment  with  comfort. 

These  industrial  concerns  are  capital- 
.  ized  in  various  ways :  sometimes  by  the 
employer  acting  alone,  sometimes  by 
his  cooperation  with  his  employees, 
who  furnish  part  of  the  capital  by  as- 
sessment, while  some  few  corporations 
have  loan-funds  capitalized  wholly  by 
their  employees.  In  the  two  last-named 
cases,  there  is  of  course  an  object-lesson 
in  thrift  furnished  by  the  operations 
of  the  loaning  system.  In  order  that 
the  cooperative  industrial  loan-fund  be 
conducted  with  success,  it  is  of  course 
necessary  that  thrifty  employees  be 
offered  a  greater  inducement  than  sav- 
ings banks  can  give  in  order  to  get 
small  investors  to  contribute  their 
share  of  the  capital.  This  fact,  com- 
bined with  the  necessity  of  paying 
some  one  to  manage  the  business,  and 
the  further  necessity  of  charging  off  a 
certain  number  of  inevitable  defaults, 
results  in  an  interest-charge  exceeding 
the  legal  rate.  In  other  words,  the  em- 
ployees, in  order  to  protect  themselves 
from  usury,  are  compelled  to  practice 
usury  themselves.  The  rate  of  interest 
charged  by  these  industrial  loan-or- 
ganizations varies  between  fifteen  and 
thirty  per  cent  —  the  former  rate  be- 
ing virtually  the  minimum,  although 
special  conditions  obtaining  in  some 
shops  may  make  a  slightly  lower  rate 
possible. 

That  these  industrial  institutions, 
if  generally  operated  throughout  the 
country,  would  rob  the  ordinary  loan- 
office  of  a  considerable  portion  of  its 
patronage,  and  deprive  the  'fellow 
employee,'  and  the  'vest-pocket'  man, 
whose  rates  are  the  highest  of  all,  of 


AMERICAN  UNTHRIFT 


their  opportunities  for  usury,  is  appar- 
ent. The  people  reached  by  the  in- 
dustrial concerns  are  the  very  cream  of 
the  usurer's  patronage.  What  the  elim- 
ination of  these  folk  from  the  clientele, 
actual  and  prospective,  of  the  loan- 
office  would  lead  to,  in  the  way  of  still 
higher  interest-rates  for  those  still  at 
the  mercy  of  the  loan-office,  remains  to 
be  seen,  inasmuch  as  the  industrial . 
concerns  are,  so  far,  not  numerous.  It 
is,  however,  a  prospect  not  to  be  con- 
sidered with  any  great  equanimity,  in 
view  of  the  unquestionable  fact  that 
employers  generally  would  look  with 
more  favor  on  a  proposition  to  start 
such  a  loan-fund  than  they  would  on 
any  proposal  to  increase  wages. 

One  other  fact  worth  noting  in  the 
case  of  these  industrial  loan-enter- 
prises has  been  fairly  well  established. 
They  fail  to  stop  a  certain  proportion 
of  employees  from  resorting  to  the 
'Shylock.'  Experience  shows  that  there 
are  always  a  number  of  employees  who 
do  not  care  to  have  their  fellows  or 
their  employers  know  when  they  fail  to 
make  both  ends  meet.  In  addition 
to  these,  there  is  the  usual  percentage 
of  transient  employees  who  resort  to 
the  loan-offices  in  times  of  stress  be- 
cause they  are  not  eligible  as  borrowers 
from  the  fund,  or  from  other  motives 
sufficient  to  themselves. 

Disregarding  people  who  might  be 
reached  by  industrial  or  cooperative 
loan-agencies  of  the  kind  just  consid- 
ered, there  still  remains  the  bulk  of  the 
loan-office  patrons — persons  employed 
by  smaller  factories  or  firms  which  do 
not  have  a  working  force  large  enough 
to  make  an  industrial  loaning  enter- 
prise feasible.  For  these  the  loan-of- 
fice is  still  the  only  refuge  in  time  of 
stress  brought  by  sickness,  birth,  and, 
frequently,  by  death.  The  office  also 
stands  there  as  a  beguilement  to  those 
who  lack  the  thrift  and  self-denial 
necessary  to  accumulate  the  purchase 


price  of  some  coveted  article,  no  mat- 
ter whether  the  thing  desired  be  a 
Christmas  gift  for  some  '  best  girl,'  or  a 
necessary  article  of  furniture  or  wear- 
ing apparel.  And  also  there  are,  and  al- 
ways will  be,  unnumbered  persons  with 
whom  the  cost  of  a  bare  living  so  close- 
ly approaches  the  amount  of  the  week- 
ly wage,  that  the  delayed  purchase  of 
necessary  wearing  apparel,  furniture, 
and  the  like,  becomes,  at  some  time  or 
other,  a  very  real  and  pressing  emerg- 
ency. To  these  the  loan-office  must 
continue  to  appeal  successfully 

I  have  said  that  the  philanthropic 
loan-office  and  the  industrial  loan-fund, 
in  order  to  do  business  successfully, 
have  found  it  necessary  to  weed  out 
prospective  borrowers  more  vigorously 
than  the  'loan-shark';  and  that  the 
'loan-shark,'  with  his  higher  rate  of 
interest,  has,  in  turn,  a  dead-line  be- 
yond which  he  cannot  operate  at  a 
profit.  Beyond  this  second  line  are 
the  people  who  need  a  loan  most  cruel- 
ly of  all,  and  who  are  unable  to  get  it  at 
any  price  —  unless  they  are  fortunate 
enough  to  possess  certain  stock  art- 
icles which  custom  has  made  the  pawn- 
broker's familiar  security.  Just  what 
a  dollar  is  worth  to  these  people  when 
obtainable  in  the  form  of  a  loan  is  a 
matter  of  pure  conjecture.  That  the 
great  majority  of  them  are  negatively 
honest,  in  that  they  do  not  steal,  is 
certain.  What  percentage  of  the  whole 
number  would  prove  honest  borrowers 
when  dealing  with  a  loan-office  spe- 
cially designed  to  meet  their  needs 
can,  of  course,  be  determined  only  by 
actual  practice. 

There  is  another  pressing  need  for 
money  of  which  the  prosperous  think 
seldom,  —  I  mean  the  increased 
chances  for  getting  a  job  which  a  little 
cash  confers  on  a  man  out  of  employ- 
ment. It  is  not  only  that  cash  supplies 
him  with  meals  and  carfare.  Many 
a  man  has  forfeited  his  chance  of  a 


AMERICAN  UNTHRIFT 


701 


position  by  reason  of  an  unpaid  board- 
bill  or  shabby  clothes.  There  are  plenty 
of  workmen  in  every  large  city  to-day 
who  carry  from  office  to  office  perfectly 
useless  letters  of  recommendation  from 
their  last  employer,  men  whose  hon- 
esty, for  the  practical  purposes  of  a 
loan-office,  can  be  measured  with  as 
much  exactness  as  that  of  the  man 
who  is  able  to  get  a  loan  by  virtue  of 
being  at  work. 

The  loan-office  that  will  serve  those 
who  are  needy  and  self-respecting  must, 
evidently,  be  prepared  to  make  a  much 
longer  time-loan  than  any  of  the  agen- 
cies already  considered,  philanthropic 
or  otherwise,  have  thus  far  been  will- 
ing to  offer.  The  loan  must  be  made 
upon  no  security  beyond  carefully  in- 
vestigated evidences  of  good  character, 
good  habits,  and  industry.  Interest  and 
partial  payments  cannot  be  expected 
until  the  borrower  finds  employment. 
The  rate  necessarily  cannot  be  deter- 
mined until  actual  operations  have 
shown  the  percentage  of  defaults  in 
this  class  of  borrowers.  It  remains  to 
be  seen  whether  such  an  institution  can 
ever  be  conducted  on  a  self-support- 
ing basis  at  something  like  the  rate 
the  loan-office  now  charges  persons 
with  chattels,  or  persons  in  employ- 


ment. Should  such  an  institution  ever 
be  proved  practicable,  though  it  might 
not  herald  a  millennium,  it  would  mark 
a  considerable  stride  in  the  direction  of 
service  to  the  people. 

In  the  mean  time  the  great  mass 
of  people  who  own  no  commercial  se- 
curity will,  under  the  stress  of  real  or 
fancied  necessity,  be  compelled  to  re- 
sort to  the  loan-office  when  wanting  a 
loan.  For  these  folk  there  is  apparently 
no  hope  of  a  lowering  of  the  rates  now 
in  force.  Competition  by  industrial  or 
employers'  loan-funds  does  not  pro- 
mise to  lower  the  loan-office  rate  to 
those  not  fortunate  enough  to  be  em- 
ployed where  they  can  obtain  a  co- 
operative loan.  On  the  contrary,  by 
the  paradox  already  noted,  such  com- 
petition will,  if  it  ever  becomes  exten- 
sive, be  likely  to  cause  a  rise  in  the  loan- 
office  rate,  or  a  closer  weeding-out  of 
borrowers.  For  the  generality  of  bor- 
rowers who  will  or  must  patronize  loan- 
offices  there  is  little  to  be  offered  in  the 
way  of  advice  save  the  mocking  ad- 
juration: 'Put  money  in  thy  purse,'  to 
which  may  be  added  the  sage  advice, 
well  understood  by  those  who  have  had 
experience,  '  Never  borrow  an  amount 
exceeding  two  thirds  of  one  month's 
wages.' 


THE  STRANGER  WITHIN  OUR  GATES 


BY   FRANCIS   E.    LEUPP 


THE  exercise  of  hospitality,  as  de- 
scribed in  the  earlier  records  of  our 
race  and  still  observed  in  parts  of  the 
old  world,  has  primarily  to  do  with 
strangers,  the  poor,  and  the  holy  or- 
ders. Its  obligations  are  regarded,  in 
Oriental  countries,  as  more  sacred  than 
human  life.  The  scriptures  of  all  re- 
ligions emphasize  its  importance,  but 
almost  invariably  associate  it  with 
considerations  of  future  reward.  Abra- 
ham and  Lot  are  held  up  as  exemp- 
lars for  all  posterity  because,  having 
taken  in  some  wayfarers,  they  dis- 
covered later  that  they  had  been  en- 
tertaining angels  unawares.  Even  the 
great  woman  of  Shunam,  who  built  a 
little  guest-house  and  furnished  it  for 
Elisha,  did  so  because  she  was  con- 
vinced that  he  was  'an  holy  man  of 
God,'  and  received  her  compensation 
in  a  double  miracle. 

Long  before  our  generation,  these 
primitive  ideals  lost  their  hold.  In 
modern  civilization  the  holy  orders  have 
largely  made  place  for  secular  charity 
organizations,  and  hospitality  for  the 
purpose  of  sparing  hardship  we  call 
philanthropy.  The  entertainment  of 
others  with  the  design  of  filling  them 
with  wine,  which  in  the  old  times  seemed 
about  the  only  variant,  we  tolerate  as 
conviviality  or  condemn  as  carousing. 
We  have  given  the  term  'stranger'  a 
new  interpretation,  so  that  it  no  longer 
means  the  person  we  do  not  know,  but 
any  one  not  of  our  own  household;  the 
real  stranger  seeks  shelter  and  food  in 
a  public  hostelry,  and  only  the  friend 
is  invited  to  take  up  his  abode  with  us. 

702 


Finally,  the  host  who  is  suspected  of 
dispensing  his  courtesies  in  the  hope 
of  a  reward,  becomes  an  object  of  con- 
tempt. 

Although  these  negative  changes  are 
universally  recognized,  there  are  af- 
firmative phases  of  the  subject  which 
still  perplex  many  good  people.  What 
reason  has  hospitality,  nowadays,  for 
existing?  To  whom  shall  it  be  extend- 
ed? What  forms  shall  it  take?  These 
are  among  the  questions  one  hears  dis- 
cussed. It  would  be  foolish  to  attempt 
to  answer  them  with  reference  to  any 
individual,  without  knowing  him  pret- 
ty well,  because  so  much  would  depend 
on  his  idiosyncrasies.  As  regards  the 
interests  of  the  family,  however,  which 
not  only  is  the  social  unit,  but  in  a 
sense  also  represents  the  social  mean, 
a  few  reflections  may  not  come  amiss. 

First,  then,  the  practice  of  hospital- 
ity has  the  same  value,  as  a  factor  in 
family  life,  that  the  stirring  of  the  soil 
and  occasional  mulching  have  in  the 
life  of  a  tree.  The  family  which  settles 
down  to  a  hermit  existence,  no  matter 
how  clever,  how  genial,  or  how  fond  of 
each  other  its  members  may  be,  grows 
either  sodden  or  eccentric  as  time 
goes  on;  or,  as  a  friend  expresses  it, 
they  'seem  more  and  more  Dickens-y 
every  year.'  If  the  members  have 
much  force  of  character,  their  peculiar- 
ities gradually  intensify  and  crystal- 
lize; and,  if  they  are  commonplace, 
their  dullness  becomes  wooden.  The 
intrusion  of  an  unaccustomed  element 
now  and  then,  prying  up  their  imbed- 
ded prejudices,  putting  them  for  a  time 


THE  STRANGER  WITHIN  OUR  GATES 


703 


upon  their  manners,  stimulating  their 
merriment  by  applications  of  unfamiliar 
wit  and  humor,  and  letting  in  upon 
them  some  of  the  atmosphere  of  the 
larger  world  outside,  is  a  blessing  past 
estimating.  Hospitality  is  a  habit  easy 
to  neglect,  for  at  the  outset  we  are 
flattered  by  discovering  how  well  we 
can  get  on  alone;  and,  once  in  the  rut 
of  isolation,  inertia  —  in  this  instance 
another  name  for  laziness  —  keeps  us 
there  indefinitely. 

Like  the  old  savage  whose  first  ex- 
perience of  a  Christmas-tree  was  so  de- 
lightful that  he  wanted  one  every  week, 
the  skeptical  reader  may  ask  why,  if 
a  visit  from  a  friend  is  so  wholesome, 
I  do  not  advocate  keeping  one  always 
in  the  house.  That  extreme  would  be 
as  bad  as  the  other.  Every  family, 
just  as  every  human  being,  ought  to 
have  certain  periods  of  privacy.  This 
is  necessary  for  the  individual  in  order 
to  restore  his  moral  equipose,  give  his 
mind  a  chance  to  work  without  any 
external  impulse,  and,  to  borrow  a 
phrase  from  commerce,  enable  him 
to  take  account  of  stock.  It  is  advisable 
for  the  family,  in  order  that  the  good 
derived  from  a  visit  may  be  deliber- 
ately absorbed  and  assimilated,  and 
that  all  may  feel  the  refreshment  which 
conies  with  a  change  back  from  unusual 
conditions,  however  tonic  in  them- 
selves, to  the  normal  and  customary. 
Father,  mother,  sons,  and  daughters, 
see  one  another  in  a  new  light  by  a 
process  of  unconscious  comparison 
with  the  departed  guest.  The  foibles 
of  one  seem  less  irritating,  the  virtues 
of  another  more  conspicuous,  the  small 
details  of  household  administration 
more  interesting,  after  a  temporary 
diversion. 

Where  shall  you  draw  the  lines  to 
bound  your  hospitalities?  Is  it  incum- 
bent to  throw  open  your  house  to  any 
old  acquaintance  from  a  distance  who 
happens  to  be  staying  a  day  or  two  in 


town  to  break  a  journey?  That  de- 
pends. A  sound,  well  man,  more  accus- 
tomed to  a  free  existence  than  to  home 
restraints,  would  doubtless  prefer  a 
hotel  or  a  club,  with  the  privilege  of 
dropping  in  at  your  house  when  the 
spirit  moves.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  is  ill  or  on  the  verge  of  illness,  and 
needs  the  sympathetic  environments 
of  a  home,  take  him  in  by  all  means  if 
you  can.  That  is  more  than  hospi- 
tality; it  is  humanity,  and  its  reagent 
effect  upon  yourself  will  be  as  fine  as 
its  direct  effect  upon  the  beneficiary. 

Must  you  open  your  home  to  one 
whose  sole  claim  is  that  he  is  of  your 
blood  kindred?  Perhaps  I  shall  pro- 
voke some  sincere  censure  when  I  an- 
swer, No.  Let  the  honor  of  guestship 
crown  only  individual  desert.  Con- 
sanguinity may  expand  your  financial 
responsibilities,  or  impel  you  to  shield 
from  punishment  the  blackest  sheep 
who  bears  your  father's  surname;  but 
that  is  a  matter  of  sentiment,  not 
duty. 

And  what  shall  we  say  of  the  de- 
mands on  you  where  the  person  you 
are  considering  has  forced  civilities 
upon  yourself  in  the  past?  As  to  that, 
your  judgment  must  reckon  first  with 
your  conscience.  Were  the  courtesies 
*  actually  forced,  or  were  they  accepted 
under  a  mere  pretense  of  reluctance? 
If  the  latter,  then  obviously  your  hon- 
est course  is  to  pay  your  penalty  with 
as  good  grace  as  possible,  and  try  to 
profit  by  the  experience. 

Not  so  easy  to  solve  is  the  problem 
presented  by  a  friend  of  earlier  days, 
whom  you  would  enjoy  having  with 
you  for  his  own  or  for  old  times'  sake, 
and  about  whom,  if  you  were  living 
alone,  you  would  not  hesitate  for  an 
instant;  but  whose  personality  or  con- 
nections, wholly  outside  of  the  nicer 
moralities,  seem  to  render  him  inelig- 
ible for  the  intimacy  of  your  family 
life.  Unconscious  of  his  own  short- 


704 


THE  STRANGER  WITHIN  OUR  GATES 


comings  from  your  point  of  view,  he 
probably  wonders  at  your  aloofness. 
It  would  be  more  embarrassing  to  at- 
tempt to  explain  matters  than  to  risk 
offending  him  by  inaction  and  silence; 
yet,  there  you  are!  Your  first  allegiance 
is  not  to  your  friend,  but  to  your  fam- 
ily. If  you  were  to  stretch  the  protective 
line  far  enough  to  admit  him,  future 
complications  could  hardly  fail  to  arise. 
He  might  insist,  for  instance,  on  re- 
turning your  favors,  and  in  a  way 
which  you  could  neither  conscientiously 
accept  nor  graciously  refuse.  So  the 
breach  of  a  lifetime's  friendship  would 
better  be  hazarded  now  than  assured 
later. 

Most  discussions  of  hospitality  err, 
it  seems  to  me,  in  trying  to  settle  all 
such  difficulties  by  referring  them  to 
one  test  question :  Do  we  invite  a  guest 
into  our  home  for  his  pleasure,  or  for 
ours?  To  proceed  on  either  assump- 
tion alone  is  unfortunate,  for  inevit- 
ably the  guest  soon  bores  the  host,  or 
the  host  the  guest.  Every  one  knows 
persons  whom  he  respects  thoroughly, 
and  at  a  convenient  distance  even  likes, 
but  who,  to  his  taste,  are  as  uninter- 
esting as  good.  That  they  enjoy  his 
society  is  shown  by  the  eagerness  with 
which  they  seek  it  at  every  opportun- 
ity, and  continue  in  it  as  long  as  they 
can.  Were  he  a  pure  altruist,  he  would 
urge  them  to  come  to  him  at  any  time 
and  stay  indefinitely;  but  how  long  he 
would  last  under  this  constant  drain 
on  his  vitality  is  an  open  question.  It 
must  be  equally  evident  to  any  of  us 
who  are  capable  of  taking  an  honest 
inventory  of  ourselves,  that  there  are 
persons  at  the  further  focus  of  our 
social  ellipse  whose  intimacy  we  should 
like  to  cultivate  by  hospitable  atten- 
tions, but  whom  we  should  surely  wear 
out  by  an  overdose  of  them. 

Now,  what  is  to  be  gained  by  doing, 
in  the  name  of  good-fellowship,  that 
which  is  bound  to  inflict  suffering  upon 


your  neighbor  or  yourself?  Whether 
or  not  your  tedious  friend  realizes  his 
limitations,  at  least  do  his  general  in- 
telligence the  credit  of  believing  that 
he  would  be  sure  to  find  out  the  truth 
after  a  little,  and  that  he  would  then 
feel  sorry  for  the  annoyance  he  had 
caused. 

A  like  regret  would  overcome  you  if 
you  awoke  one  day  to  the  fact  that  you 
had  been  forcing  unwelcome  civilities 
upon  somebody  else.  As  one  of  our 
main  desires  ought  to  be  to  promote 
the  happiness  of  the  world,  why  should 
we  be  willing  to  increase  its  discom- 
forts for  the  sake  merely  of  observing 
sundry  empty  conventions?  The  right 
test  question,  in  short,  is  not  whether 
we  should  enjoy  entertaining  a  certain 
person  as  a  guest,  or  whether  he  would 
enjoy  being  thus  entertained,  but 
whether  the  enjoyment  would  be  re- 
ciprocal, and  as  nearly  equal  as  may  be. 
Unless  we  can  be  sure  that  both  parties 
will  find  pleasure  in  the  temporary 
relation,  we  are  worse  than  foolish  to 
establish  it,  since  it  means  the  saddling 
of  our  guest  with  a  sense  of  obligation, 
whose  discharge  in  kind  will  bring  on 
another  ordeal  for  him,  or  for  us,  or 
for  both. 

Keeping  this  fundamental  thought 
in  mind,  let  us  consider  the  forms  our 
hospitality  may  take.  Here  again  we 
find  popular  opinion  divided  between 
two  extremes.  On  one  side  it  is  taken 
for  granted  that  the  chief  end  of  hos- 
pitality is  to  fill  a  guest's  cup  of  enjoy- 
ment to  overflowing,  by  surrounding 
him  with  all  the  luxuries  the  host's 
purse  can  afford,  or  more  if  need  be.  In 
the  remoter  districts  we  sometimes  find 
a  family  stowing  itself  away  in  cramped 
and  cheerless  quarters  under  its  own 
roof,  to  the  end  that  a  'best  room'  and 
a  'spare  chamber,'  used  but  twice  or 
thrice  a  year,  may  be  kept  always  in 
spick-and-span  order  for  guests  who 
are  to  be  entertained  ceremoniously. 


THE  STRANGER  WITHIN  OUR  GATES 


705 


'Company'  viands  are  then  served  on 
'  company '  china,  spread  on '  company ' 
table-linen;  and  'company'  conversa- 
tion supersedes,  to  every  one's  discom- 
fort, the  usual  flow  of  friendly  chat. 
The  whole  family  heaves  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief when  its  guest  takes  himself  off, 
and  the  burden  which  has  oppressed  its 
spirit  is  lifted. 

And  the  guest?  He  must  be  dull 
indeed  if  he  cannot  see,  beneath  their 
effort  to  be  polite,  what  a  dead  weight 
these  good  people  find  him  to  carry. 
The  impression  he  bears  away  from  his 
visit  has  nothing  genial  in  it.  If  he  is 
a  person  of  right  feeling,  the  conscious- 
ness that  he  has  been  a  nuisance  to  his 
entertainers  clouds  his  memory  of  the 
period,  and  his  sense  of  the  uselessness 
of  it  all  is  irritating,  in  spite  of  his 
appreciation  of  the  kindly  intent  that 
inspired  it.  This  crude  illustration  need 
only  have  some  of  its  harsher  lines 
softened  in  order  to  fit  situations  en- 
countered daily  in  places  not  remote, 
and  among  a  class  of  whom  we  expect 
a  broader  social  outlook.  They  are 
simply  a  little  more  clever  than  the 
others  in  elaborating  their  disguise  of 
accustomedness  and  spontaneity. 

Putting  the  form  and  method  of  en- 
tertainment to  the  test  suggested  in  an 
earlier  paragraph,  what  is  the  result? 
If  we  would  assure  the  mutual  pleas- 
ure of  host  and  guest,  it  is  plain  that 
the  host  must  not  rush  into  extra- 
vagances, involving  needless  privations 
for  himself  and  his  household,  and  try 
to  hoodwink  his  guest  into  believing 
these  the  every-day  conditions  of  his 
domestic  life.  This  rule  would  not  for- 
bid putting  an  extra  touch  of  dainti- 
ness upon  the  fare  offered  the  visitor, 
as  an  expression  of  everybody's  grati- 
fication at  his  coming;  but  such  a  sim- 
ple tribute  of  friendship  is  a  wholly 
different  thing  from  a  display  for  shal- 
low purposes  of  deception,  or  a  vain- 
glorious attempt  to  surround  the  guest 

VOL.  107 -NO.  5 


with  the  thousand  luxuries  with  which, 
as  the  possessor  of  larger  wealth  than 
his  host,  he  is  assumed  to  have  been 
surrounded  at  home. 

At  bottom,  of  course,  all  this  is  a 
question  of  conscience.  But  once  more 
try  to  put  yourself  into  the  other  fel- 
low's place,  and  pay  him  the  compli- 
ment of  supposing  that  he  is  as  capable 
of  guessing  at  your  daily  environment  as 
you  are  of  guessing  at  his.  If  you  have 
discovered  his  sumptuousness,  he  prob- 
ably had  discerned  your  simplicity  of 
living.  What  you  lay  before  him,  there- 
fore, will  be  pretty  certain  to  take  in 
his  mind  its  intrinsic  value,  whether 
it  be  real  or  counterfeit;  and  the  idea 
that  he  may  suspect  you  of  having 
merely  played  a  part,  while  you  know 
that  that  is  just  what  you  have  been 
doing,  will  not  prove  the  pleasantest 
souvenir  of  his  visit.  One  of  the  most 
notable  dinner-givers  at  whose  table 
I  have  ever  sat,  once  poured  into  my 
private  ear  her  grievance  that  nearly 
every  one  seemed  to  feel  compelled  to 
repay  her  civilities  in  her  own  coin. 
'It  reduces  society  to  the  sordid  level 
of  a  market,'  she  said;  adding,  with  a 
candor  quite  devoid  of  ostentation, 
'It  is  easy  for  me  to  do  this  sort  of 
thing,  but  not  for  many  of  the  friends 
I  like  best  to  draw  about  me.  Yet 
most  of  them  fancy  that  they  must 
entertain  me  on  a  grand  scale  or  not  at 
all.  Why  can't  they  unbend,  and  let 
me  drop  in  upon  them  now  and  then  for 
a  chop  and  a  boiled  potato?' 

So,  instead  of  shouldering  your  guest 
with  a  smothered  groan  at  his  weight, 
and  straining  yourself  out  of  shape  to 
carry  him,  bid  him  welcome  to  what 
you  have,  and  in  the  way  you  have  it. 
Is  your  breakfast  hour  eight?  Continue 
it  during  his  visit,  though  you  may 
know  that  he  ordinarily  breakfasts  at 
nine.  If  he  feels  the  need  of  later  sleep 
than  you,  keep  his  portion  hot  so  that 
he  can  have  it  when  he  does  appear. 


706 


THE   STRANGER  WITHIN  OUR  GATES 


But  don't  send  the  children  to  school 
with  half-satisfied  appetites,  and  make 
John  late  at  his  office,  and  subject  the 
whole  domestic  administration  to  a 
convulsion,  on  account  of  your  guest; 
for,  if  he  is  as  courteous  in  thought  as 
you  aim  to  be  in  action,  such  a  dis- 
turbance will  only  cause  him  chagrin. 
If  the  family  bed-time  is  ten  and  he  is 
a  night-owl,  put  him  in  an  easy-chair, 
see  that  the  lamp  is  well  trimmed, 
freshen  the  fire  with  an  extra  log,  lay 
your  books  and  magazines  and  cigars 
convenient  to  his  hand,  and  tell  him 
to  loaf  and  invite  his  soul  to  as  late  an 
hour  as  he  chooses;  but  go  to  bed  your- 
self as  usual.  In  short,  show  him  that 
your  home  is  liberty-hall  in  the  best 
sense,  being  dedicated  to  the  liberty  of 
the  family  as  well  as  to  that  of  the 
friend. 

As  a  non-abstainer,  but  a  believer  in 
moderation  in  all  things,  I  listen  with 
much  interest  when  others  debate  the 
question  of  stimulants  in  its  relation 
to  our  present  subject;  but  I  notice 
that  they  rarely  get  very  far  with  their 
general  conclusions.  I  never  met  but 
one  man  who  was  willing  to  avow  the 
doctrine  that  the  rites  of  hospitality 
take  precedence  of  any  consideration 
for  the  inward  moral  struggles  of  a 
fellow  being;  and  that  whoever  crosses 
a  neighbor's  threshold  should  have 
all  the  consequent  privileges  pressed 
upon  him,  irrespective  of  his  anteced- 
ents, his  present  condition,  his  habits, 
or  his  preferences.  This  seems  like 
the  wild  idolatry  of  a  phrase,  with  no 
sane  appraisal  of  the  thing  for  which 
it  stands.  The  last  extremity  of  inhos- 
pitality,  as  I  view  it,  would  be  know- 
ingly to  lead  one's  guest  into  doing 
that  which  would  injure  him;  and  I 
should  as  soon  think  of  urging  a  giddy- 
headed  friend  to  climb  out  upon  the 
edge  of  a  precipice  for  the  pleasure  of 
the  landscape,  as  of  encouraging  my 
neighbor  to  trifle  with  a  tippling  in- 


firmity of  which  I  was  aware  or  seri- 
ously apprehensive.  Personally,  in- 
deed, I  carry  precaution  so  far  that 
no  one  whom  I  have  reason  to  believe 
weak  in  this  respect  ever  sees  wine  on 
my  table.  If  I  have  occasion  to  invite 
other  guests  to  meet  him  at  dinner, 
I  choose  those  on  whom  the  absence 
of  stimulants  will  impose  no  sacrifice; 
and  I  am  astonished  at  the  increasing 
multitude  of  such  men,  even  in  walks 
which  used  to  be  more  or  less  notori- 
ous for  free-living. 

Descending  from  the  sphere  of  mor- 
als to  that  of  mere  good  taste,  how  far 
is  it  well  to  go  in  the  way  of  petty 
deviations  to  meet  the  possible  whims 
of  your  guest?  Suppose,  for  instance, 
that  he  is  accustomed  to  a  cocktail 
before  dinner,  but  you  are  not.  In  the 
cause  of  hospitality,  are  you  required 
to  make  and  take  one  with  him?  By 
no  means,  I  should  say.  If  you  wish 
one,  very  well;  if  not,  why  should  you 
make  a  martyr  of  yourself  for  his  im- 
ginary  delectation?  You  reason,  per- 
haps, that  it  would  seem  unsociable 
to  let  him  take  his  artificial  appetizer 
alone.  My  dear  sir,  you  might  just  as 
well  say  that  if  he  prefers  boiled  tea 
to  your  favorite  quick  decoction,  you 
must  be  prepared  to  tan  the  lining 
of  your  stomach,  too,  for  sociability's 
sake.  Nay,  nay!  Point  him  to  the  de- 
canter and  the  bitters,  and  bid  him  do 
his  own  mixing,  as  he  will  be  able  to 
do  it  more  satisfactorily  than  a  tyro 
like  you;  then  help  yourself  to  a  few 
sips  of  water,  or  what  you  will,  if  you 
wish  to  toy  with  a  glass  of  something 
while  he  is  disposing  of  his  cocktail. 
He  will  have  no  ground  for  complain- 
ing of  your  churlishness,  and  you  will 
have  no  belated  apologies  to  make  to 
your  department  of  the  interior. 

A  few  years  ago,  the  weed  that 
cheers  presented  no  problems  worth 
considering;  but  of  late  — ?  Well,  I 
confess  that  I  am  still  too  old-fashioned 


THE  STRANGER  WITHIN  OUR  GATES 


707 


to  enjoy  seeing  a  woman  with  a  lighted 
cigarette  between  her  lips.  Grant  all 
that  any  one  has  to  say  about  the  pure 
logic  of  it :  admit  that  a  woman  has  as 
good  a  right  as  a  man  to  smoke — which 
carries  the  correlative  acknowledgment 
of  her  right  to  chew  tobacco,  take  snuff, 
play  football,  and  hang  convicted  mur- 
derers; there  is  nevertheless  something 
within  me,  an  instinct  or  a  sensibil- 
ity beyond  the  reach  of  syllogisms, 
against  which  the  idea  grates.  Perhaps 
this  is  due  to  the  survival  of  an  ideal- 
ization planted  in  my  mind  during  its 
callow  period;  a  survival  which,  thanks 
to  my  peculiar  environment,  has  resisted 
atrophy  thus  far.  Whatever  the  cause, 
I  am  inhospitable  enough  never  to  offer 
cigarettes  to  a  guest  of  the  other  sex. 
If  she  feels  that  she  must  have  one,  she 
knows  where  they  are  to  be  found;  but 
I  would  rather  have  her  take  one  away 
and  consume  it  in  privacy  than  join 
me  in  my  after-dinner  smoke  in  the 
library.  That  is  not  because  I  should 
relish  the  notion  of  her  clandestine  self- 
indulgence,  but  on  the  same  principle 
which  would  move  me,  when  a  good 
Catholic  is  at  my  table,  to  steer  the 
talk  away  from  the  merits  of  Renan  as 
a  biographer,  however  pleased  I  might 
be  to  take  part  in  such  a  conversation 
at  some  other  time  and  place. 

A  safe  general  rule  of  hospitality  for 
the  community  at  large  would  run 
somewhat  like  this:  Treat  your  guest 
with  the  same  consideration  which,  in 
your  inmost  heart,  you  feel  that  you 
owe  to  the  members  of  your  own  house- 
hold who  are  on  an  equal  footing  of 
maturity  and  dignity  with  yourself. 
Please  note  that  I  say '  owe/  not '  show,' 
thus  escaping  the  violent  assumption 
that  you  habitually  treat  your  family 
in  all  respects  as  you  know  you  ought 
to.  The  best  of  us,  unhappily,  are  apt 
to  slip  into  an  easy-going  neglect  of  the 
minor  amenities  when  we  are  strictly 
'among  ourselves.' 


The  little  familiarities  of  daily  in- 
tercourse tend  to  blunt  our  perception 
that  marriage  is  only  a  longer  and 
stronger  betrothal;  that  our  children 
who  have  grown  up  are  now  men  and 
women  like  ourselves;  and  that  our 
parents  have  not  ceased  to  be  our 
parents  because  our  respect  for  their 
authority  has  outgrown  its  first  gar- 
ment of  awe.  So  I  have  founded  nay 
rule  on  the  conditions  which  ought  to 
obtain,  rather  than  on  those  which 
commonly  do;  and  my  proposal  is  that, 
instead  of  turning  your  household 
upside  down,  changing  your  family's 
ways  into  others  which  do  not  appeal 
to  you  as  better,  or  running  into  ex- 
cesses which  you  cannot  defend  to  your 
sober  sense,  you  simply  throw  open 
your  door  to  your  guest,  draw  him  in 
with  an  unstudied  welcome,  and  make 
him  one  of  yourselves  for  the  time  he 
passes  under  your  roof.  Could  you  pay 
him  a  more  touching  compliment? 
Could  you  be  more  considerate  at  once 
of  his  feelings  and  of  your  own  "self- 
esteem? 

Obligation  to  your  guest,  however, 
does  not  end  with  his  departure.  He 
leaves  behind  him  an  odor  —  it  may 
be  aromatic,  or  disagreeable,  or  neu- 
tral —  of  which  the  whole  household 
is  sensible  while  it  lasts.  How  shall 
it  be  treated?  Like  the  memory  of  the 
dead,  of  whom  we  strive  to  say  nothing 
unless  it  be  good?  His  character  may 
commend  itself  to  your  admiration 
more  than  ever,  and  yet  his  tactless- 
ness or  ineptitude  may  have  given 
everybody  a  deal  of  discomfort.  He 
may  be  a  friend  from  whom  you  had 
been  separated  so  long  that  you  had 
forgotten  his  oddities,  yet  in  whom 
you  discover  them,  not  only  persistent, 
but  enlarged.  Or,  in  your  diverging 
careers,  he  may  have  acquired  points 
of  view  and  modes  of  thought  with 
which  you  cannot  sympathize  in  the 
least.  Or  you  find  that  he  has  lost  all 


708 

real  interest  in  you,  and  you  in  him, 
though  neither  realized  it  in  the  first 
flush  of  your  reunion. 

Possibly,  again,  he  may  be  a  friend 
whom  you  have  been  in  the  way  of 
meeting  at  intervals,  but  not  in  cir- 
cumstances which  would  give  you  the 
inside  view  that  you  cannot  help  get- 
ting by  daily  contact  even  for  a  fort- 
night; and  you  find  him  to  be  wholly 
different  from  the  image  formed  in  your 
mind.  He  may  have  presumed  upon 
his  closer  relations  with  the  family  to 
reveal  as  clay  the  feet  you  had  fondly 
conceived  to  be  of  brass.  Or  he  may 
have  proved  one  of  those  sprawling 
personalities  —  figuratively  speaking, 
of  course  —  who  take  up  a  great  deal 
more  room  in  any  group  than  they  are 
expected  or  entitled  to;  who  appear  to 
be  everywhere  at  all  hours;  who  lack 
repose  themselves,  and  seem  obsessed 
by  a  mania  for  robbing  every  one  else 
of  it.  Or,  though  unable  to  entertain 
himself  when  left  alone  for  the  purpose, 
he  may  have  been  too  profusely  uneasy 
about  the  trouble  he  was  causing  when- 
ever any  one  came  to  his  rescue. 

The  temptation  to  canvass  the  de- 
parted guest  is  strong,  and  not  at  all 
unnatural.  To  denounce  him  because 
he  has  not  measured  up  to  your  ideal, 
is  pitifully  narrow;  to  dwell  exclusive- 
ly on  his  virtues  and  ignore  his  short- 
comings, is  pure  hypocrisy.  There  is  a 
golden  mean,  however,  between  evasive 
praise  and  distilled  censure.  It  con- 
sists in  a  process  of  analysis  equally 
free  from  the  carping  and  the  mawk- 
ish disposition.  For  those  traits  which 
are  exemplary,  a  good  word  can  al- 
ways be  said  without  exaggeration ;  the 
imperfections  which  are  so  clear  as  to 
call  for  no  comment  may  safely  be 
left  without  any;  while  the  subtler 
faults  may  be  discussed  without  bit- 
terness, and  only  to  such  extent  as  may 
be  necessary  for  their  use  as  domestic 
correctives. 


In  their  educational  aspects,  a  clear 
distinction  must  be  drawn  between  the 
hospitality  which  is  sporadic  and  the 
hospitable  habit.  The  members  of  & 
family  where  a  visit  from  an  acquaint- 
ance is  an  event,  may  derive  much  bene- 
fit from  such  a  visit  through  the  oppor- 
tunity it  affords  for  filling  their  lungs 
with  the  outside  air,  as  it  were,  ex- 
changing views  with  one  who  has  been 
studying  the  world  from  a  different 
angle,  refurbishing  stores  of  informa- 
tion which  had  grown  stale  in  their 
memories,  and,  after  all  is  over,  sum- 
ming up  both  visit  and  visitor,  com- 
paring notes  and  drawing  parallels  and 
contrasts.  To  revert  to  a  metaphor 
already  used,  sporadic  hospitality  has 
the  effect  of  an  occasional  loosening 
and  sprinkling  of  the  social  soil,  as 
distinguished  from  the  continuous  cul- 
tivation which  results  from  the  hos- 
pitable habit.  The  good  which  comes 
to  a  field  from  being  stirred  and  re- 
freshed now  and  then  is  by  no  means 
negligible;  the  consequent  growth, 
though  perhaps  fitful  and  irregular,  is 
growth  nevertheless.  Measure  it,  how- 
ever, by  the  productiveness  of  the  soil 
kept  constantly  in  condition,  and  you 
realize  how  great  an  advantage  every 
live  organism  put  into  the  latter  en- 
joys from  the  very  start.  There  are  no 
stones  to  dig  out,  no  clods  to  dissolve, 
no  weed-growths  to  disintegrate,  before 
the  vital  forces  you  are  about  to  call 
into  action  can  have  their  full  scope. 
Moreover,  there  is  the  land  always  in 
such  a  state  as  to  profit  to  the  utmost 
by  every  alternation  of  sunshine  and 
shower,  breeze  and  dew-fall. 

The  household  whose  latch-string 
is  never  drawn  in,  which  makes  room 
for  its  friends  in  bedchamber  and  at 
table  on  the  shortest  notice  and  with- 
out ceremony,  in  which  the  children 
have  grown  up  to  feel  no  surprise  at 
finding  an  unaccustomed  face  by  the 
fireside  any  day  on  their  return  from 


SIR  WALTER'S  ORPHANAGE 


709 


school,  has  the  perpetual  receptiveness 
of  the  well-tilled  acre.  Of  whatever 
comes  its  way,  it  is  sure  to  capture  and 
hold  all  the  beneficent  elements,  whose 
influence  reveals  itself  in  due  season 
in  increased  fertility.  The  family  with 
the  hospitable  habit  both  enjoys  more 
guests,  and  enjoys  them  more,  than 
the  family  which  has  to  go  through  a 
separate  preparation  for  the  advent  of 
every  one.  Its  spirit  is  more  mellow, 
its  judgments  are  more  charitable;  its 
fixed  animosities,  when  it  has  any,  are 


less  fanatical;  its  moral  perspective  is 
more  trustworthy,  its  attitude  toward 
untried  things  more  worldly  wise,  its 
sense  of  humor  keener  and  more  con- 
stant, its  contempt  for  trifles  more 
spontaneous.  The  stranger  within  its 
gates  fares  better  here  than  anywhere 
else  outside  of  his  own  home,  for  it 
absorbs  him  into  itself,  for  the  time 
being,  almost  as  an  integral  part;  he 
yields  to  it  unbidden  the  best  he  has 
to  give,  and  it  gives  him  its  best  in 
return. 


SIR  WALTER'S  ORPHANAGE 


BY  N.   P.   DUNN 


IF  one  should  summon  in  mental  re- 
view the  maidens  fair  and  dark  —  all 
beautiful  — whose  joys  and  sorrows  fill 
the  pages  of  the  'Wizard  of  the  North,' 
how  many,  think  you,  would  be  found 
provided  with  mammas?  Sometimes 
a  brother  guides  the  heroine's  destinies 
—  in  each  case,  I  believe,  to  an  un- 
happy end.  Fathers  of  every  descrip- 
tion, intrusted  with  rearing  this  exotic 
genus,  bring  to  the  task  an  infinite 
variety  of  temperaments  and  disabili- 
ties. There  is  the  old  father,  bent  and 
gray,  broken  by  the  weight  of  many 
sorrows.  There  are  fathers  selfish, 
sombre,  suffering  from  remorse,  griev- 
ing for  the  beloved  wife  who  died  long 
since,  disappointed,  misanthropical, 
agnostic,  religious,  sternly  strict,  blind- 
ly doting.  There  is  one  grandmother 
and  there  are  several  aunts  —  shadowy 
aunts  —  abbesses  generally.  Again,  it 
is  a  duenna  more  remotely  related  who 
accompanies  the  fair  one  on  some  ro- 


mantic journey  or  quest.  Then  it  is  the 
young  cousin  or  girl  friend,  and,  in  two 
instances,  the  sister,  whose  companion- 
ship relieves  the  loneliness  of  the  hero- 
ine without  putting  upon  her  actions 
the  restraint  that  a  mother  might  be 
supposed  to  enforce.  The  quite  friend- 
less orphan  is  also  to  be  found,  and  the 
uncle  figures  as  guardian,  sometimes 
loving  and  tender,  sometimes  fierce 
and  tyrannical. 

In  the  twenty-seven  novels  Scott  has 
given  us,  one  mother  moves  —  sternly 
enough  —  through  the  scenes  his  wand 
has  conjured  up.  In  the  presence  of 
a  rule  so  generally  observed  and  so 
uniquely  broken  we  ask  ourselves, '  Can 
the  heroine  of  pure  romance  consist- 
ently have  a  mother?'  With  the  ex- 
ception of  Lucy  Ashton,  in  The  Bride 
of  Lammermoor,  these  maidens  fulfill 
their  destinies  untrammeled  by  ma- 
ternal advice.  The  care  and  love  and 
counsel  of  a  mother,  besides  making 


710 


SIR  WALTER'S  ORPHANAGE 


for  the  commonplace,  must  be  unneces- 
sary in  the  development  of  character, 
for  we  find  all  virtue  blossoming  on  the 
Scottish  crags,  or  wherever  the  scene 
may  take  us,  quite  independent  of  the 
training  of  mamma.  We  must  infer 
that  maternal  protection  is  essentially 
prosaic,  and  the  friendship  and  mutual 
confidence  of  mother  and  daughter,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  uninteresting. 

We  mothers  are  evidently  not  pictur- 
esque. As  modern  'copy,'  we  are  obvi- 
ous foils  for  charming  daughters,  sordid 
or  vulgar  or  simply  ungrammatical.  In 
the  old  days,  to  be  the  mother  of  a  hero- 
ine one  must  die  young.  The  trick  — 
if  trick  it  is  —  was  easily  turned.  One 
sentence  early  in  the  action  disposes 
of  the  obstacle,  and  then,  uncribb'd, 
uncabin'd,  unconfin'd,  a  Diana  Ver- 
non  or  a  Flora  Mclvor  follows  the  dic- 
tates of  her  own  sweet  will  along  paths 
not  exactly  conventional.  With  a  back- 
ground of  savage  cousins  and  a  father 
in  disguise,  Diana  fascinates  us  with 
her  beauty  and  her  mysterious  sorrows; 
while  Flora,  with  a  chieftain-brother 
for  sole  protector,  develops  and  soars 
like  a  young  eagle.  How  different 
would  have  been  their  lives  had  each 
had  a  mother  with  ideas!  I  am  con- 
vinced that  an  ounce  of  maternal  com- 
mon sense  would  have  wrecked  the 
plot  of  any  one  of  Scott's  novels.  How 
simple,  then,  the  formula! 

In  the  recipe  for  a  full-fledged  hero- 
ine of  the  good,  old-fashioned  sort,  we 
might  expect  to  find  the  initial  injunc- 
tion, 'First  kill  the  mother.'  Let  us 
look  at  the  novels  as  they  appeared 
in  turn.  The  epoch-making  Waverley, 
1814,  has  its  dual  interest  in  Flora  Mc- 
lvor—  whole  orphan — and  Rose  Brad- 
wardine, '  the  very  apple  of  her  father's 
eye.  Her  beauty,  in  which  he  recalled 
the  features  of  his  beloved  wife,  would 
have  justified  the  affection  of  the  most 
doting  father.'  Guy  Mannering  the  next 
year  provided  the  reading  public  with 


two  more  interesting  young  women. 
Lucy  Bertram's  mother  dies  at  her 
birth.  Mrs.  Mannering  has  died  out  in 
India  before  the  real  story  opens,  and 
the  melancholy  father  of  Julia,  pur- 
sued by  remorse  for  a  supposed  crime, 
makes  an  ideal  protector  for  a  pair  of 
moon-struck  girls.  In  1816  The  Anti- 
quary presents  to  us  Isabella  Wardour. 
'  She  with  a  brother  absent  from  home 
formed  now  her  father's  whole  sur- 
viving family.'  The  constant  com- 
panion of  Sir  Arthur,  and  peace-maker 
between  him  and  Mr.  Oldbuck,  she 
goes  from  adventure  to  adventure,  and 
finally  marries  the  hero,  as  all  good 
heroines  should. 

The  year  181 7  saw  the  publication  of 
both  The  Black  Dwarf  and  Old  Mor- 
tality, but  no  marplot  mammas  ap- 
pear to  alter  either  tale.  In  the  for- 
mer, '  Mr.  Vere  of  Ellieslaw  was  many 
years  absent  from  his  family  estate. 
Suddenly  and  unexpectedly  he  returns, 
a  widower,  bringing  with  him  his 
daughter,  then  a  girl  of  about  ten  years 
old.'  Isabella  has  a  hard  time  until 
rescued  by  the  Black  Dwarf;  for  Mr. 
Vere,  you  recall,  was  a  gentleman  of 
uncommon  selfishness  and  cruelty.  A 
sensible  wife  doubtless  would  have 
ruined  the  action  of  the  story.  Edith 
Bellenden,  in  Old  Mortality,  has  the 
most  natural  and  delightful  of  grand- 
mothers, but  in  the  care  of  old  Lady 
Margaret  there  is  that  carelessness 
which  insures 'plenty  of  romantic  hap- 
penings. 

Rob  Roy  and  The  Heart  of  Midlothian 
followed  the  next  year.  In  the  first, 
Diana  Vernon  describes  herself  as  'a 
creature  motherless,  friendless,  alone 
in  the  world,  left  to  'her  own  guidance 
and  protection.'  In  the  latter,  dear 
Jeannie  Deans's  mother  is  dead  when 
the  story  opens,  and  the  stepmother 
dies  at  Effie's  birth,  leaving  us  again 
with  two  motherless  girls.  In  1819  ap- 
peared The  Bride  of  Lammermoor  and 


SIR  WALTER'S   ORPHANAGE 


711 


The  Legend  of  Montrose.  In  Lady 
Ashton  we  find  our  one  exception  to 
the  embargo  put  upon  mothers.  No 
memory  this  of  a  sainted  parent, 
wafted  heavenward  from  the  first  page, 
but  a  dominant,  worldly-minded,  in- 
exorable woman,  bent  upon  the  attain- 
ment of  her  own  ends,  and  showing  no 
remorse  that  her  pathway  should  be 
strewed  with  murder,  madness,  and 
sudden  death.  Perhaps  in  the  Legend 
of  Montrose  we  should  note  another 
exception,  but  Annot  Lyle,  stolen  from 
her  parents  when  a  child  and  brought 
up  as  an  orphan,  never  sees  her  mother 
nor  knows  of  her  existence.  The  poor 
lady,  a  tall,  faded,  melancholy  female, 
dressed  in  deep  mourning,  flickers  in 
one  sentence  on  one  page,  and  is  extin- 
guished in  woe  before  Annot's  identity 
is  disclosed  to  the  surviving  father. 

In  1820  Scott  gave  the  world  three 
novels,  Ivanhoe,  The  Monastery,  and 
The  Abbot.  Rowena,  the  high-born 
ward  of  the  Saxon  Cedric,  and  Rebec- 
ca, the  daughter  of  Isaac  the  Jew,  are 
alike  motherless.  Catherine  Seyton 
says,  on  her  first  entry  on  the  scene, 
'I  also  am  an  orphan';  while  Mary 
Avenel,  her  father  already  dead,  loses 
her  mother  when  only  twelve  years  old. 
The  next  year  saw  the  publication  of 
Kenilworth.  If  Sir  Hugh  had  receiv- 
ed, in  the  training  of  Amy  Robsart, 
the  aid  of  a  woman,  if  his  blind  devo- 
tion and  foolish  indulgence  had  been 
checked  by  the  firm  hand  of  a  mother, 
what  dull  reading  the  book  would  have 
made. 

In  1822  Sir  Walter  produced  again 
three  novels  in  a  twelvemonth,  and 
one  would  expect  that  through  mere 
carelessness  a  mother  might  have  got 
left  alive  somewhere  between  the  pages 
of  The  Pirate,  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel, 
and  Peveril  of  the  Peak.  Not  so.  An 
early  chapter  of  the  first-named  story 
opens  thus:  'We  have  already  men- 
tioned Minna  and  Brenda,  the  daugh- 


ters of  Magnus  Troil.  Their  mother 
had  been  dead  for  many  years  and 
they  were  now  two  beautiful  girls.' 
Everybody  remembers  the  adventures 
of  Minna  and  Brenda.  Would  you 
forego  the  creepy  sensation  they  gave 
you  for  any  comfort  a  mother  might 
have  been  to  those  girls?  In  The  For- 
tunes of  Nigel,  where  Margaret  Ram- 
say, god-daughter  of  the  court  jeweler 
to  James  I,  is  shown  to  us  at  the  age  of 
twenty,  her  mother  is  already  dead. 
Beautiful,  willful,  spoiled  by  her  father 
and  petted  by  Heriot,  she  falls  in  love 
with  Nigel,  and,  disguised  as  a  page, 
follows,  saves,  and  marries  him.  Peve- 
ril of  the  Peak  introduces  us  to  another 
half-orphan  in  Alice  Bridgenorth,  the 
victim  of  her  father's  ambition  and  an 
uncle's  villainy,  whose  mother  died  at 
her  birth. 

Quentin  Durwardin  1823  takes  up  the 
tale  of  the  'Orphan  of  Croye,'  where 
the  charming  Countess  Isabelle  rides 
to  many  adventures,  accompanied  by 
her  ridiculous  aunt  and  her  true  and 
loyal  knight,  the  Scottish  hero.  The 
next  year  we  have  St.  Ronan's  Well 
and  Redgauntlet.  In  the  first  the  un- 
happy Clara  Mowbray  dies,  half-mad 
—  a  scapegrace  brother  is  the  only 
protector  of  her  orphan  state.  Lilias 
Redgauntlet,  the  heroine  of  the  last, 
is  kidnapped  by  an  uncle  when  two 
years  of  age,  and  never  knows  her 
mother,  who  is  already  dead  when  the 
story  opens. 

In  1825  came  from  the  pen  of  this 
ready  writer  both  The  Betrothed  and 
The  Talisman.  In  The  Betrothed,  an 
aunt,  an  abbess,  has  the  care  of  Eveline 
Berenger,  only  child  of  Raymond  Beren- 
ger,  who  died  early  in  the  action,  leav- 
ing her  an  orphan  at  the  age  of  sixteen; 
while  Edith  Plantagenet  walks  majes- 
tically through  the  delightful  pages 
of  The  Talisman  with  only  the  hot- 
headed Richard  for  guardian  and  the 
companionship  of  his  frivolous  queen. 


712 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


Woodstock,  in  1826,  gives  us  the  picture 
of  Alice  Lee,  patiently  supporting  the 
tottering  footsteps  of  Sir  Henry,  who 
says  of  her  dead  mother,  'Ah!  my  be- 
loved companion,  who  art  now  far 
from  the  sorrows  and  cares  of  this 
weary  world.'  The  Surgeon's  Daughter 
(1827)  lost  her  mother  at  her  birth. 
Her  father  died  before  her  journey  to 
India  and  her  painful  adventures  there. 
The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth  was  published 
in  1828,  and  Catherine  Glover,  the 
heroine,  who  marries  Henry  Wynd,  is 
the  beloved  daughter  of  Simon,  a 
wealthy  and  respected  glover — mother 
dead. 

The  next  year  appeared  the  charm- 
ing story  of  Anne  of  Geier  stein,  the 
Maid  of  the  Mist.  Motherless,  she  is 
sent  by  her  father,  Count  Albert,  to 
be  brought  up  by  her  uncle,  the  demo- 
cratic Arnold.  In  Count  Robert  of  Paris 
our  rule  may  be  said  to  be  broken 
again.  Brenhilda  —  father  dead  —  has 
a  mother  on  the  first  page,  described 


by  the  author  as  'easily  kept  under 
management  by  the  young  lady  her- 
self; but  as  she  is  never  referred  to 
again,  and  as  Brenhilda  marries  the 
count  at  once  and  finds  all  her  ad- 
ventures in  a  foreign  land  with  her 
husband,  I  have  thought  that  at  least 
she  was  no  important  factor  in  the 
heroine's  life.  Castle  Dangerous,  which 
brings  to  a  close  in  1832  the  wonderful 
series  of  Scott's  novels,  has  for  its 
heroine  Augusta  of  Berkely,  an  orphan, 
and  the  king's  ward.  She,  disguised  as 
a  boy,  follows  afar  off  the  adventures 
of  her  lover,  having  set  him  a  hard  task 
and  fearing  for  his  safety. 

And  so  amidst  the  din  of  arms  and 
the  vows  of  lovers,  we  come  to  the  end 
of  our  list.  When  we  contemplate  this 
enrollment  of  thirty  odd  names  on  the 
books  of  the  Waverley  Orphan  Asylum 

—  all  popular  and  successful  heroines 

—  we   confidently  advise    the  young 
novelist  pondering  plots    to  consider 
the  mother  as  a  negligible  quantity. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS1  CLUB 


THE   LITTLE   BOY  THAT  LIVED   IN 
THE   LANE 

Ba,  ba,  Black  Sheep,  have  you  any  wool  ? 

Yes,  Sir,  Yes  Sir,  three  bags  full; 
One  for  my  Master,  one  for  his  dame, 

And  one  for  the  little  boy  that  lives  in  the 
lane. 

AH,  yes;  the  little  boy  that  lived  in 
the  lane!  Knee-breeches,  dusty  shoes, 
sun-burned  face,  yellow  hair,  (not 
golden  locks,  mind  you !)  and  still,  blue 
eyes.  That  is  he!  I  have  snubbed  him 
since  nursery  days,  yet  here  he  comes 
from  the  hinter-lands  of  the  mind, 


emerging  into  my  consciousness  again 
like  some  old  friend  from  my  native 
village  whom  at  first  I  am  half- 
ashamed  to  meet.  He  rides  atop  of 
the  nursery  furniture  as  on  a  throne, 
claiming  again  the  kingdom  that  I  had 
almost  stolen  from  him. 

But  there  is  no  modern  strenuous- 
ness  about  this  prince.  He  is  just  the 
little  boy  that  lived  in  the  lane.  That 
is  all.  That  is  enough.  He  is  not  being 
trained  for  a  vocation,  nor  prepareoj  for 
college.  He  expects  nothing  but  to  go 
on  living  in  the  lane;  and  to  have  the 
good  old  black  sheep  bring  him  all  the 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


713 


wool  he  needs.  He  has  made  the  de- 
scent down  the  dark  chimney,  as  Mr. 
Chesterton  says,  into  a  fixed  abode, 
and  there  is  his  whole  field  of  romance 
and  adventure. 

A  lane :  what  a  splendid  place  to  live 
in !  With  the  little  boy  as  Virgil  to  my 
Dante,  I  see  again  the  dark  trees,  the 
quiet  road  damp  with  dews,  the  fence 
blending  its  color  with  the  grass  and 
the  woods;  the  curving  path  with  a 
neighbor  beyond  it;  the  sunlight  that 
flickers  through  the  leaves,  but  never 
scorches  here;  the  birds  that  come  from 
a  great  beyond;  and  the  girl  that  passes 
on  her  way  from  school,  whom  I  may 
watch  until  she  is  out  of  sight,  and 
still  not  be  rude.  These  are  some  of  the 
perquisites  of  living  in  the  lane.  Theirs 
are  the  voices  that  remind  us  again 
that  life  is  not  all  progress,  nor  moral 
uplift,  nor  striving,  nor  a  strained  con- 
dition of  human  betterment  upheld  by 
nerves,  but  that  most  of  it  is  living  in 
a  lane. 

For,  whether  city-bred  or  country- 
bred,  our  first  years  are  in  the  lane  and 
of  it.  The  path  is  narrow,  to  teach  us 
not  to  wander,  yet  rich  in  beauty,  to 
tell  us  that  all  good  lies  within  our 
grasp.  Blinding,  and  oppressive  some- 
times? Yes,  and  trodden  by  'unwill- 
ing steps  to  school,'  yet  imprinting  on 
us  forever  the  fact  that  it  is  the  con- 
centrated gaze,  and  the  repeated  path, 
that  really  counts.  Not  only  narrow, 
but  short,  too.  Painfully  short?  Yes, 
and  no.  Yes,  in  that  no  boy  ever  lived 
who  did  not  think  boyhood  too  long. 
No,  in  that  no  boy  ever  lived  who 
was  not  glad  that  the  swimming-pond 
was  just  at  the  end  of  the  lane.  Back 
and  forth  we  went  in  this  lane,  until 
nature  had  taught  us,  if  she  could 
teach  us  anything,  the  meaning  of  two 
straight  lines,  —  to  hem  us  in,  and  yet 
to  give  us  freedom.  In  and  out  of  the 
lane,  until  it  came  to  pass  that  even 
great  cities  were  to  be  nothing  but 


huge  collections  of  lanes.  For  civil- 
ization is  not  a  scattered  tent-ground, 
but  lanes  and  lanes  of  houses,  methods, 
and  institutions,  all  sprung  from  the 
brains  of  the  little  boys  that  lived  in 
lanes.  The  races  of  little  boys  who  have 
been  born  and  lived  in  the  open,  and 
not  in  lanes,  the  Arabs  for  instance, 
have  produced  no  great  civilization. 
They  have  had  inspiration  enough  in 
the  broad  expanse  of  sky  and  desert, 
but  they  have  had  no  pattern  to  go  by. 
The  lane  alone  furnishes  that,  for  a  pat- 
tern means  limitation,  but  also  power. 
Anglo-Saxons  are  lane  men,  so  were  the 
Greeks,  and  the  Romans:  verse-mak- 
ers, mental  lanes;  road-builders,  traffic 
lanes. 

I  have  often  wondered  whether  the 
little  boy  was  the  son  of  the  master 
and  the  dame  mentioned  in  the  same 
breath  by  the  good  black  sheep.  I  have 
come  slowly  to  believe  that  he  be- 
longed to  another  family  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. For  this  reason:  if  the  mas- 
ter and  dame  wanted  a  whole  bag  of 
wool  apiece  they  did  not  deserve  to 
have  a  little  boy.  They  were  selfish 
people.  Somehow  I  think  the  bag  of 
wool  that  went  to  the  little  boy  was 
for  a  mother  and  father  who  drew  their 
support  from  him,  and  who  regarded 
him  as  their  chief  incentive  to  making 
a  living.  Whatever  came  to  their  door 
was  marked  in  his  name,  not  in  theirs. 

And  to  this,  too,  we  are  all  trying 
to  get  back.  The  impress  of  the  lane 
is  awake  in  us  whenever  we  cry  aloud 
for  ownership  in  life's  true  values.  We 
want  something  with  our  name  on  it. 
We  care  little  what  we  own,  but  that 
we  own  something  is  all  important. 
The  piercing  cry  of  our  hearts  is  the 
echo  of  the  dear  lane  wherein  a  good 
black  sheep  brought  us  a  bag  full  of 
wool  to  be  our  very  own.  'One  for  the 
little  boy  that  lives  in  the  lane.'  That 
is  the  sum  and  substance  of  our  cry 
for  life.  Some  people  are  trying  to 


714 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


socialize  everything,  to  divide  every- 
thing up,  share  and  share  alike.  And 
which  part  you  get  and  which  I  get, 
to  their  thinking,  makes  little  differ- 
ence. But  we  will  not  have  it.  Some- 
thing in  us  protests  against  it  as  a 
desecration.  When  we  lived  in  the 
lane,  something  was  our  own,  no  mat- 
ter what.  Make  us  owners!  Not  of 
wealth,  but  of  something.  Give  us 
back  our  hearts,  our  lane,  our  birth- 
right! Don't  ticket  our  possessions  in 
card-catalogues !  Don't  parcel  out  God 
into  thin  layers,  a  wafer  for  every 
man  alike;  but  give  us  of  His  bounty 
for  our  very  own,  as  we  knew  it  when 
we  lived  in  the  lane.  You  need  not 
give  us  back  a  selfish  heaven.  We  will 
not  insist  on  what  you  despise  as  per- 
sonal salvation,  but  we  will  insist  on 
having  heaven,  nevertheless;  the  own- 
ership of  a  glittering  home  beyond  our 
reach,  instead  of  a  merely  improved 
world  as  a  substitute.  Through  the 
leaves  of  the  bending  trees  we  saw  a 
heaven  and  we  refuse  to  give  it  up. 
The  little  boy  saw  truly.  The  vision 
is  unchangeable.  It  does  not  fade  for 
all  the  new  cry  about  cleaned-up  cities 
and  a  heaven  upon  earth.  Living  in  the 
lane  we  learned  ownership,  and  we 
claim  it  again.  Give  us  back  the  old 
sense  of  private  property  in  the  uni- 
versals,  our  grip  upon  the  stars,  the 
tentacle-hold  of  our  baby-fingers  upon 
love,  and  truth,  and  faith;  our  own, 
our  very  own !  Take  back  your  social 
theories  and  we  '11  lean  again  upon  our 
gate  at  eventide  and  say,  'All  is  mine.' 
And  the  next  boy  to  us  in  the  lane  may 
say  it,  too! 

Did  the  little  boy  go  on  living  in  the 
lane?  I  do  not  know,  but  I  think  not. 
Either  the  good  black  sheep  died,  and 
the  little  boy  had  to  seek  for  wool  else- 
where; or,  which  is  more  likely,  he  one 
day  decided  that  he  preferred  white 
wool  to  black  and  so  started  out  to 
find  it.  In  giving  us  no  sequel,  the 


poem  (for  it  is  one!)  discloses  its  deep- 
est insight.  For  it  must  surely  be  re- 
marked that  if  the  little  boy  had  gone 
on  living  in  the  lane  he  would  have 
grown  to  be  a  young  man,  or  even  an 
old  man;  and  in  that  case  the  poem 
would  have  needed  reediting.  It  would 
not  have  continued  all  these  years  to 
talk  about  'the  little  boy.'  Plainly 
the  little  boy  went  away,  that  is  the 
main  point;  although  by  inference  an- 
other came  to  take  his  place. 

Yes,  we  leave  the  lane.  It  was  in- 
tended that  we  should.  There  are  seas 
to  cross,  women  to  see  and  one  to  love, 
men  to  know  and  some  to  hate,  and 
the  lane  would  be  disturbed  by  all 
this;  or  we  think  it  would.  We  must 
leave  it.  There  are  thoughts  to  think, 
clues  to  follow,  waves  to  rise  and  fall 
on,  experiences  to  climb  or  burrow 
through,  desert  sands  to  feel  in  our 
throat,  and  cooling  springs  to  drink 
from.  These  all  lie  outside  the  lane. 
New  faces  alone  will  let  us  try  our  new 
wings,  and  who  ever  saw  a  new  face 
in  our  lane?  So  we  leave  it.  Rightly 
leave  it?  Yes,  perhaps.  Who  can  say 
otherwise? 

But,  look,  we  are  back  again!  The 
thousand  men  you  know?  See  them! 
They  are  ranged  in  order  before  you. 
It  is  in  single  file  they  pass!  Yours  is 
not  a  sea  of  faces;  it  is  a  lane  of  them, 
one  at  a  time.  The  women  you  knew? 
Yes,  but  by  your  side  is  only  one.  You 
are  in  the  lane  with  her,  just  as  when 
you  were  a  little  boy  and  lived  there. 
You  cannot  live  on  Broadway.  You 
are  in  the  lane  again,  just  wide  enough 
for  you  and  her,  as  it  used  to  be.  The 
ocean  that  you  crossed?  Yes,  but  the 
track  of  your  boat  was  scarce  wider 
than  the  lane.  You  only  crossed  a  line, 
not  the  ocean.  Experiences?  Ah,  yes, 
millions  of  them!  But  through  them 
there  runs  no  broad  highway,  but 
only  the  print  of  two  feet,  toiling  one 
after  the  other.  Just  a  foot-path,  just 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


715 


a  lane!  And  thoughts?  Yes,  and  your 
brain  is  weary  with  them!  But  across 
that  same  brain  the  tracks  of  the 
thoughts  are  as  fine  as  a  hair.  There 
are  no  expanses,  but  only  little  lanes 
of  thought  running  here  and  there. 
Follow  the  lanes  and  there  is  light  at 
the  end,  as  there  used  to  be.  Make  the 
spaces  too  broad,  and  you  will  kill  the 
shade  trees.  Then  the  sun  will  madden 
you.  Keep  to  the  lane.  That's  the 
type. 

'The  little  boy  that  lived  in  the 
lane'?  Yes,  he  went  away.  But  he 
came  home  again.  The  old  lane  was 
gone.  So  was  the  house.  But  he 
straightway  built  another  house  just 
like  it;  and  choose  as  he  would,  there 
was  no  place  to  build  it  in  but  a  lane. 

And  if  you  look  for  him  you  will 
still  find  him  there. 

THE  GLORY  OF  BEING  WICKED 

NOT  long  ago  I  happened  to  pass  two 
little  boys  on  a  street  corner,  standing 
close  together  with  faces  nearly  touch- 
ing, and  so  intent  on  the  difficult  oper- 
ation they  were  performing  as  to  be 
quite  unconscious  of  being  hi  every 
one's  way.  The  operation  in  question 
was  the  feat  of  lighting  one  cigarette- 
stub  from  another  cigarette-stub,  each 
stub  being  firmly  held  in  one  of  the 
respective  mouths.  They  had  appar- 
ently picked  up  the  two  half-smoked 
cigarettes  from  the  gutter,  one  still 
burning,  and  the  other  out.  Just  why 
the  burning  one  had  to  be  held  by 
mouth,  rather  than  by  hand,  did  not 
appear;  but  the  operation  of  lighting 
and  smoking  the  cigarettes  was  ob- 
viously great  fun.  Moreover,  to  all 
appearances  at  least,  the  fun  did  not 
come  from  the  taste  of  the  smoke,  nor 
from  the  burning  of  fingers  and  lips, 
nor  from  the  nasty  tobacco  that  got 
into  their  mouths.  The  fun  lay  deeper 
than  that;  it  was  not  physical,  but 


spiritual  in  its  nature.  There  was  a 
third  boy  —  a  still  smaller  one  — 
standing  by,  looking  on  with  open 
mouth  and  admiring  eyes.  And  I  am 
sure  that  the  real  inwardness  of  the 
smokers'  fun  consisted  in  the  conscious- 
ness that  the  other  boy  and  the  public 
in  general  could  see  plainly  that  they 
were  really  very  wicked. 

This  aspiration  toward  wickedness 
dominates  a  great  part  of  'child-psy- 
chology,' —  of  boy-psychology  at  any 
rate,  —  and  has  its  ramifications  in 
most  of  the  activities  of  the  boy.  He 
learns  to  'cut'  Sunday  School,  and 
throw  stones  and  swear  and  say  darn, 
largely  out  of  loyalty  to  this  ideal.  He 
brings  with  him  into  the  world  a  strong 
tendency  toward  resistance  to  author- 
ity, and  a  genuine  admiration  for  the 
law-breaker;  and  all  this  is  as  real  a 
part  of  his  'social  psychology'  as  is 
his  tendency  to  imitation  and  sugges- 
tion. And  he  is  led  in  the  same  direc- 
tion by  his  natural  desire  to  'show  off.' 
It  is  the  fact  that  the  other  boy  is 
watching  that  lends  most  of  the  spice 
to  the  situation.  Wickedness  is  pretty 
sure  to  command  attention  even  when 
it  fails  to  command  respect.  And  the 
small  boy  who  wants  you  to  think  him 
'  tough '  —  together  with  his  relatives, 
the  big  boy  and  the  overgrown  boy 
and  the  old  boy  who  cherish  the  same 
ambition  —  will  generally  be  found  to 
be  acting  (if  I  may  be  pardoned  an  im- 
possible figure)  with  one  eye  on  the 
gallery  and  the  other  on  the  mirror. 

This,  to  my  thinking,  is  one  of  the 
reasons  for  the  'ignominy  of  being 
good.'  Its  roots  go  rather  deep  into 
human  nature.  There  is  nothing  par- 
ticularly new  about  it,  nor  is  it  in  any 
sense  peculiar  to  our  age  and  genera- 
tion. To  be  good  has  always  been  ig- 
nominious, and  the  ignominy  is  not 
chiefly  due,  as  a  recent  writer  in  the 
Atlantic  seems  to  think,  to  our  failure 
to  admire  the  conventional  standards. 


716 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


We  may  not  admire  them,  to  be  sure; 
but  we  also  have  a  sneaking  desire  to 
attract  attention  by  being  'different/ 
and  we  like  to  rebel  against  any  stand- 
ard that  has  been  prescribed  for  us. 
Rebellion  is  good  fun  for  its  own  sake, 
and  submission,  even  to  that  which  we 
approve,  often  seems  'conventional,' 
and  has  for  the  natural  man  a  certain 
element  of  ignominy.  The '  fear  of  being 
caught  reading  your  Bible'  will  prob- 
ably never  die  out  of  the  world;  and 
for  the  same  reason  that  the  fear  of 
being  caught  studying  your  lesson  will 
never  die  out.  This  fear,  as  I  have  sug- 
gested, very  considerably  antedates 
St.  Augustine,  or  any  assignable  era. 
And  I  am  sure  that,  in  so  far  as  Homer 
was  made  required  reading  in  the  Age 
'of  Pericles,  many  an  Athenian  lad  was 
rather  proud  of  his  ignorance  of  the 
Story  of  Troy. 

It  is,  moreover,  a  curious  fact  that 
some  of  the  things  which  we  really 
consider  supremely  good  have  this  in 
common  with  the  ignominious,  that 
we  wish  to  conceal  them.  We  don't 
care  to  wear  everything  we  possess  on 
our  sleeves;  we  should  be  ashamed  to 
display  there  either  the  shameful  or 
the  sacred.  Some  one  has  called  public 
prayer  an  indecent  exposure  of  soul. 
The  little  boy  who  would  blush  to  be 
found  reading  his  Bible  might  also 
blush  to  be  found  kissing  his  mother, 
—  just  as  the  big  boy  would  pretty  cer- 
tainly blush  to  be  found  kissing  his 
sweetheart.  But  the  fear  of  being  found 
kissing  your  sweetheart  is  not  gener- 
ally taken  to  indicate  that  the  custom 
is  a  conventional  retention  of  an  ef- 
fete ideal. 

Doubtless  the  native,  untutored  ten- 
dencies and  tastes  of  the  boy  (of  various 
ages)  rebel  against  some  of  the  ideals 
which  the  Present  receives  from  the 
Past.  And  doubtless  also  these  spon- 
taneous and  unreflective  impulses  and 
feelings  must  contribute,  and  ought 


to  contribute,  their  share  in  the  forma- 
tion of  our  ideas  of  moral  excellence. 
But  they  must  not  be  taken  as  the 
only  criterion.  The  true,  moral  ideal 
for  the  twentieth  century  A.  D.  is  not 
so  simple  a  thing  as  it  was  for  the  fifth 
century  B.  c.  It  includes  many  dif- 
ferent elements  —  Barbarian,  Hebrew, 
Greek,  Christian,  Teutonic.  It  has 
been  built  up  laboriously  by  the  experi- 
ence of  the  race  through  all  its  pain- 
ful education.  Hence  it  is  not  some- 
thing that  we  can  expect  the  individual 
fully  to  appreciate,  without  consider- 
able education  on  his  own  part.  If, 
then,  the  boy  or  the  young  man — who, 
it  must  be  remembered,  comes  origin- 
ally into  the  world  on  a  level  much 
lower  than  that  of  the  Greeks  —  does 
not  fully  grasp  the  beauty  of  the  ideal 
which  the  race  has  formed  for  him 
and  holds  up  to  him,  we  must  not  con- 
clude that  therefore  the  ideal  is  wrong. 
Of  course  it  may  be  wrong;  some  ideals 
doubtless  are.  But  the  question 
whether  or  not  it  is  wrong  cannot  be 
settled  by  showing  simply  that  it  is 
not  up-to-date  and  that  some  of  us 
blush  when  found  with  it  in  our  pos- 
session. For  a  great  deal  of  the  igno- 
miny of  being  good  is  due  to  the 
rather  sophomoric  glory  of  being 
wicked. 

BY-PRODUCTS    OF   BIRD-STUDY 

THE  interest  in  birds  brings  its  own 
exceeding  great  reward,  but  there  are 
a  few  phases  of  the  question  which 
have  received  too  little  attention,  and 
the  chief  of  these  is  the  attitude  of 
other  people  toward  one's  hobby.  I  am 
always  filled  with  astonishment  at  the 
cheapness  of  a  reputation  for  know- 
ledge. Before  I  had  mastered  the  rudi- 
ments of  the  subject,  the  papers  would 
call  me  up  and  say, '  I  hear  you  are  an 
authority  on  birds,  will  you  please  give 
us  a  column  on  the  subject,'  —  gratis, 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


717 


of  course.  I  being  too  busy  at  the 
moment  to  comply  with  this  modest 
request,  the  reporter  next  day  drops 
in  and  wastes  an  hour  of  my  valuable 
tune  in  getting  perfectly  good  'copy' 
on  'The  Birds  to  be  seen  at  this  Time 
of  Year  in  the  Parks,'  for  which  he  re- 
ceives pay.  In  some  mysterious  way 
my  fame  seems  to  grow,  and  in  the 
spring  I  can  scarcely  go  out  without 
encountering  some  one  who  greets  me 
with,  '  I  saw  such  a  cunning  little  bird 
to-day  which  reminded  me  of  you,'  — 
this  to  a  dignified,  stout  woman,  belong- 
ing to  one  of  the  learned  professions! 

If  you  are  unfortunate  enough  to 
board,  your  fellow  boarders  will  be- 
come slightly  infected,  and  will  ask 
you  to  identify  a  bird '  dark-colored  and 
twice  as  tall  as  an  English  sparrow,' 
or  a  bird  '.with  a  sort  of  accordion 
pleating  on  its  back.'  The  most  as- 
tonishing request  was  that  of  a  pleas- 
ant gentleman  who  unexpectedly  asked 
me  'to  go  like  a  wren,'  but  whether 
physically  or  vocally  I  never  discov- 
ered. This  thirst  for  identification  is 
one  of  the  joys  of  the  bird  'expert.' 
Some  one  has  seen  'a  bird  larger  than 
a  robin,  with  a  light  blue  stripe  about 
two  inches  wide  around  its  neck.'  I 
will  pass  this  on  to  some  of  my  more 
experienced  fellow  ornithologists  for  an 
opinion. 

When  an  interest  in  birds  begins  in 
a  house  there  is  no  stopping  it.  Last 
spring  our  cook  was  seen  half  out  of  the 
kitchen  window,  and  when  asked  what 
she  was  doing  replied,  '  Did  you  notice 
that  little  black-and-yellow  bird?'  The 
gestures  accompanying  the  descrip- 
tions of  birds  are  an  added  pleasure, 
as  people  always  illustrate  their  mean- 
ing. 'It  had  a  gray  breast,'  they  will 
say  with  a  pass  in  the  air  in  the  re- 
gion of  their  stomachs;  and  a  young 
man,  a  friend  of  mine,  nearly  dislo- 
cated his  shoulder  trying  to  show  me 
that  a  bird  had  stripes  on  its  back, 


when  all  the  time    I  knew  perfectly 
well  where  its  back  was. 

I  had  no  idea  of  the  range  of  bird 
songs  until  I  had  them  whistled  or 
sung  or  hummed  to  me,  with  the  ex- 
pectation that  I  should  instantly  re- 
cognize them.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if 
the  birds  themselves  would  be  willing 
to  own  them.  Now,  to  tell  the  truth, 
I  have  not  yet  progressed  so  far  in  this 
interesting  study,  as  to  be  absolutely 
sure  of  any  but  the  commoner  birds 
by  their  songs;  but  experience  has  con- 
vinced me  that  the  lovely  plaintive 
song  of  the  white-throated  sparrow  is 
the  only  one  which  can  be  reproduced 
by  the  amateur  in  a  manner  readily 
to  be  recognized.  When  I  have  mas- 
tered this  branch  of  the  subject  I  shall 
expect  to  be  easily  able  to  identify  the 
Parsifal  music,  when  played  by  a  be- 
ginner, on  a  Jew's-harp. 

An  added  pleasure  is  the  education  of 
the  public.  It  is  now  possible  to  stop 
at  a  farmhouse  for  a  drink  of  water  and 
have  the  farmer's  wife  give  a  glance 
at  one's  opera-glasses  and  ask,  'What 
kinds  of  birds  have  you  seen?'  Yet, 
once  we  were  viewed  with  suspicion, 
if  we  stood  half  an  hour  in  the  same 
spot  gazing  fixedly  at  nothing. 

The  friendly  relations  established  dur- 
ing birding  tramps  form  another  asset. 
I  have  never  yet  found  a  boy,  who  had 
not  some  interesting  information  to  im- 
part in  return  for  a  look  through  opera- 
glasses,  which  pride  would  not  let  him 
admit  were  not  adjusted  for  his  eyes. 
Even  the  most  popular  clergyman  in 
my  city  may  become  in  common  par- 
lance 'one  of  the  boys,'  when  he  is  pur- 
suing with  me  a  Savannah  sparrow 
through  a  particularly  wet  marsh;  I 
have  never  had  time  to  go  to  hear  him 
preach,  but  I  am  confident  that  he 
would  do  it  well,  since  he  is  such  a 
friendly  companion  and  good  'birder.' 
Any  person  with  a  pair  of  opera-glasses 
in  hand  needs  no  other  introduction, 


LETTERS  TO  THE   EDITOR 


but  is  at  once  a  comrade  and  a  com- 
petitor, anxious  to  impart  information 
and  usually  willing  to  receive  the  same; 
but  it  is  astonishing  how  small  a  per- 
son ordinarily  generous  may  become, 
when  confronted  with  the  other  man's 
list  of  rare  species.  I  have  even  known 
people  to  sink  so  low  as  to  say,  'I  do 
not  believe  it!' 

The  deep  snow  in  April  last  year 
started  me  out,  with  bird-seed  and 
suet,  to  succor  the  migrants  in  the  park, 
only  to  find  that  the  burly  policeman 
had  been  before  me,  with  bread  and 
cracker  crumbs  on  a  nicely-brushed 
path  in  a  sunny  place.  He  greeted  me 
thus:  'I  found  a  dead  robin  yester- 
day, and  I  could  not  stand  it  to  think 
of  all  the  birds  starving  to  death,  so  I 
went  to  the  nearest  house  and  got 
some  bread  for  them,  and  when  I  came 
from  dinner  to-day,  I  brought  some 
more  things  along,  and  see  what  a  lot 
of  them  there  are  eating!'  Was  it  not 
worth  wet  skirts  to  hear  that?  The 
humane  policeman  and  I  have  been 
stanch  friends  ever  since,  and  he  has 


given  me  much  useful  information, 
even  to  the  extent  of  telling  me  that 
he  saw  an  eagle  in  the  Park;  and  I  be- 
lieve it,  even  if  in  this  case  I  must  think 
it  was  a  'garden  escape.' 

Then  there  is  a  gentle  glow  of  superi- 
ority at  being  able  to  see  and  hear 
things,  which  are  unknown  to  the  mul- 
titude. One  day  I  saw  a  bobolink  sing- 
ing his  heart  out  on  a  telegraph  wire, 
and  watched  twenty  people  go  by  him, 
not  one  of  whom  raised  an  eyelash! 
What  could  they  have  been  thinking 
of,  one  half  so  lovely?  Nothing  but  the 
bird-craze  has  ever  been  able  to  get  me 
to  the  country  at  sunrise  in  the  spring. 
For  years  I  never  realized  that  Na- 
ture is  at  her  best  when  the  dew  is 
sparkling  on  the  grass,  and  the  multi- 
tudes of  the  feathered  host  are  sing- 
ing their  anthem  of  love  and  thanks- 
giving. It  is  impossible  at  five  o'clock 
of  a  fine  May  morning  not  to  give 
thanks  for  the  seeing  eye  and  the  hear- 
ing ear  which  have  been  unconsciously 
acquired  during  the  time  spent  in  bird- 
study. 


LETTERS   TO  THE  EDITOR 


[MRS.  COMER'S 'Letter  to  the  Rising 
Generation,'  which  appeared  in  the 
issue  of  the  Atlantic  for  February  last, 
roused  the  letter-writing  proclivities  of 
our  readers  to  an  unusual  pitch  of  act- 
ivity. By  way  of  finis  to  the  general 
discussion  continued  in  the  Atlantic 
through  papers  by  Mrs.  Hard  in  the 
April  number,  and  by  Mr.  Bourne  in 
the  present  issue,  we  select  from  an 
immense  mass  of  correspondence  one 
letter  which  many  friends  of  ours  will 
read  with  understanding.  Written  by 
a  young  woman,  obviously  responsive 
to  the  stimulus  of  college  life,  it  is  sent 
us  by  her  father.  —  THE  EDITORS.] 


COLLEGE, 


February  26,  1911. 


DEAREST  FATHER, — Inclosed  are  my 
term  bills,  which  I  have  been  asked  to 
send  to  you.  They  were  sent  to  me 
through  college  mail,  and  were  much 
delayed  on  that  account. 

Now  to  answer  your  dear  letter  which 
I  found  last  Monday.  Father,  I  have 
just  finished  reading  Mrs.  Comer's 
letter  'To  the  Rising  Generation,' 
which  you  sent  me.  I  tried  my  best  to 
read  it  from  an  absolutely  unpreju- 
diced point  of  view,  and  I  think  I  have 
done  so;  though  it  is  pretty  hard  for 
a  girl  who  has  been  earnestly  trying 


LETTERS  TO  THE  EDITOR 


719 


to  make  herself  'worth  while'  to  read 
an  accusation  like  this  one,  which  is 
couched  in  such  aggressive  language, 
and  not  feel  that  it  is  somewhat  unjust. 

Mrs.  Comer  has  addressed  her  letter 
to  the  rising  generation  as  a  whole,  so 
I  suppose  that  the  example  which  she 
puts  forth  she  considers  characteristic 
of  the  generation.  I  have  really  tried 
pretty  hard  to  think  of  the  body  of 
girls  and  boys  about  my  own  age,  whom 
I  have  known  ever  since  I  was  old 
enough  to  think  for  myself,  and,  hon- 
estly, if  they  are  to  be  taken  as  an 
example  (and  I  don't  see  why  they  are 
not  a  fair  example),  I  believe  that  her 
types  are  exaggerated. 

I  don't  know  who  Mrs.  Comer  is, 
or  in  what  position  to  judge;  but,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  my  own  friends  as  a 
whole,  I  think,  are  the  sort  who  have 
not  been  accustomed  to  show  their 
real  selves  to  their  seniors.  I  believe 
that  young  people  are  unwilling  to  let 
older  people  look  into  their  hearts,  be- 
cause they  find  them  unsympathetic 
—  and  I  know  it  is  true  of  myself  usu- 
ally, though  I  have  many  older  friends; 
so  I  think  that  this  Mrs.  Comer  is  an 
exceptional  woman  if  she  really  is  able 
to  judge.  I  know  that  she  may  be 
able  —  and  in  that  case,  her  experience 
with  young  people  is  very  different 
from  mine.  You  may  say  I  have  not 
had  experience  enough  to  judge,  but 
surely,  I  have  known  a  great  many 
young  people  pretty  intimately,  and  I 
hardly  can  thkik  of  one  who  has  been 
so  selfish  or  so  empty-headed  as  those 
she  tells  of. 

Well,  I  am  glad  you  sent  me  the 
article,  and  I  shall  be  glad  of  any  others 
that  you  may  send  me.  I  am  also 
anxious  to  read  the  reply  to  this  article. 
I  did  not  think  you  were  disposed  to 
find  fault  with  me,  or  that  you  sent 
me  the  article  because  you  thought  it 
applied  to  me.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
often  am  disposed  to  find  fault  with 


myself,  and  I  try  to  take  criticism 
kindly,  though  it  surely  is  hard. 

In  the  essay  you  sent  me,  I  find  the 
same  sort  of  remark  made  which  you 
quoted  me  as  having  said  to  mother: 
I  mean,  the  fact  that  I  had  heard  the 
talk  of  the  scarcity  of  money  'every 
year  since  I  could  remember.' 

I  do  remember  making  that  state- 
ment to  mother,  but  absolutely  in  a 
different  way  from  that  in  which  she 
thought  I  said  it.  I  know,  as  you  say, 
I  have  no  idea  of  the  value  of  money. 
As  I  have  said  before,  I  have  no  way 
of  knowing  its  value,  and  I  have  never 
had  the  chance  to  know  it;  but  as  mo- 
ther told  you,  I  am  sorry  I  said  it,  for 
as  she  took  it  in  another  sense,  you 
have  too.  I  do  not  underrate  what 
either  of  you  say.  I  am  sorry  to  say 
that  the  constant  worry  of  it  simply 
depresses  and  makes  me  so  tired  of  it 
that  I  can't  bear  to  hear  it  talked  of. 
'The  Rising  Generation'  seem  to  be 
the  ones  whom  the  world  blames,  and 
that  is  all  right;  but  if  the  effort  of 
that  generation  is  worth  anything,  sure- 
ly the  world  ought  to  take  account  of  it. 
I  think  we  are  all  trying,  but  we  are  not 
old  enough  to  know  just  the  wisest  way, 
when  a  thousand  different  methods 
are  being  shouted  in  our  ears. 

I  have  not  said  any  of  this  resent- 
fully, but  simply  have  stated  what 
seems  true  to  me.  I  may  be  wrong; 
and,  if  so,  you  will  tell  me.  I  don't 
pretend  to  know  much,  but  at  least 
what  I  have  said  is  not  what  I  have 
read  or  heard  others  say.  It  is  what 
I  have  really  thought  out  and  believe 
for  myself. 

I  love  to  get  your  letters.  They  help 
me  a  great  deal,  and  I  try  to  follow 
your  suggestions.  Tc  me,  you  are  the 
best  man  alive,  and  more  than  that, 
you  are  far  ahead  of  the  other  best 
ones.  I  am  just  as  grateful  to  you  as  I 
know  how  to  be.  I  love  you  dearly, 
father,  and  am  counting  the  days  be- 


720 


LETTERS  TO  THE  EDITOR 


fore  I  can  go  home  for  Easter  and  see 
you  again.  It  is  less  than  a  month  now. 
Please  give  mother  my  dear  love. 
With  much  to  you, 

Always  your  devoted  daughter, 
DOROTHY. 

P.  S.  —  Father,  I  forgot  to  ask  if 
you  can  furnish  me  any  bits  of  material 
for  a  theme  I  must  write  next  week? 
The  subject  is  'Social  Work  in  Facto- 
ries,' and  I  know  nothing  about  it.  This 
means  such  things  as  your  'First- Aid' 
classes,  night  classes  for  employees, 
your  boarding  house  ( ?)  and  such  other 
institutions  as  are  for  the  good  of  em- 
ployees. I  want  to  know  as  much  as 
I  can  about  any  and  every  branch  of 
such  work.  Can  you  give  me  any  in- 
formation on  the  subject?  Is  n't  there 
a  club-house  for  some  mill  in  White- 
stone?  Do  they  have  entertainments 
there?  What  sort?  etc.  I  am  at  a  loss 
for  material,  and  must  get  it  some- 
how before  next  week.  Whether  or 
not  the  work  has  been  successful  does 
not  matter.  All  I  want  is  material. 
Can  you  help  me  out?  I  don't  care 
what  sort  of  factory  it  may  be.  Do 
send  me  some  data,  please. 

Doss. 

P.  S.  (2)  I  did  n't  mean  any  one  fac- 
tory, but  any  number  of  different  ones. 

This  letter  was  forwarded  to  Mrs. 
Comer,  who  in  reply  writes  as  follows : 

PASADENA,  CALIFORNIA, 
March  20,  1911. 

DEAR  EDITORS,  —  I  am  returning 
Miss  Dorothy's  letter.  She  is  obviously 
a  mighty  nice  girl,  and  I  am  sure,  if 
she  has  any  failings,  that  they  are  her 
father's  fault!  For  there  is  no  other 
factor  in  a  girl's  education  like  a  father 
she  so  admires.  To  this  day  I  temper 
my  judgments  by  asking  myself  what 
my  father  would  say  about  any  mat- 
ter,—  although  I  lost  him  soon  after  I 


left  school,  —  and,  as  a  school-girl,  no 
matter  how  strongly  I  might  be  pre- 
judiced in  any  direction,  if  I  differed 
from  him,  I  had  the  disconcerting  as- 
surance deep  in  my  mind,  that  I  was 
undoubtedly  wrong  and  would  find  it 
out  later,  even  if  momentarily  I  quite 
failed  to  get  his  point  of  view. 

There  would  be  a  great  deal  in  Miss 
Dorothy's  argument,  if  it  were  true 
that  our  knowledge  of  people  depends 
on  what  they  tell  us  about  themselves. 
But  of  course  it  does  not  so  depend  at 
all  —  as  one  learns  a  little  later.  One 
does  not  realize  this  in  the  least  at 
Dorothy 's  age.  At  least,  /  did  n?t.  I 
recall  perfectly  my  surprise  (and  on 
the  whole  my  relief)  when  I  began  to 
understand  that  'Character  teaches 
above  our  wills '  and  that  whatever  of 
virtues  or  demerits  one  has,  will  out  — 
without  any  speeches  of  introduction 
on  our  part. 

But  while  this  is  true,  it  is  also  true, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  argument,  that 
the  very  strong  feeling  all  young  people 
undoubtedly  have  that  they  are  n't 
understood,  and  that  there  is  a  lot  to 
themselves  that  nobody  but  themselves 
knows  (though  every  one  will  know  it 
shortly),  is  a  justified  feeling,  and  one 
necessary  to  healthful  growth  —  be- 
cause it  is  creative.  For  that  very 
body  of  beliefs  about  the  hidden  self 
is  the  matrix  of  the  forming  character, 
nourishing  and  developing  it  —  until 
we  turn  out  as  we  expect,  largely  be- 
cause we  expect  to!  • 

I  believe  this  is  sound  psychology, 
and  the  deduction  from  it  is  that  young 
persons  should  be  inspired  rather  than 
lectured,  and  that  middle-aged  ladies 
who  write '  Letters '  apparently  address- 
ed to  the  rising  generation,  are  really 
talking  to  the  parents — the  only  people 
who  are  able  to  profit  by  lectures. 
Very  sincerely  yours, 

CORNELIA  A.  P.  COMER. 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


JUNE,  1911 


NORTH  AND   SOUTH 


AN  ISLAND  STORY 


BY   JULIA   D.  DRAGOUMIS 


.  .  .  Under  the  burning  slopes, 
Where  summer  through  the  oleanders  blow 
Rose-red  among  the  shadows,  and  the  air 
Is  lightly  scented  with  the  myrtle  bloom. 

—  R.  ROOD. 


KATHARINE  SHERMAN,  the  Ameri- 
can girl  who  loved  Poros  so  well  that 
this  was  the  third  time  in  two  years 
that  she  was  staying  in  the  island,  had 
crossed  over  this  morning  to  one  of  the 
old  gardens  on  the  mainland,  where 
the  trees  grow  so  low  down  on  the  sea- 
shore that  the  overhanging  branches 
often  dip  in  the  water. 

One  of  the  strong  north  winds,  that 
sometimes  blow  in  July  and  August, 
was  covering  the  sea  with  frothy  white- 
capped  waves,  and  Katharine  had  been 
drenched  two  or  three  times  with  the 
salt  spray  while  crossing  over  from  the 
island  in  the  sailing-boat.  It  had  been 
delicious,  though,  with  the  boat  heel- 
ing over,  the  sail  spread  to  the  fresh 
wind,  one  of  old  Louka's  boatmen  with 
his  hand  on  the  small  ropes  ready  to 
let  the  sail  slip  down  at  any  unexpected 
gust,  and  Dino,  the  son  of  Yoryi  the 
blind  one,  sitting  at  the  helm. 
VOL.  1W-NO.  6 


Katharine  had  only  arrived  the  day 
before,  and  had  found  her  old  room  in 
the  little  pink-washed  hotel  on  the  quay 
duly  kept  for  her.  Dino  was  the  first 
old  acquaintance  she  had  met.  He 
told  her  shyly  that  he  was  earning  in- 
dependent wages  now,  ever  since  the 
last  Feast  of  the  Virgin,  and  could  pro- 
vide his  own  boots.  Katharine  glanced 
inquiringly  at  his  bare  brown  feet,  but 
was  promptly  told  that  the  boots  were 
naturally  only  for  Sunday  and  holiday 
wear.  When,  after  a  good  deal  of  tack- 
ing, the  boat  touched  at  the  little 
wooden  pier  of  the  garden,  Katharine 
jumped  out,  paid  the  men  and  told 
them  not  to  wait.  She  would  walk  back, 
she  said,  through  Galata,  and  cross 
where  the  port  narrowed. 

She  ran  to  the  end  of  the  long  ave- 
nue of  cypress  trees — so  tall  that  only 
a  narrow  strip  of  deep  summer-blue 
sky  showed  above  them  —  and  halfway 
back  again,  before  she  stopped  to  rest, 
leaning  against  one  of  the  straight,  rug- 
ged trunks. 

Good  God,  how  beautiful  it  was! 

How  glad  she  felt  that  she  had  re- 
fused to  follow  her  sister  to  Switzer- 
land, but  had  braved  the  heat  of  a 


722 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


summer  in  Greece  to  see  her  beloved 
Southern  land  in  all  its  splendor. 

It  was  even  more  beautiful  than  she 
remembered  it. 

Below  the  cypress  trees  the  taller 
straggling  branches  of  the  oleanders 
formed  an  archway,  and  she  stood  un- 
der a  perfect  glory  of  rose-red  and  white 
blossoms.  Many  of  these  climbed  right 
up  into  the  trees,  and  stood  out  in 
vivid  rose-pink  against  the  dense  black 
foliage.  Behind  her  was  a  long  vine-clad 
pergola,  heavily  laden  with  bunches  of 
still  unripe  grapes;  before  her,  away 
down  the  avenue,  the  wide  wooden 
gate,  between  its  tall  stone  posts,  lead- 
ing out  to  the  shore.  One  of  the  sides 
was  thrown  back,  and  through  the  open- 
ing the  deep  sapphire  of  the  sea  gleam- 
ed in  the  sun  blaze,  while  showers  of 
dazzling  white  spray  covered  the  little 
pier. 

Katharine  thought  that  she  knew 
Poros  in  all  its  phases  and  was  familiar 
with  all  its  lovely  changes,  but  this 
summer  wind  was  new  to  her. 

Slowly  she  came  down  the  avenue, 
drinking  in  the  beauty  and  the  light, 
and  listening  to  the  continuous  chirp- 
ing of  the  tettix  on  all  sides  of  her. 

In  the  open  space  down  by  the  gate, 
the  wind  was  tossing  the  tops  of  the 
giant  eucalyptus  trees  to  and  fro,  turn- 
ing their  feathery  bunches  of  narrow 
leaves  into  blurs  of  whitish  green.  Long 
strips  of  bark  hung  in  loose  ends,  laying 
bare  the  smooth  gray-blue  trunks. 

They  were  picking  lemons  in  the  gar- 
den. The  gatherers,  women  and  child- 
ren, carried  their  laden  panniers  on  their 
shoulders  into  the  spacious  white-wash- 
ed barn,  where  the  packers  awaited 
them. 

Katharine  stood  in  the  open  door- 
way, looking  in. 

It  was  cool  and  pleasant  inside.  On 
the  broad  sill  of  the  low  window  the 
water  was  cooling  for  the  workers,  in 
rows  of  earthen  jars.  The  lemons  lay 


in  yellow  heaps  on  the  floor,  and  the 
women  and  girls  were  twisting  them 
with  incredible  rapidity  into  fine  tis- 
sue-paper wrappers,  and  laying  them 
in  rows  in  the  small  cases,  bound  for 
Odessa  or  Roumania. 

Many  of  the  workers  looked  up 
smiling.  The  foreign  lady  with  her 
light  step,  her  pretty  clothes  and  shin- 
ing dark  hair,  was  a  familiar  figure  to 
most  of  them,  and  in  a  vague  way  they 
were  pleased  to  see  her  in  Poros  once 
more. 

The  master  of  the  garden,  a  thin 
man  bearing  an  old  historic  name,  came 
forward  with  words  of  greeting  and  the 
offer  of  a  seat,  but  Katharine  would 
not  stay.  She  could  not  rest  long  in 
one  place.  She  longed  to  see  and  en- 
joy everything  at  the  same  time.  And 
when  she  stood  a  few  moments  later 
in  the  lemon-orchard,  where  beyond 
the  wall  the  sea-line  showed  purple,  — 
Homer's  '  wine-colored '  sea,  —  where 
the  scent  of  the  lemon-blossom  and 
the  myrtle,  and  the  shivering  of  the 
eucalyptus  leaves  were  about  her,  all 
the  old  island  sights,  and  scents,  and 
sounds,  she  felt  as  though  she  might 
open  her  arms  wide,  and  clasp  them  to 
her  heart. 

Suddenly,  in  the  distance,  among  the 
many  workers  who  came  and  went, 
filling  their  panniers,  Katharine  recog- 
nized a  familiar  figure. 

The  woman  came  slowly  through  the 
orchard,  out  of  the  shade  of  the  many 
trees,  into  the  clearer  opening. 

She  wore  a  white  kerchief  which 
shaded  her  face,  and  whose  ends  were 
tied  round  her  throat.  The  long  sleeve- 
less coat  hung  round  her  in  straight 
folds.  A  large  pannier  full  of  lemons 
was  on  her  shoulder.  With  her  left 
arm  she  steadied  the  pannier,  while 
her  right  hung  loosely  by  her  side. 

On  the  trees  behind  her  the  fruit 
hung  in  yellow  clusters,  and  the  wav- 
ing leaves  made  patches  of  shadow  and 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


723 


light  on  her  kerchief.  She  walked 
slowly,  being  heavily  laden,  and  some- 
times lifted  her  face  to  meet  the 
breeze.  She  was  a  large  woman,  and 
all  her  movements  were  simple,  free, 
almost  classic. 

'Myrto,  it  is  you?'  exclaimed  Kath- 
arine. 

The  woman's  face  lighted  up  as  she 
brought  down  her  pannier  and  rested 
it  on  the  ground  beside  her.  Her  lips 
parted  in  a  smile  of  glad  welcome. 

'You  have  come  to  Poros  again! 
That  is  well.  Our  hearts  have  pained 
for  a  sight  of  you.' 

'It  is  very  sweet  of  you  to  say  so, 
Myrto.' 

Katharine's  Greek  was  distinctly 
original,  and  her  genders  and  tenses 
wonderfully  mixed,  but  she  talked 
fluently  enough,  and  always  succeeded 
in  making  herself  understood. 

'Yes,'  she  continued,  'of  course  I 
have  come  again.  Did  I  not  say  I 
would?  Do  you  think  anything  would 
keep  me  away  from  Poros,  once  I  was 
in  Greece?' 

'And  the  lady,  your  sister?' 

'The  lady,  my  sister,  was  with  me 
in  Athens,  but  she  found  it  became  too 
hot.  She  hates  the  blue  sky  when  it  is 
always  without  clouds.  Just  fancy 
that,  Myrto!  So  she  took  her  husband 
and  the  dear  little  girl,  and  they  all 
went  off  to  Switzerland,  where  it  will 
rain  as  much  as  they  like.  You  do  not 
know  where  Switzerland  is,  do  you, 
Myrto?' 

'Switzerland,'  repeated  the  woman 
slowly;  'is  it  in  Europe  where  the 
lemons  are  sent?' 

'  Yes,  it  is  in  Europe,  but  then  so  are 
we  here.' 

'No,'  corrected  Myrto,  'the  garden 
here  is  on  the  Peloponnesus,  opposite 
Poros.' 

'Still  it  is  part  of  Europe.' 

Myrto  looked  puzzled. 

'I  do  not  know,'  she  said  at  last. 


'You  are  learned,  and  know  many 
things;  but  so  we  say  here,  this  is 
the  Peloponnesus,  and  Poros  is  oppo- 
site, and  the  lemons  go  in  the  ships  to 
Europe.' 

An  old  woman  came  shuffling  up  to 
them,  with  bent  back  and  outstretched 
hand. 

Katharine  greeted  her  kindly. 

'How  are  you,  Kyra  Marina?  how 
is  the  bad  knee?  quite  well  again  now? 
And  do  you  always  make  such  fine 
preserves  of  the  little  green  lemons  as 
you  used  to  do?  You  must  make  some 
more  for  me  to  take  back  to  my  little 
niece.  She  does  love  them  so!' 

'At  your  service  always,'  answered 
the  old  dame.  'But  we  must  wait  for 
the  next  crop;  these  are  too  large  now.' 

Katharine  nodded  smilingly,  and 
turned  again  to  the  younger  woman. 

'And  Leftheri,  Myrto?  Is  he  well? 
Does  he  catch  much  fish  in  the  new 
boat?' 

The  woman  did  not  reply.  She  half 
turned  aside,  fingering  the  lemons  in 
the  high  pannier. 

Something  in  her  attitude  surprised 
Katharine.  This  was  not  a  shy  young 
girl,  but  a  woman  who  had  been  al- 
ready married  some  months  the  last 
time  she  had  seen  her. 

'  How  is  your  husband  ? '  she  repeated 
curiously. 

Myrto  kept  her  face  almost  entirely 
turned  away,  but  Katharine  could  see 
the  shiver  that  ran  through  her  whole 
body.  She  did  not  notice  the  pursed- 
up  lips  of  the  old  woman  behind  her. 

'What  is  it?'  she  asked  boldly,  as- 
certaining by  a  rapid  glance  that  Myr- 
to's  kerchief  was  white.  'Where  is 
Leftheri?' 

'Gone, 'muttered  the  woman  at  last, 
without  turning  round. 

Katharine  sprang  toward  her. 

'Gone!  what  do  you  mean?  Where? 
How?' 

'I  cannot  tell  you  here,'  answered 


724 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


Myrto  in  a  colorless  voice.  'If  you 
come  some  day  to  my  house  as  you 
used  to  do,  I  will  tell  you,  perhaps.' 

'  Gone  !  '  repeated  Katharine  in 
amazement;  'gone  for  long  do  you 
mean?  but  where?' 

'No,'  broke  in  Kyra  Marina,  'gone 
for  always;  gone  where  the  men  go 
who  do  not  care  for  their  lives,  who 
are  driven  away  by  evil  ways,  and  bad 
words;  gone  to  the  sponge-fishing.' 

'  To  the  sponge-fishing ! '  echoed  Kath- 
arine in  dismay;  'with  the  sponge- 
divers?  Leftheri?'  For  she  had  lived 
enough  in  the  islands  to  know  a  little 
of  what  such  going  meant. 

Kyra  Marina  blinked  her  small 
wicked  eyes  set  in  a  brown  network 
of  wrinkles. 

'Tell  the  lady  about  it,'  she  com- 
manded authoritatively.  'Wherefore 
will  you  be  dragging  her  to  your  house? 
Is  it  a  place  for  her,  and  you  a  de- 
serted woman  ?  Do  you  think  perhaps 
that  people  care  to  come  to  you  now?' 

'No,'  said  Myrto  meekly,  'I  know; 
few  come.'  Then  turning  to  Katharine, 
'  I  brought  no  shame  to  my  man,  God 
be  my  witness,  but  he  would  flare  up 
easily,  and  we  often  had  hard  words. 
Anger  rises  quickly  in  me  too.  I  had 
no  mother  to  teach  me  patience.  I  al- 
ways wished  him  to  work  harder,  and 
do  more  than  the  others.  I  told  him 
every  day  that  he  was  lazy,  —  too 
often,  perhaps.  Then  one  day  that 
dawned  badly  I  said  it  had  been  better 
I  had  married  Penayi,  the  miller's  son : 
him  who  had  asked  for  me.  I  said  I 
should  have  fared  better.  I  did  not 
mean  it  really,  it  was  just  the  evil  mo- 
ment that  made  me  speak  the  words. 
But  he  believed  them.  You  do  not 
know  these  things,  but  it  is  a  madness 
that  comes  over  you.' 

'Yes,'  said  Katharine  gently,  'yes, 
I  know.' 

'And  just  then,'  continued  Myrto, 
'  there  were  those  sponge-captains  here, 


the  dogs!  drinking  at  Sotiro's,  tempt- 
ing the  lads,  offering  much  money  - 
and  that  night  he  went  off  with  them. 
That  is  all.'    Then,  in  a  hard  voice. 
'Now  you  need  not  come  to  my  house.' 

'No,  no,  of  course  she  need  not,' 
piped  the  old  crone  shaking  her  head. 

Katharine  turned  on  her  fiercely. 

'Please  not  to  answer  for  me,  Kyra 
Marina.'  Then  to  Myrto  very  simply, 
'Of  course  I  shall  come  to  see  you, 
Myrto,  perhaps  to-morrow.' 

Others  were  gathering  round  them 
by  this  time,  so  Katharine  wished  them 
good-day  and  made  her  way  through 
the  trees  and  up  the  long  avenue  to 
where  an  old  gate,  built  under  an  arch- 
way thickly  lined  with  swallows'  nests, 
led  out  of  the  garden. 

She  entered  a  narrow  lane  between 
high  stone  walls,  green  with  overhang- 
ing plants.  The  rough  path  was  shaded 
by  the  walnut  and  mulberry  trees  of 
the  gardens  on  each  side. 

At  first  she  walked  along  with  bent 
head  and  troubled  face.  Myrto's  story 
had  saddened  her,  and  besides  this, 
other  thoughts  had  been  awakened 
which  she  had  been  resolutely  lulling 
to  sleep  for  many  days  now. 

'It  is  a  madness  that  comes  over 
you  —  it  is  a  madness  — '  she  repeated 
over  and  over  again. 

But  by  the  time  she  emerged  from 
the  narrow  walled-in  path  on  to  the 
seashore  at  Galata,  she  had  shaken  off 
her  preoccupation,  and  was  walking 
rapidly,  with  her  shoulders  well  set 
back,  her  face  lifted  to  the  breeze,  and 
her  lips  slightly  apart. 

Galata  had  grown  since  she  had  seen 
it  last.  Little  straw-thatched  sheds, 
open  on  all  sides,  where  coffee  and 
masticha  were  served,  had  been  erected 
close  to  the  sea,  and  many  new  houses 
had  been  built  on  the  slopes  among  the 
olive  trees. 

Katharine  loved  it  all,  every  step  of 
the  way,  every  sight  and  sound. 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


725 


The  boat  in  which  she  crossed  over 
to  Poros,  painted  in  vivid  blue-and- 
green  stripes,  with  its  sail  of  many 
patches,  charmed  her.  The  short  cross- 
ing of  scarcely  two  minutes  was  breezy 
and  sunny,  and  the  island,  as  she  drew 
nearer  and  nearer  to  its  amphitheatre 
of  old  sun-baked  houses,  overshadowed 
by  the  brown  man-faced  rock,  gave  her 
the  impression  of  a  monster  living 
cinematograph. 

She  jumped  out  of  the  boat,  search- 
ing eagerly  for  known  faces.  The  crew 
of  urchins,  that  always  haunted  the 
quay,  were  the  first  old  acquaintances 
she  met.  It  was  holiday-time,  and  they 
were  nearly  all  there:  Nasso,  Yoryi, 
Mitso,  Stavro,  Kosta,  Niko,  Aristidi, 
Andrea,  Savva,  all  in  various  degrees  of 
tattered  undress,  all  smiling  and  crowd- 
ing round  the  quickly  recognized  'for- 
eign lady,'  the  well-remembered  dis- 
tributer of  kouloutria  and  lepta  in  the 
past. 

It  was  good  to  see  it  all  again,  just 
as  she  had  dreamed  of  it  so  often. 
The  brilliant  flame-red,  grass-green, 
and  sky-blue  little  boats  rocking  on  the 
waves  outside  the  sea-wall;  the  fruit- 
sheds  with  their  panniers  of  ripe  to- 
matoes, mounds  of  yellow  melons,  and 
purple  aubergines,  with  the  enormous 
over-ripe  yellowish  cucumbers,  that 
only  Poriote  digestions  can  tackle  with 
impunity.  The  groups  of  old  men, 
sitting  cross-legged  under  the  scanty 
shade  of  the  acacia  trees,  mending  their 
fishing-nets;  the  old  fountain  standing 
close  to  the  sea,  with  its  marble  dol- 
phins twisting  their  tails  round  a  tri- 
dent on  the  one  side,  and  the  waves 
splashing  on  the  other;  Pappa  Tha- 
nassi,  the  priest,  who  passed,  bowing 
gravely,  laying  his  hand  on  his  breast 
as  he  did  so;  the  familiar  greeting  of 
Kyr  Apostoli,  the  baker;  Barba  Stathi's 
old  donkey,  Kitso,  waiting  patiently 
outside  the  oven  till  his  load  of  thyme 
should  be  lightened. 


At  last  she  stood  on  the  steps  of  the 
little  hotel,  and  gazed  seaward  before 
making  up  her  mind  to  enter.  The 
waters  of  the  bay  heaved  and  sparkled 
in  the  dazzling  light,  far  away  to  the 
great  mass  of  the  Sleeper,  whose  high- 
est peaks,  seen  dimly  through  the  heat 
haze,  might  have  been  taken  for  clouds. 
The  steamer  from  Piraeus  was  just 
turning  the  corner  by  the  lighthouse, 
and  numbers  of  little  boats  started  out 
to  meet  her. 

Katharine  ran  quickly  up  to  the 
balcony  of  her  room,  and  with  her 
opera-glasses  carefully  scanned  every 
passenger  who  disembarked.  When  the 
last  one  had  been  rowed  out  to  the 
quay,  and  the  steamer  had  weighed  her 
anchor  and  was  on  her  way  to  Nauplia, 
Katharine  laid  down  her  glasses  with 
a  sigh,  and  began  a  long  letter  to  her 
sister  at  Grindelwald. 


II 

Myrto,  with  the  red  earthen  pitcher 
full  of  water  on  her  shoulder,  climbed 
up  the  rocky  street  in  the  fast-fading 
light,  pushed  open  the  door  of  her 
little  low  house,  and  closing  it  behind 
her,  went  into  the  dim,  close  room. 

It  was  a  small  room  and  her  loom, 
with  the  blue  and  white  threads  stretch- 
ed tightly  across  it,  took  up  nearly  all 
the  space  between  the  solitary  window 
and  the  open  fireplace,  —  an  old- 
fashioned  one,  this,  with  an  overhang- 
ing whitewashed  mantel,  and  a  deep 
flounce  of  faded  cotton  stuff  nailed 
underneath  it.  Over  the  loom,  a  plate- 
rack,  ornamented  with  bright  green 
paper  cut  into  fantastic  shapes,  held 
five  white  plates  and  two  cups.  Be- 
sides the  rack  there  was  also  a  little 
painted  cupboard  let  into  the  wall, 
high  up  beyond  the  fireplace,  for  the 
safe-keeping  of  the  better  crockery. 
On  a  shelf  on  the  other  side  stood  half 
a  melon,  two  tomatoes  and  a  big  hunch 


726 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


of  brown  bread.  Two  hens  and  a  cock 
were  walking  unconcernedly  over  the 
loom,  picking  up  stray  crumbs  which 
had  fallen  on  it. 

Myrto  set  down  her  pitcher  from 
her  shoulder  with  an  effort,  filled  the 
smaller  drinking  one  and  set  it  to  cool 
outside  on  the  ledge  of  the  small  court- 
yard at  the  back.  Cool  water  is  a  seri- 
ous question  in  Poros.  The  nights  were 
long  and  hot;  Myrto,  who  did  not 
sleep  much,  was  often  thirsty.  Treading 
heavily,  she  came  back  into  the  room, 
and  carefully  stopped  up  the  mouth  of 
the  larger  pitcher  with  a  green  lemon 
which  she  had  brought  with  her  from 
the  garden. 

Suddenly  she  let  herself  drop  on  a 
low  stool,  leaning  her  head  against  the 
wooden  post  of  the  loom.  She  felt 
faint  and  sick.  Her  back  ached  as  if  it 
would  break,  and  her  knees  trembled 
as  she  tried  to  stretch  her  legs  to  give 
them  more  ease.  She  had  been  down  to 
the  fountain  quite  late,  hoping  to  meet 
no  one.  But  Kyra  Marina  had  been 
there.  The  other  women  had  taken 
her  turn,  she  said;  there  was  no  respect 
left  for  old  age.  Myrto  had  tried  to 
keep  silence,  but  she  had  been  soon 
overwhelmed  by  a  torrent  of  words. 

'Yes,'  the  old  woman  wound  up, 
'Leftheri  may  have  been  lazy  enough, 
and  easily  roused  to  anger,  but  you 
must  have  broiled  the  fish  on  his  very 
lips,  my  girl,  to  make  him  go  off  so, 
and  to  such  work.  Do  you  know  that 
the  poor  divers  are  the  slaves  of  the 
sponge-captains?  That  they  keep  them 
down  in  the  sea  till  they  burst  if  they 
do  not  bring  up  many  sponges  the  first 
time,  and  throw  them  into  a  dark 
hold  to  rot  when  their  legs  are  seized 
and  they  can  work  no  more?  Are  they 
few,  the  strong  men  who  have  returned 
crippled  for  life?  Like  enough,  if  ever 
you  see  your  man  again,  he  will  be 
dragging  his  legs  after  him,  and  then 
you  may  have  him  lying  there  on  a 


mattress,  a  useless  log  all  the  rest  of  his 
days.  And  that  will  be  bad  work  to 
remember,  my  girl.  To  have  driven  a 
man  away  from  his  country,  and  his 
house,  by  your  evil  tongue!  Eh,  but 
there  are  few  have  a  good  word  for 
you  now.' 

'I  know,'  sobbed  Myrto. 

Poros  gossip  would  have  it  that 
Kyra  Marina's  own  daughter  and  son- 
in-law  had  been  driven  to  seek  work 
out  of  the  island,  to  escape  her  railing 
tongue.  It  is  true  this  was  long  ago, 
and  with  her  age  her  memory  may 
have  been  failing  her. 

'I  am  sorry,'  she  continued,  'that 
you  are  with  child.  It  is  bad  enough 
to  be  born  a  widow's  child,  but  worse 
still  to  have  a  deserted  wife  for  mother.' 

She  would  probably  have  gone  on  for 
some  time  in  this  encouraging  strain 
had  not  her  victim  at  last  seized  her 
pitcher,  only  three  quarters  full,  and 
started  homeward,  leaving  the  old 
woman  muttering  behind  her. 

But  now  as  she  sat  there,  weary  and 
sick  in  mind  and  body,  every  cruel 
word  came  back  to  her  with  renewed 
force.  Her  poor  man !  a  slave  to  those 
brutes!  Left  to  rot  in  the  dark  hold 
of  a  rolling  ship  or  sent  off  with  both 
legs  paralyzed.  He  who  was  so  proud  of 
his  strength  and  agility.  He  the  best 
dancer  in  the  Skyrto  dance  at  the  Vithi 
fair!  Myrto  clasped  her  hands  together 
as  she  half  sat,  half  crouched  there  in 
the  gloom,  and  broken  words  of  prayer 
escaped  her. 

'  My  little  Virgin,  have  mercy  upon 
me!  Pity  me,  my  little  Virgin!  Stretch 
out  your  hand  and  save  my  poor  man. 
I  have  been  bad,  yes  —  but  save  him 
and  bring  him  back  hale  and  sound  for 
the  sake  of  the  child  that  lies  heavy 
within  me.' 

She  lifted  her  head  and  clasped  her 
hands  over  her  burning  eyes. 

Would  the  Holy  Virgin  listen  to  her? 
What  had  she  done  to  be  heard?  Little 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


727 


by  little  the  vague  notion  of  some 
necessary  sacrifice  took  form  in  her 
tired  brain.  She  could  scarcely  drag 
her  limbs  to  the  fountain  this  evening 
after  her  hard  day's  work  in  the  garden, 
and  on  the  morrow  she  had  meant  to 
sit  at  her  loom  all  day  for  a  rest.  But 
she  decided  that  instead  of  this  she 
would  go  on  foot  to  the  Monastery, 
and  repeat  her  petition  to  the  Virgin 
up  there  in  the  Chapel,  lighting  a 
candle  before  the  icon  which  the  Italian 
painter  had  painted. 

But  even  then  —  what?  Was  there 
any  hope?  Would  her  prayers,  her  can- 
dle, her  pilgrimage,  help  her  man  ever 
so  little?  They  let  them  rot  in  the 
hold,  Kyra  Marina  had  said.  Rot!  that 
meant  what?  Ah,  yes,  she  knew!  Had 
not  the  sailors  of  the  little  transport 
ship  which  had  been  sent  out  by  the 
Government  to  overlook  the  sponge- 
diving,  told  their  women,  and  had 
not  their  women  repeated  it  at  the 
fountain?  Had  she  not  heard  the  grue- 
some tale  of  the  poor  young  man  from 
Smyrna,  rescued  by  the  officers  of  the 
transport  ship  from  the  clutches  of  one 
of  those  sponge-captains,  only  to  die  of 
advanced  gangrene  three  days  later? 
Had  not  the  sailors  spoken  of  the  fes- 
tering wounds  caused  by  long  neglect; 
by  days  and  nights  spent  untended 
on  a  loathsome  mattress  in  a  filthy, 
noisome  hole?  Had  not  these  wounds 
been  described  in  all  their  sickening 
details  by  those  who  had  seen  them 
with  their  own  eyes  —  aye,  and  not 
only  seen  them!  — 

Myrto  dropped  her  head  on  her 
breast  and  swayed  backwards  and  for- 
wards with  clenched  teeth,  as  the  pic- 
ture arose  before  her. 

A  lull  came,  and  she  heard  footsteps 
approaching.  Then  a  tapping  at  the 
closed  door. 

She  knew  at  once  that  it  must  be 
Katharine.  No  one  else  in  Poros  had 
that  light,  springy  step.  The  old  people 


shuffled;  the  young  ones,  being  gener- 
ally laden,  or  tired,  trod  heavily;  and 
the  little  children  pattered.  Besides,  no 
one  but  the  '  foreign  lady '  would  have 
dreamed  of  knocking  at  the  door. 

She  opened  it  at  once  and  Katharine 
entered;  a  trim  figure  in  white  linen, 
holding  a  bunch  of  pink  oleanders  in 
one  hand,  and  a  tall  shepherd's  stick  in 
the  other. 

'I  have  been  up  to  the  Temple  of 
Poseidon,'  she  announced,  'right  up  to 
the  top  with  Barba  Stathi,  though  I 
never  once  got  on  to  Kitso's  back.  It 
was  hot,  but  I  did  it,  and  now  I  am 
tired  and  thirsty.  So  I  thought  I  would 
rest  for  a  little  here,  and  have  a  talk 
with  you  at  the  same  time.' 

'Welcome,'  said  Myrto  simply.  'Will 
you  sit  here?'  spreading  a  clean  cloth 
on  the  second  stool.  'Or  will  you  come 
into  the  sola?  there  is  a  sofa  there.' 

'Oh,  here;  certainly.'  Then,  catch- 
ing sight  of  the  woman's  face,  of  the 
eyes  that  had  no  light  in  them,  of  the 
waxen  color  which  made  the  strong, 
arched  eyebrows  look  too  black,  'You 
poor  thing! '  she  exclaimed,  'what  have 
they  been  doing  to  you?  Sit  right  here 
beside  me,  and  tell  me  all  about  it.' 

But  Myrto  would  not  hear  of  it. 

Katharine  had  said  she  was  thirsty. 
She  must  drink  first:  drink  out  of  one 
of  the  glasses  kept  in  the  little  wall- 
cupboard,  a  thin  glass  with  a  gold  rim, 
and  a  gold  fox  engraved  on  one  side. 
Myrto  wiped  it  very  carefully  and 
filled  it  from  the  drinking-pitcher  out- 
side, explaining  to  Katharine  as  she 
came  and  went,  that  she  need  have  no 
scruple  about  drinking  of  the  water, 
as  she  herself  never  drank  from  the 
mouth  of  the  pitcher,  as  some  of  the 
villagers  did,  but  always  used  a  cup 
or  a  tin  dipper. 

Then  she  placed  the  filled  glass  on 
a  little  round  tray,  and  beside  it  a  small 
pot  of  small  lemons  preserved,  which 
Kyra  Sophoula,  a  kind  neighbor,  she 


728 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


said,  had  given  her,  and  one  of  the 
six  silver  spoons  which  had  formed  part 
of  her  dowry.  This  tray  she  presented 
to  Katharine,  standing  before  her 
while  Katharine  served  herself.  Only 
when  the  duties  of  hospitality  were 
over  could  Katharine  persuade  her  to 
sit  down  again. 

'  What  were  you  doing  when  I  came 
in?  You  must  not  let  me  stop  your 
work,'  she  said. 

'I  was  doing  nothing.  I  often  sit 
idle  now,  with  my  hands  crossed.' 

'Ah,  but  that  is  bad!'  exclaimed 
Katharine  with  swift  Anglo-Saxon  en- 
ergy; 'there  is  nothing  like  work,  you 
know,  to  make  you  forget  troubles.' 

Myrto  shook  her  head.  'There  is 
always  work  enough,'  she  said  in  a 
tired  voice,  'if  one  would  not  starve. 
Besides,  as  you  see,  there  is  the  child 
that  will  come  soon,  and  I  am  often 
heavy  and  tired.' 

Katharine  knew  Poros  ways  and 
talk.  'May  it  be  safely  born,  and  live 
long  to  be  a  joy  to  you,'  she  said  in  a 
grave,  compassionate  voice.  'Tell  me, 
at  least,'  she  added  after  Myrto  had 
thanked  her,  'what  you  were  thinking 
of,  since  you  were  not  doing  anything.' 

'I  was  thinking  that  to-morrow  I 
shall  go  to  the  Monastery.' 

'To  the  Monastery?   You?' 

'Yes,  on  foot;  to  light  a  candle  before 
the  icon  of  the  Holy  Virgin.  — Ah,  yes, 
I  know  what  you  would  say  — you  are 
foreign,  you  speak  our  language,  but 
you  do  not  know  our  Faith,  and  you 
will  say  that  it  will  do  no  good;  that 
I  cannot  walk  so  far.  But  I  can,  and 
I  will,  and  it  must  do  good.' 

'Why  should  it  not  do  good?'  said 
Katharine  quietly.  'And  if  it  makes 
you  any  happier,  of  course  you  must 
go.  Only  you  must  rest  when  you  get 
there.' 

'Yes,  Twill  rest.' 

'How  long  ago  is  it  that  Leftheri 
went?' 


'Very  soon  it  will  be  eight  months.' 

'Then,'  asked  Katharine,  hesitat- 
ingly, '  had  you  —  I  mean  did  he 
know? '  — 

'No,'  said  Myrto,  'he  did  not  know 
anything.' 

'Poor  Myrto!  If  he  had  known  he 
would  never  have  left  you.' 

'  I  do  not  know  —  perhaps  not.  He 
wished  for  a  child.  But  perhaps  also 
he  bore  all  he  could.  What  can  a  man 
do  when  a  woman  is  always  angry,  and 
has  evil  words  ready  when  he  returns 
from  his  work?  Ah,  Kyra  Marina 
was  right,  you  should  not  come  to  my 
house!  I  am  a  bad  woman!  Not  in 
deeds — not — that  I  swear  on  my  mar- 
riage-wreath —  but  in  words  —  Ah, 
God,  did  I  not  tell  him  it  were  better 
I  had  married  another  man!  I,  his 
wife!  There  are  some  words  no  man 
can  forgive;  words  that  the  longest 
life  is  too  short  to  forget  in.' 

Katharine  started  a  little,  and  lean- 
ing forward  looked  into  Myrto's  face. 

'Do  you  think  so,  Myrto?  Are  there 
any  unforgivable  words?  Then  more 
than  ever  should  I  come  to  your  house 
and  sit  with  you,  and  listen  to  you  — 
for  I  too  have  spoken  such.' 

'You!  to  whom?  You  are  not  mar- 
ried?' 

'  No  —  but  there  is  some  one  —  I  am 
—  I  was  engaged  to.  You  understand  ? ' 

'I  understand  —  you  were  betrothed. 
Your  parents  had  exchanged  your 
rings,  though  the  priest  had  not  yet 
exchanged  your  wreaths.' 

'Well,  not  quite,'  said  Katharine, 
'but  it  comes  to  the  same  thing.' 

'Was  he  foreign  also?  —  was  it  in 
your  own  country?' 

'He  is  not  Greek;  but  not  of  my 
own  country,  either;  he  is  an  English- 
man. Never  mind,  I  cannot  explain. 
Anyway,  a  foreigner  here,  like  myself. 
And  it  was  not  in  my  own  country  we 
met,  but  in  Athens.  We  stayed  many 
months  there,  and  traveled  together 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


729 


with  some  other  people.  And  when  we 
found  out,  Myrto,  that  we  loved  each 
other  very  much,  we  were  betrothed  as 
you  call  it,  though  there  was  no  cere- 
mony, we  just  knew  it  ourselves.' 

Myrto  looked  puzzled.  'But  the 
lady,  your  sister?' 

'Oh,  my  sister  knew  of  course;  her 
husband  also.  And  —  and,  we  were  to 
have  been  married  now,  this  Easter.' 

There  was  a  pause. 

'Why  then  did  not  the  marriage 
take  place?'  asked  Myrto;  'was  not 
your  dowry  ready?' 

'Oh,  quite  ready;  yes.' 

'Then  why?' 

'Well,  you  see,  we  loved  each  other 
very,  very  much,  but  still  we  often  dis- 
agreed, and  like  you,  I  too  get  angry 
easily;  I  have  always  been  free,  and 
sometimes  I  hated  the  thought  of  feel- 
ing bound,  of  being  asked  where  I  went 
and  what  I  did.' 

'But  since  he  was  your  betrothed?' 
said  Myrto  gravely. 

'I  know;  but  it  was  only  at  times  I 
hated  it.  Sometimes  I  liked  it.  Then 
you  know  I  am  —  well,  rather  rich. 
My  father  left  me  what  you  would  call 
here  a  big  dowry,  and  he  —  Jim  —  has 
very  little  money,  and  one  day  when 
he  had  vexed  me  about  something  — 
I  —  as  you  say  it  is  a  madness  that 
comes  over  you  —  I  told  him  that  he 
did  not  care  for  me  so  much  as  I  had 
thought  he  did,  and  that  perhaps  if  I 
were  not  so  rich  he  would  not  wish  to 
marry  me !  Yes,  I  told  him  that,  beast 
that  I  was!' 

And,  like  Myrto  a  little  while  ago, 
Katharine  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  rocked  backwards  and 
forwards. 

'  But  —  ah,  please  do  not  say  such 
words  —  you!  a  beast!  but,  perhaps 
what  you  told  him  was  true.' 

'How  dare  you,  Myrto?  What  do 
you  mean?' 

'  I   ask   your   forgiveness  —  I   only 


mean  that  though  he  must  have  been 
glad  that  you  were  beautiful  and  good, 
of  course  he  must  have  been  very  glad 
also  that  you  were  rich;  such  a  "good 
bride." ' 

'Ah,  you  do  not  understand.  How 
should  you?  But  I  must  say  it  all  — 
I  must,  I  must.' 

She  rose  suddenly,  laid  her  arms 
down  on  the  narrow  chimney-shelf, 
and  buried  her  face  on  them.  '  He  was 
a  man,  you  see,  who  was  very  proud; 
who  did  not  care  anything  at  all  for 
the  riches,  and  if  another  man  had 
said  this  to  him  he  would  have  knocked 
him  down.  But  I  was  a  woman,  so  he 

—  he  just  went  away  and  left  me.  And 
at  first  I  thought  I  did  not  care  much 

—  but  now  — ' 

'Ah,  yes;  I  know;  I  understand.  At 
first  one  is  angry  and  glad,  —  not  a 
good  gladness,  —  but  afterwards  you 
do  not  wish  to  see  the  sun  shine  by 
day,  and  when  night  comes  you  cannot 
sleep.'  Then,  after  a  pause,  'He  went 
far  away?' 

'Not  very  far,  but  he  was  away  a 
long  time.' 

'He  has  returned?' 

'Yes.' 

'Then  if  you  suffered  still,  why  did 
you  not  ask  his  forgiveness?' 

'  You  did  not,  Myrto.' 

'I?  It  is  different.  We  are  poor 
people,  I  cannot  write;  and  if  I  could, 
do  I  know  where  he  is,  if  I  could  find 
him?  But  you,  a  lady,  it  is  another 
thing.  You  are  learned,  and  can  write 
and  say  much.  Why  did  you  not  send 
him  a  letter?' 

'I  did,  Myrto.  But  he  never  an- 
swered.' 

'  Then  you  must  send  another.  Per- 
haps it  was  not  given  to  him,  or  per- 
haps even  his  anger  is  slow  to  pass. 
You  must  write  once  more.' 

Katharine  lifted  her  head  from  her 
arms  and  looked  at  Myrto. 

'I  think  I  will,'  she  said  slowly. 


780 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


III 

Though  the  afternoon  was  well  ad- 
vanced, the  heat  was  still  great  when 
Myrto  the  next  day  toiled  up  behind 
the  white-walled  cemetery  on  her  way 
to  the  Monastery. 

The  first  part  of  the  road  is  arid  and 
treeless,  without  a  particle  of  shade. 
Myrto  had  laden  herself  with  a  small 
earthen  pitcher  to  fetch  back  water 
from  the  Monastery  spring,  which  is 
famed  even  beyond  Poros  for  its  sweet- 
ness and  purity. 

The  flocks  of  brown  and  black  goats 
browsing  on  the  slopes,  to  her  left, 
were  scarcely  distinguishable  among 
the  huge  gray  rocks.  Only  the  tinkle 
of  their  bells  revealed  their  presence. 
Myrto  dragged  her  feet  wearily,  and 
changed  her  pitcher  from  one  arm  to 
another.  She  rested  it  for  a  few  mo- 
ments on  the  top  of  the  low  wall  which 
is  built  on  the  right  of  the  road,  where 
the  cliffs  are  steepest,  and  then,  with  a 
spurt  of  courage,  walked  on,  crossed 
the  stone  bridge,  and  almost  ran  down 
to  the  wide  stretch  of  beach  where  the 
big  fig  trees  grow.  There,  under  their 
shade,  she  rested  a  while. 

The  old  woman  who  was  guarding 
the  ripe  figs  spoke  to  her.  '  Where  may 
you  be  for?' 

"  'For    the    Monastery:    to    light    a 
candle.' 

The  old  woman  glanced  at  her. 
'That  is  far.  You  should  go  to  Saint 
Eleftherios.  That  is  the  church  for 
those  who  are  as  you  are." 

'No,'  said  Myrto  simply,  'it  is  not 
for  that  I  am  going.  My  man  —  is 
away  —  I  want  to  light  a  candle  for 
his  safe  return.'  She  rose  as  she  spoke. 

'May  it  be  for  your  help,'  cried  the 
woman  after  her.  'There  is  shade  the 
rest  of  the  way.' 

Myrto  passed  the  walled-in  lemon- 
gardens,  the  tiny  white  chapel  among 
the  rocks  close  to  the  sea;  and  then  the 


pines  began.  She  was  rested  now,  and 
a  little  breeze  cooled  her  face  as  she 
walked. 

Nature  as  a  rule  appeals  little  to 
those  who  live  in  the  heart  of  her  love- 
liest spots,  but  in  a  vague  way  Myrto 
felt  the  beauty  of  the  road  and  the 
hour.  The  warm  Sienna-red  of  the 
steep  path  wound  up  through  the 
luminous  green  of  the  young  pines. 
Very  far  below,  on  the  right,  the  sea 
lapped  lazily  against  the  wooded  crags, 
and  the  mountains  of  the  mainland  op- 
posite stood  out  in  one  uniform  tint  of 
deep  blue,  against  the  paler  blue  of  the 
sky.  Nothing  broke  the  silence  but 
the  low  note  of  the  crickets  along  the 
wayside,  and  the  far  distant  striking 
of  the  waters  by  a  many-oared  trata, 
making  for  one  of  the  little  inlets  be- 
low. 

Long  before  she  reached  the  Monas- 
tery she  could  see  it  in  the  distance. 
A  long,  low,  white  building,  built  round 
a  square,  after  the  fashion  of  the  old 
Moorish  palaces,  half  buried  in  the 
masses  of  surrounding  trees. 

The  path  wound  in  and  out,  now 
rising,  now  falling.  It  rose  to  the  top 
of  the  cliff  where  the  bright  red  earth 
crumbled  between  the  gray  rocks  on 
the  left;  the  open  sea  spread  out  in  all 
its  glorious  expanse  at  the  foot  of  the 
sheer  fall  of  wooded  crags  on  the  right, 
and  the  Monastery  gleamed  white 
before  her.  Then  again  the  path  would 
dip  suddenly,  closing  her  in  among  the 
great  pines,  with  nothing  but  their 
waving  branches  over  her  head,  and 
their  soft  needles  beneath  her  feet. 
Farther  on,  multitudes  of  young  pines 
grew  right  down  the  hill  to  the  water's 
edge.  Seen  from  the  height,  they  stood 
out  in  bright  golden  green  against  the 
dazzling  blue  of  the  sea.  On  canvas  the 
colors  would  have  seemed  too  crude, 
too  shadowless,  too  glaring;  but  en- 
veloped in  that  warm,  quivering  sun- 
light, they  were  a  perfect  harmony. 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


731 


Three  or  four  times  the  winding  of  the 
path  made  Myrto  entirely  lose  sight 
of  the  Monastery,  before  she  reached 
the  spring  under  the  giant  plane  tree 
overhanging  the  ravine. 

There  were  some  rough  wooden 
benches  under  the  shade  of  the  tree. 
Letting  her  empty  pitcher  slip  to  the 
ground,  she  sank  down  inertly  on  one 
of  these.  Her  aching  back  leaning 
against  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  her  arms 
hanging  down  at  either  side  of  her 
body,  her  legs  stretched  out  limply 
before  her,  her  head  drooping  on  her 
breast,  and  her  eyes  closed,  she  re- 
mained there,  not  asleep,  but  with  all 
thought  and  sensation  wiped  out,  save 
the  one  of  rest  after  toil. 

It  was  much  later,  almost  dusk, 
when  the  thought  began  to  shape  it- 
self in  her  tired  brain,  that  she  was  at 
the  Monastery,  and  her  task  not  yet 
accomplished.  She  dragged  herself 
wearily  off  the  bench.  A  separate  pulse 
seemed  throbbing  in  each  limb,  and  as 
she  stooped  over  the  spring  to  fill  her 
pitcher,  she  felt  a  numb  pain  in  her 
back  which  made  her  think  that  she 
could  not  stand  upright  again.  How- 
ever, it  passed  in  a  moment,  and  she 
rose  and  placed  her  full  pitcher  in  the 
shade  with  a  sprig  of  myrtle  to  stop 
up  the  mouth. 

Then  she  slowly  skirted  the  ravine, 
painfully  climbing  the  broad  low  steps 
cut  into  the  rock,  leading  up  to  the 
natural  terrace  on  which  stands  the 
Monastery  of  the  'life-giving  spring.' 

Through  the  covered  gateway  she 
went  into  the  inner  court,  planted  with 
orange  trees.  Rows  of  arches  support 
the  white  cells  above.  Two  or  three 
monks,  standing  on  the  wooden  gallery 
which  gives  access  to  the  cells,  looked 
down  curiously  at  her  as  she  passed 
under  the  trellis  with  its  overhanging 
bunches  of  grapes,  and  stopped  to  lean 
for  a  moment  against  the  tall  palm 
outside  the  chapel  door. 


One  of  them  called  out  to  her  that 
they  were  just  going  to  close  the  chapel 
for  the  night,  but  she  passed  straight 
in,  seeming  not  to  have  heard  him. 

The  double-headed  Byzantine  eagle 
on  the  centre  flag  of  the  floor,  the  mag- 
nificently carved  templon  before  her, 
were  nothing  to  Myrto,  nor  the  graves 
of  by-gone  heroes  of  the  War  of  Inde- 
pendence, whose  epitaphs  she  could  not 
read. 

She  took  two  candles  off  the  brass 
tray  at  the  entrance,  laying  down  her 
copper  coins  in  exchange.  She  lighted 
the  first  before  the  icon  of  the  vener- 
able white-bearded  Saint  Nicholas,  who 
helps  all  those  at  sea;  the  second  and 
larger  one  she  stuck  carefully,  after 
lighting  it,  on  a  small  iron  spike  in  the 
circle  of  little  candles  placed  round 
the  tall  wax  candle,  in  its  monumental 
candlestick,  before  the  Virgin's  icon. 

This  was  quite  a  modern  picture, 
the  work  of  an  Italian  painter  whose 
daughter  had  died,  about  fifty  years 
ago,  in  the  guest-house  of  the  Monas- 
tery. It  had  been  painted  in  gratitude 
for  the  care  and  attention  she  had 
received  at  the  hands  of  the  monks; 
the  Virgin's  face,  it  is  said,  being  that 
of  the  lost  daughter.  Certainly  it  is  a 
sweet,  gentle  face,  not  like  the  dark 
stern-looking  Madonnas  of  most  of 
the  Byzantine  icons. 

Myrto  stood  with  bent  head  before 
it,  crossing  herself  devoutly.  She  felt 
strangely  weak  and  dizzy,  and  words 
seemed  to  have  lost  their  meaning. 
No  form  of  prayer,  no  connected  words 
even,  rose  to  her  lips. 

'  My  little  Virgin  —  my  little  Vir- 
gin, oh,  my  little  Virgin!'  she  repeated 
over  and  over  again.  Then  she  bent  for- 
ward and  kissed  the  painted  hand,  the 
smooth,  white,  long-fingered  hand,  that 
made  her  think  of  Katharine's. 

An  old  man,  gray-bearded,  in  a 
rough  frieze  coat,  came  up  to  her  out 
of  the  gloom. 


732 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


'Are  you  staying  long?'  he  asked. 
'It  will  soon  be  dark.' 

'Nay,  I  shall  go  now.  I  only  came 
up  to  light  a  candle.  This  is  it.  Please 
leave  it  there,  till  it  burns  itself  out, 
It  is  for  my  man.  He  is — away  at 
sea.' 

'Be  easy,'  he  answered,  'no  one  ever 
touches  the  candles.' 

They  passed  out  of  the  chapel  to 
the  terrace.  Over  the  wooded  hill  and 
the  sea  below,  the  light  was  fading 
fast. 

'You  came  alone?' 

'Yes;  who  should  come  with  me?' 

'You  are  from  Poros?' 

'Yes,  from  Poros.' 

'The  way  is  long  for  you.' 

'I  shall  hold  out,'  she  said.  'Good- 
night to  you.' 

'Good-night,'  he  answered;  'God  be 
with  you.' 

Myrto  never  clearly  remembered 
afterwards  the  details  of  that  walk 
home  in  the  fast-falling  darkness. 

At  first,  forgetting  her  pitcher  at  the 
spring,  she  plunged  straight  down  into 
the  ravine,  into  a  tangle  of  lentisk 
and  osier  bushes.  But  as  she  had  an 
impression  afterwards  of  pieces  of 
broken  red  earthenware  on  the  ground 
and  of  the  water  about  her  feet,  she 
must  at  some  time  have  returned  for 
the  pitcher.  She  had  vague  memories 
of  trees  looming  unnaturally  tall  be- 
fore her,  of  rocks  that  seemed  to  rise 
under  her  feet,  of  a  road  that  seemed 
as  endless  as  a  dream  road,  of  dark- 
ness, and  heat,  and  pain,  and  deadly 
fear.  At  last  she  had  laid  herself  down, 
to  die,  she  thought,  on  the  broad  ledge 
of  the  well,  where  the  flocks  are  watered 
outside  the  village.  Here  there  must 
have  been  a  period  of  complete  uncon- 
sciousness. She  woke  to  find  Barba 
Stathi's  kind  old  face  bending  over 
her.  She  remembered  being  lifted  on 
Kitso's  back,  and  then  waking  again 
on  her  own  mattress.  Then  she  sent 


the  old  man  to  fetch  her  neighbor, 
Kyra  Sophoula,  to  her. 

The  small  brown-faced  old  woman 
came  at  once.  She  grunted  angrily, 
though,  when  she  heard  of  the  expedi- 
tion. 

'One  dram  of  good  sense  while  you 
had  your  man  with  you,  my  daughter, 
would  have  availed  you  more  thanx 
walking  barefooted  from  here  to  the 
Annunciation  in  Tenos,  if  you  could 
do  it.'  Then,  with  a  sort  of  rough  pity 
for  the  hidden  face,  and  writhing  body, 
'I  do  not  say  the  Holy  Virgin  and 
Saint  Nicholas  will  not  listen  to  you, 
but  I  am  old  and  have  seen  much.  The 
saints  will  not  help  a  fool  too  often.' 

Myrto  had  sent  for  the  old  woman 
in  all  confidence,  for  Kyra  Sophoula 
was  that  best  of  all  things  in  man  or 
woman,  in  gentle  or  simple:  she  was 
absolutely  and  entirely  dependable. 
One  knew  that  she  would  never  fail  in 
any  emergency,  great  or  small,  from  a 
cut  finger  to  sudden  death. 

She  was  sharp-tongued  —  no  doubt 
about  that;  many  knew  it  to  their  cost, 
more  especially  as  she  had  the  mys- 
terious gift  of  proving  suddenly  well 
aware  of  secret  weaknesses,  which  the 
owners  fondly  imagined  safely  hidden. 
She  would  call  any  one  a  fool  with  the 
greatest  equanimity,  if  she  thought  the 
epithet  deserved;  but  she  would  help 
that  same  fool  afterwards,  or  even  be- 
fore, if  the  matter  pressed. 

In  the  present  case  the  necessity 
was  urgent,  and  Kyra  Sophoula  talked 
no  more,  but  did  all  that  could  be  done 
to  help  Nature;  for  in  Poros  a  doctor  is 
called  only  if  the  case  is  very  desper- 
ate. Happily  Myrto's  strong  consti- 
tution and  simple  life  helped  her  in 
her  trial;  perhaps  even  this  last  mad 
expedition  had  been  of  some  use;  for 
though  she  suffered  much,  the  big  clock 
of  the  Naval  School  had  not  struck  mid- 
night before  her  little  son  was  born  to 
her. 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


733 


There  was  no  circle  of  sympathizing 
neighbors  to  admire  him,  no  proud  fa- 
ther to  receive  him,  no  gun-shots  were 
let  off  for  joy  at  his  birth;  but  Kyra 
Sophoula  duly  rubbed  the  tiny  limbs 
with  sugar  that  sweetness  might  follow 
him  all  his  life,  and  did  not  neglect  to 
fasten  a  piece  of  cotton- wool  inside  the 
little  cap,  that  he  might  live  to  be 
white-haired.  Then  she  laid  him  down 
beside  his  mother  and  watched  them 
while  they  slept. 

IV 

About  five  days  later,  when  the  pas- 
sengers from  the  Piraeus  steamer 
stepped  out  of  Louka's  rowing-boats 
upon  the  quay,  there  was  a  stranger 
among  them  who  stood  looking  curi- 
ously about  him.  Not  only  a  stranger, 
but  certainly  a  foreigner  as  well.  He 
was  a  square-shouldered  young  man  of 
middle  height,  with  a  fair,  sunburnt 
skin,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  gray  flannels, 
of  unmistakably  English  cut,  and 
closely  followed  by  a  plump  little  fox- 
terrier,  whose  black  patches  on  each 
side  of  his  head  were  separated  by  a 
broad  white  parting. 

His  master  shaded  his  eyes  with  his 
hand  and  looked  out  across  the  bay. 
He  had  traveled  much  in  Greece,  but 
had  never  before  been  to  Poros. 

What  he  saw  was  a  blazing  sun  in  a 
deep  blue  sky,  a  stretch  of  glittering 
water,  the  wooded  hills,  golden  green 
with  pines,  on  his  right,  and  gray  green 
with  olives,  on  his  left;  and  far  away, 
masking  the  entrance  by  which  the 
steamer  had  just  come  into  the  bay, 
the  blue  mass  of  the  Sleeper. 

'Pretty  decent,  is  n't  it,  Pat?' 

Pat  looked  up,  cocked  his  ears,  then, 
running  across  the  quay,  began  vigor- 
ously sniffing  at  a  row  of  empty  jars 
set  out  for  sale. 

'Thirsty,  eh?  Well,  wait  a  minute, 
old  fellow.' 


He  beckoned  to  a  man  who  was  set- 
ting out  little  tables  under  the  awning 
round  the  old  column. 

'OristS,'  came  the  quick  reply,  'at 
your  service.' 

As  the  new-comer  was  a  stranger  of 
whom  it  was  considered  wise  to  take 
immediate  possession,  before  the  people 
at  the  rival  inn  could  even  discover  his 
arrival,  in  a  moment  the  master  of  the 
hotel  himself  was  beside  him,  listening 
with  admirable  gravity  to  his  halting 
Greek. 

A  room,  certainly!  one  of  the  best, 
with  a  balcony  to  it.  —  Clean  ?  Oh, 
that  did  not  need  a  question.  He  had 
been  to  Athens  and  knew  what  gentle- 
men and  ladies  required.  —  Water  for 
the  little  dog?  'Oriste,' — at  once. 
Yanni;  Kosta;  quickly  a  pan  of  water 
for  the  gentleman's  little  dog! 

And  as  Pat  proceeded  to  slake  his 
thirst,  the  hotel-keeper  eyed  him  ap- 
provingly. 

A  fine  little  dog,  truly;  there  was  one 
like  him  at  the  red  house  on  the  hill, 
but  thinner.  What  did  the  gentleman 
say  his  name  was?  stooping  over  him 
as  he  asked.  'Paat?  oh  yes,  Paat, 
Paat,  good  dog!' 

Pat,  who  was  admirably  brought 
up,  made  a  polite  little  movement  with 
his  tail  and  went  on  drinking. 

But  the  gentleman  was  asking  an- 
other question;  Kyr  Panayoti  straight- 
ened himself  up  to  answer. 

A  young  lady?  A  stranger?  Was 
she  at  his  hotel?  But  certainly,  cer- 
tainly. She  could  not  possibly  have 
gone  to  the  other  little  inn.  Honest 
people?  Oh  yes,  he  did  not  wish  to 
say  the  contrary,  but  not  a  fit  place 
for  a  lady!  What?  Was  she  in  the 
hotel  just  then?  Well,  he  supposed  so. 
At  this  hour!  Where  else  would  she  be 
in  the  sun  blaze?  . 

At  this  moment  the  man  at  his  el- 
bow explained  volubly. 

'You  will  pardon  me,'  Kyr  Panayoti 


734 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


continued,  'I  see  I  was  mistaken.  The 
servant  says  she  left  early  this  morn- 
ing; an  old  man  and  his  beast  went  also; 
and  they  took  a  basket.  She  said,  it 
seems,  that  she  would  return  late.  I 
did  not  see  the  direction  —  no.  Kosta, 
did  you  not  notice  which  road  the  lady 
took  with  Barba  Stathi,  you  stupid 
one?  No,  unfortunately  the  servant 
also  does  not  know.  It  is  a  pity,  but  — ' 

Jim  Larcher  interrupted  the  flow 
of  words.  '  Very  well.  I  will  wait  here. 
Can  I  have  something  to  eat?' 

'But  certainly,  oriste,  at  once;  the 
pilaf  will  be  ready  now  in  two  min- 
utes, and  the  red  mullets  are  of  this 
morning's  fishing.' 

The  young  man  crossed  over  to  the 
shade  and  sat  down. 

Pat  started  on  a  little  voyage  of  in- 
vestigation on  his  own  account,  sniffed 
round  the  fishing-nets  and  the  fruit- 
sheds,  refused  with  disdain  the  invita- 
tion to  fight  of  a  little  yellow  dog, 
begged  shamelessly  from  an  old  man 
who  was  eating  bread  with  white  tou- 
loumi  cheese;  chased  two  pigeons  for 
a  little  way;  jumped,  with  remarkable 
agility,  considering  his  bulk,  over  a 
pannier  placed  in  his  way  by  one  of 
the  boat-boys;  and  at  last  returned  to 
his  master.  After  lolling  out  a  pink 
tongue,  and  panting  violently  for  a 
few  seconds,  he  sat  up  and  begged. 

'What's  the  matter,  old  man?  Feel 
the  heat,  eh,  and  want  me  to  stop  it? 
Well,  I've  already  explained  that  that 
is  n't  so  easy  as  you  think.  Sure  to 
feel  the  heat,  you  know,  with  all  that 
superfluous  flesh  of  yours!' 

For  Pat  was  undoubtedly  very 
stout.  Disrespectful  people  had  even 
been  known  to  compare  him  to  a  little 
prize  pig. 

While  waiting  to  be  served,  Jim 
pulled  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
began  reading  it.  Though  not  a  very 
lengthy  one,  it  had  occupied  most  of 
his  time  during  the  three  hours'  jour- 


ney from  Piraeus;  but  he  read  every 
word  of  the  four  pages  twice  over 
again,  and  returned  a  third  time  to  the 
postscript. 

'Please,  Jim,  dear,'  he  read,  'don't 
think  for  a  single  instant  that  I  shall 
be  too  proud  to  ask  for  your  forgive- 
ness, if  you  come  to  me,  or  that  I  have 
written  all  this  to  avoid  the  awkward- 
ness of  speaking  it.  Why,  I  shall  just 
love  to  do  it  —  after  dreaming  of  it  so 
often.' 

The  man  came  up  with  the  dishes, 
and  Jim  thrust  the  letter  back  into  his 
pocket. 

After  his  coffee,  he  went  up  to  his 
room  and  attempted  a  siesta,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  country.  But  it  was 
maddening  to  lie  open-eyed  on  his  bed, 
listening  to  Pat's  contented  snores.  So 
he  awoke  the  dog  ruthlessly. 

'Come  along,  Pat,  you  lazy  brute, 
it  will  be  better  outside,  anyway.' 

Pat,  having  been  most  comfortably 
settled,  felt  doubtful,  but  he  followed 
dutifully  out  to  the  now  deserted  quay. 


Katharine  had  spent  most  of  the 
preceding  day  in  Myrto's  little  house, 
comforting  and  encouraging  her,  cook- 
ing beef-tea  for  her  on  her  own  little 
spirit-lamp,  nursing  the  baby,  trying 
hard  to  persuade  Kyra  Sophoula  to 
dress  it  American-fashion  and  release 
its  little  arms  from  the  swaddling 
clothes,  promising  that  she  and  none 
other  should  be  its  god-mother. 

'What  shall  we  name  him,  Myrto?' 

*  Whatever  your  nobility  pleases, '  had 
answered  Myrto. 

But  her  'nobility*  knew  better. 

'What  was  the  name  of  Leftheri's 
father?'  she  inquired. 

'Petro.' 

'Then  Petro  it  shall  be,  and  if  it  be 
allowed,  I  will  give  him  also  the  name 
of  my  own  father,  Paul.' 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


735 


'Why,'  cried  Myrto,  delighted,  'he 
will  have  the  same  name-day  for  both 
names,  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  June.' 

'That  will  be  splendid.  Peter  Paul! 
It  was  a  great  painter's  name  too,  but 
I  suppose  you  do  not  care  about  that.' 

It  so  fell  out  that  on  the  morning 
Jim  arrived,  Katharine  felt  the  need 
of  open  air,  after  having  been  cooped 
up  one  whole  day  and  the  greater  part 
of  another  in  a  tiny  house,  and  had 
started  early,  accompanied  by  Barba 
Stathi  and  his  donkey,  for  Poseidon's 
Temple;  descending,  before  the  heat  be- 
came too  great,  over  the  hills  into  the 
Monastery  woods.  There  she  stayed 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  after- 
noon, reading,  talking  to  old  Barba 
Stathi,  exploring  the  chapel,  even  at- 
tempting to  sketch  the  beautiful  inner 
court,  with  its  trellis  of  grapes  and  its 
tall  palm  tree  in  the  centre. 

About  five  o'clock  they  started  for 
Poros  by  the  Monastery  road.  But 
when  they  arrived  at  the  big  beach, 
where  the  fig  trees  grow,  it  occurred  to 
Katharine  that  it  would  be  far  too  early 
when  she  returned  to  the  village  to 
shut  herself  up  in  the  hotel,  so  she  ex- 
plained to  Barba  Stathi  that  she  would 
stay  here  by  the  sea,  and  return  alone 
later  on.  She  paid  him  generously,  and 
dismissed  him  with  a  smile,  and  Kitso 
with  a  friendly  pat,  on  their  homeward 
way. 

There  is  a  tiny  crescent-shaped  beach 
after  the  big  one,  closed  in  by  white- 
veined  gray  rocks,  over  which  the  little 
waves  tumble  and  foam.  Katharine 
sat  down  there  and  watched  the  sea 
washing  in  between  the  jutting  rocks 
in  a  perfect  semi-circle,  leaving  white 
fringes  of  froth  as  it  retreated.  Beyond 
the  point  of  the  rocks,  far  away  to  the 
left,  she  could  just  distinguish  a  little 
white  house,  a  walled-in  garden  with 
tall  cypresses  towering  above  the  lemon 
trees,  and  then  the  headland  with  the 
sunset  glow  on  its  pines.  At  the  ex- 


treme point  two  solitary  trees  stood  out 
darkly  against  the  pale  pink  of  the  sky. 
The  red  line  of  the  Monastery  road 
wound  up  through  the  pines,  and  be- 
low them  the  rocks  dipped  boldly  into 
the  purple  sea.  Then  straight  out  from 
the  rocks  swept  the  line  of  the  horizon, 
that  perfect,  pure  blue  line  that  sur- 
passes any  curve  in  beauty.  The  violet 
hills  of  the  mainland  opposite  closed 
it  in  on  the  other  side. 

The  whole  scene  was  almost  too  per- 
fect, its  coloring  too  vivid.  In  a  paint- 
ing, Katharine  was  positive  she  would 
have  criticised  it  as  too  conventionally 
beautiful  in  all  its  details.  But  in 
Nature  the  eye  had  nothing  left  to 
wish  for.  Katharine  thought  of  her 
sister  at  Grindelwald.  Not  for  all  the 
snow  mountains  and  foaming  cataracts 
in  the  world  would  she  have  changed 
with  her,  though  she  knew  Hester  was 
convinced  of  the  contrary,  and  must 
be  contemptuously  pitying  her  for 
staying  behind  to  be  broiled  in  Greece, 
without  any  necessity.  She  wondered 
what  part  of  the  brain  or  temperament 
it  is  that  invests  all  lines  and  coloring 
of  the  South  with  such  an  intense 
charm  for  some  people,  a  charm  which 
they  cannot  always  put  into  words, 
when  lovers  of  the  North  complain  so 
bitterly  of  the  heat,  the  dust,  and  the 
monotony  of  constant  sunshine.  This 
made  her  think  of  the  book  she  had 
with  her,  and  open  it.  The  author  was 
not  only  a  lover  of  the  South  like  her- 
self, but  he  put  her  love  into  words 
for  her,  for  which  she  was  profoundly 
grateful.  The  book  was  Rodd's  Violet 
Crown,  without  which  she  rarely  went 
anywhere  in  Greece.  Not  the  verses  of 
a  great  poet.  She  knew  that.  But  of 
one  who  had  written  the  most  tenderly 
of  the  land  she  loved,  and  who  had  de- 
fined its  charm  more  perfectly  than 
any  modern  author. 

She  opened  the  volume  at  hazard, 
looking  up  at  the  end  of  each  verse. 


736 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


A  hillside  scored  with  hollow  veins 
Through  age-long  wash  of  Autumn  rains, 
As  purple  as  with  vintage  stains. 

Surely  those  were  the  hills  opposite 
her  on  the  mainland!  And  then  — 

A  shore  with  deep  indented  bays, 
And  o'er  the  gleaming  waterways 
A  glimpse  of  islands  in  the  haze. 

Yes,  there  were  two  of  them:  San 
Giorgio  and  the  lion-shaped  Modi,  in 
the  distance. 

When  she  came  to  the  last  verse, 
she  smiled  to  hear  the  goat-bells  tinkle 
on  the  slopes  behind  her,  they  fitted  in 
so  perfectly. 

A  shepherd's  crook,  a  coat  of  fleece, 
A  grazing  flock;  the  sense  of  peace, 
The  long  sweet  silence  —  this  is  Greece ! 

As  she  put  the  book  down,  its  leaves 
fell  open  of  their  own  accord  at  one 
of  the  last  pages,  and  she  read  once 
more  the  verses  she  almost  knew  by 
heart. 

There  is  a  spirit  haunts  the  place 
All  other  lands  must  lack, 
A  speaking  voice,  a  living  grace, 
That  beckons  fancy  back, 
Dear  isles  and  sea-indented  shore, 
Till  songs  be  no  more  sung, 
The  souls  of  singers  gone  before 
Shall  keep  your  lovers  young. 

She  had  not  read  for  many  minutes, 
but  when  she  looked  up  again  the  glow 
was  already  fading.  The  purple  of  the 
sea  turned  to  green  as  she  watched,  the 
violet  of  the  hills  to  a  dull  blue,  and 
over  the  rose  of  the  sky  a  gray  veil 
seemed  to  be  slowly  drawn.  The  little 
house  in  the  distance  stood  out  whiter 
against  the  hill,  and  the  pines  darker. 
A  small  brown  fishing-boat  shot  out 
behind  the  rocks  on  the  right.  The 
two  men  in  it  sang  as  they  rowed:  a 
monotonous  chant  which  died  away 
as  they  disappeared  round  the  rocks 
to  the  left.  The  plash  of  their  oars 
came  fainter  and  fainter  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  ceased, 


Katharine  stood  upright,  shook  her 
skirt  free  of  the  pebbles  she  had  col- 
lected in  her  lap,  picked  up  her  basket 
and  book,  and  turned  to  go. 

From  the  road  behind  the  shore 
came  a  series  of  short,  sharp  barks. 

Surely,  she  thought,  that  was  not  a 
sheep  dog. 

The  next  moment  a  wildly-excited 
little  white  ball  came  tumbling  down 
the  slope,  and  was  followed  a  moment 
later  by  a  man  in  gray,  walking  rapidly 
toward  her.  As  soon  as  she  caught 
sight  of  the  outline  of  his  figure  against 
the  sky,  she  stopped  suddenly.  For  a 
moment  a  darkness  came  before  her 
eyes,  and  her  knees  trembled.  The  lit- 
tle dog  jumped  wildly  about  her,  but 
she  did  not  heed  him. 

The  man  came  nearer.  As  he  came 
he  raised  his  hat,  and  just  spoke  her 
name  in  a  low  voice:  — 

'Katharine!' 

When  she  heard  his  voice,  she  started 
forward,  and  her  lips  parted.  But  no 
sound  came  from  them.  They  only 
trembled  a  little. 

'  Katharine!  '  he  said  again,  hoarse- 
ly, putting  out  his  hands.  ' 

She  came  two  steps  nearer  and 
stretching  out  both  her  own,  she  laid 
them  in  his,  and  stood  before  him,  her 
head  bent  so  low  that  her  face  was 
hidden. 

The  man's  face  flushed. 

'No,'  he  said,  almost  roughly,  'no, 
don't  do  that.  Look  at  me.  For  God's 
sake,  look  at  me,  Katharine.' 

She  raised  her  head,  and  their  eyes 
met. 

'  I  have  come,  you  see,  as  soon  as  you 
sent  for  me,  though  —  if  you  remember 
—  I  swore  I  would  never  see  you  again. 
Tell  me  now,  if  you  can,  what  made 
you  say  what  you  did  to  me  at  that 
awful  time?  It  was  a  brutal  thing  to 
say  to  a  man,  Katharine!' 

'Jim,'  and  she  disengaged  one  hand 
to  wipe  her  eyes  clear  of  the  tears 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


737 


which  had  gathered  in  them,  '  it  would 
be  far  harder  for  me  to  beg  your  for- 
giveness for  the  vile  words  I  said,  if  I 
had  wronged  you  in  my  thoughts  for 
any  length  of  time.  But  I  never  really 
believed  them,  Jim.  I  was  angry,  dear, 
blindly,  furiously  angry,  and  I  just 
picked  out  the  words  I  knew  would 
hurt  most  terribly,  as,  had  I  been 
younger,  I  might  have  picked  up  a 
stone  to  throw  at  you.' 

'  I  wish  it  had  been  a  stone.  It  would 
have  hurt  much  less.' 

'Yes;  I  know  that.  Jim,  you  can 
never  understand,  however  you  may 
try,  those  moments  of  mad  anger,  of 
cruel  anger.  You  are  so  different,  so 
good,  they  never  come  to  you.  When 
they  get  hold  of  me,  I  want  to  hurt  and 
to  hurt  badly.  Afterwards,  when  you 
had  left  me,  I  tried  to  make  myself 
believe  what  I  had  said,  as  a  sort  of 
justification.  Jim,  I  know  you  will 
be  loving  and  dear  to  me  always,  I 
know  you  will  want  me  to  forgive  my- 
self, to  forget  —  but  you,  you,  can  you 
ever  quite  forgive?  Can  you  ever  for- 
get that  I  wanted  to  hurt  you?  Can 
you  ever  wipe  out  entirely?  Ah,  Jim, 
Jim,'  and  her  voice  broke,  'Jim,  we 
shall  always  remember.  There  is  no 
forgiveness  that  can  ever  make  cruel 
words  unsaid.' 

The  tears  rolled  fast  down  her  face. 
Jim  lifted  her  hands  to  his  lips  and 
kissed  them,  very  tenderly. 

'No,  dear,  I  am  afraid  there  is  n't.' 

For  a  moment  her  face  was  con- 
vulsed. Then  she  lifted  her  head  up 
and  tried  to  smile  bravely  through  her 
tears. 

'Yes,  Jim,  I  know.  But  we  will  try 
not  to  let  them  spoil  our  happiness, 
won't  we?' 

He  pressed  both  her  hands  close  to 
him  and  looked  into  her  face.  'Dear,' 
he  said,  'my  own  dear  one,  I  know  per- 
fectly well  that  I  seem  a  brute,  and 
worse,  not  to  say  that  no  forgiveness 
-NO,  s 


is  needed;  that  everything  you  do  or 
say  is  forgiven  in  advance;  that  it  is 
all  forgotten  long  ago.  But  it  would  not 
be  true.  I've  suffered  horribly,  dear, 
and  you  would  not  believe  me  if  I  said 
I  had  not.  Only  this  you  must  believe. 
I  love  you  so,  that  if  you  were  to  hurt 
me  ten  times  worse,  I  should  come 
back  to  you  again,  whenever  you  sent 
for  me.  Katharine,  I  can't  forget  the 
pain  all  at  once,  dear,  but  I  know  you 
will  take  it  away  —  and  now,  I  only 
love  you  —  I  love  you.' 

His  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke. 

'If  I  live,'  she  said  solemnly,  'I  will 
take  all  the  pain  away.  Oh,  Jim,  Jim, 
I  don't  deserve  you  should  be  so  good 
to  me.' 

And  then  she  put  her  arms  round  his 
neck  and  kissed  him. 

VI 

'Look  here,  dear,'  said  Jim,  present- 
ly, 'you  know  my  Aunt  Charlotte  has 
been  staying  all  last  spring  in  Athens, 
at  the  Angleterre,  don't  you?' 

'  Yes,  I  met  her  one  day  last  March, 
when  I  was  out  shopping  alone,  and 
she  stopped  and  spoke  so  nicely  to  me. 
It  was  so  lovely  of  her  to  do  it,  when 
she  might  have  passed  me  by  with  the 
chilliest  of  bows.  I  could  have  hugged 
her  for  it.' 

'She's  really  fond  of  you.  So  you 
won't  be  vexed,  will  you,  that  last 
night  I  told  her  about  your  letter  and 
how  things  were  all  right  with  us  again. 
You  don't  mind,  do  you?' 

Katharine  gave  a  little  start,  but 
she  answered  at  once,  'Why,  no,  I 
don't  mind.  Did  she  seem  pleased, 
Jim?' 

'  Pleased !  Why  she  was  so  glad,  she 
just  sat  down  and  regularly  cried  for 
joy.  She 's  an  awfully  good  sort,  is  Aunt 
Charlotte,  and  she  promised,  any  time 
I  wired  to  her,  that  she'd  come  out 
here  and  stay  with  us  for  as  long  as  we 


738 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


liked.  How  does  that  idea  strike  you? 
Better  than  returning  to  town  just  now, 
is  n't  it?' 

'  Let 's  go  right  away  now  and  cable, 
shall  we?' 

Then  as  they  got  on  the  road  again, 
she  stopped  a  moment  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm. 

'Ah,  Jim,  just  look!  You  have  never 
been  here  before,  I  know.  Look  at 
that  red  road  through  the  pines  — 
we  shall  go  there  to-morrow.  Look  at 
that  curve  of  the  bay  and  the  reflec- 
tion of  those  pink  clouds.  Did  you 
ever  see  anything  so  perfect?  Jim, 
speak  —  is  n't  it  glorious?' 

'Pretty  decent,'  acquiesced  Jim, 
after  a  hasty  glance  round;  and  then, 
'Don't  ask  me  to  look  at  anything 
else  but  you  for  a  few  days  yet;  I've 
been  too  famished.  And  photos  are  no 
good  after  you've  had  them  for  some 
time.  They  get  to  look  like  themselves, 
and  not  like  the  real  person  at  all.' 

'I  know,'  agreed  Katharine,  laugh- 
ing happily. 

When  they  came  in  sight  of  the 
Naval  School  the  lights  were  already 
lighted,  and  by  the  time  they  reached 
the  Narrow  Beach,  night  was  upon 
them,  the  soft  summer  night  of  Poros, 
star-lighted  and  pine-scented. 

VII 

It  was  nearly  a  month  later,  in  the 
early  dawn.  The  sky  in  the  east  was 
very  faintly  tinted  with  pink.  There 
was  a  pinkish  reflection  on  the  white 
walls  of  Myrto's  little  house,  and  every 
leaf  of  the  old  mulberry  tree  in  the 
courtyard  was  clearly  outlined  on  the 
pale  morning  sky. 

'You  stay  outside,  Jim.  She  may 
be  asleep  yet,  poor  thing.' 

Jim,  nothing  loath,  waited  with  Pat 
beside  him,  while  Katharine,  after 
tapping  gently,  pushed  open  the  door 
and  went  in. 


He  heard  voices  at  once.  Evidently 
Myrto  was  awake.  He  could  not  catch 
the  rapid  Greek,  but  once  he  fancied 
he  heard  a  sort  of  a  gasp.  Then  silence. 
Then  Katharine's  voice  again,  low  and 
pleading,  then  slightly  raised. 

At  last  the  shutters  of  the  low  win- 
dow were  thrown  open  and  he  heard 
himself  called. 

Katharine  was  standing  at  the  open 
window,  framed  in  the  vine  that  grew 
around  it,  with  the  little  child  in  her 
arms. 

'Jim,  come  and  help  me:  I  can't  per- 
suade her  that  she  must  go  to  him. 
She  thinks  he  will  not  want  her.' 

Myrto  staggered  past  Katharine  and 
stood  in  the  doorway,  her  hands  tightly 
pressed  against  her  breast.  She  looked 
very  white,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed. 

'And  if  he  should  send  me  away 
from  him?'  she  said  in  a  choking  voice. 

Jim  saw  that  Katharine  was  on  the 
verge  of  tears,  whereupon  he  sum- 
moned up  his  best  Greek  to  come  to 
the  rescue. 

'No,'  he  said,  'never  will  he  send 
you  away.  He  wishes  to  see  you  very 
much,  so  much  that  he  fears  to  come 
to  you.' 

'He  fears!  —  he  fears! '  she  repeated. 
'  Oh,  my  man,  my  man ! ' 

Suddenly  she  sank  down  beside  the 
door-post,  and  began  sobbing  violently, 
hiding  her  face  in  her  arms. 

In  an  instant  Katharine  was  bend- 
ing over  her,  trying  to  make  her  cease, 
thrusting  the  child  into  her  arms. 

'Take  it,  Myrto.  Take  it  and  go. 
Take  the  wee  creature  to  his  father, 
who  has  never  seen  him.  The  boat 
stands  out  there  near  the  Rock  of  the 
Cross.  All  the  men  left  it  last  night. 
Only  Leftheri  remained  on  board.  Go, 
I  tell  you,  go!' 

At  last  they  persuaded  her.  She 
rose,  tied  her  kerchief  over  her  head, 
wrapped  a  shawl  round  the  child.  As 
she  closed  the  door  and  turned  toward 


NORTH  AND   SOUTH 


739 


the  sea,  Katharine,  who  knew  many 
of  the  island  phrases,  said,  'May  his 
return  be  joyful  to  you.' 

Myrto  stopped  and  turned  her  face 
toward  them,  with  the  tears  still 
streaming  down  her  cheeks.  '  Whether 
he  return  with  me  or  not,  God  lengthen 
your  years,  you  who  have  been  so  good 
to  me,  and  may  your  eyes  never  see 
parting.' 

They  smiled  their  thanks  and  stood 
together,  looking  after  her,  and  she 
went  down  the  steep  street  with  the 
soft  burden  in  her  arms. 

She  walked  past  the  deserted  square, 
past  the  market-place,  where  a  few  early 
sellers  were  setting  out  their  wares, 
and  straight  along  between  the  smaller 
houses  of  the  village  and  the  line  of 
moored  boats,  toward  the  Rock  of  the 
Cross. 

Three  or  four  people  looked  after 
her,  curiously,  but  she  never  saw  them. 
A  girl  whom  she  pushed  unconsciously 
out  of  her  way,  called  out  angrily  after 
her,  but  she  paid  no  heed  to  the  cries. 
The  child  whimpered  and  she  hushed 
it  mechanically,  without  looking  at  it. 
Once  she  stumbled  over  a  net,  and  the 
old  man  who  helped  her  up,  said, 
'Surely  the  net  is  big  enough  before 
your  eyes.  And  carrying  a  child,  too! 
Are  you  blind,  my  good  woman?' 

But  she  never  answered  him. 

The  boat,  a  large,  blue-painted  one, 
with  its  sails  spread  open  to  dry,  was 
moored  close  to  the  sea-wall.  A  broad 


plank  led  from  the  shore  to  the  low 
deck. 

Myrto  knew  it  at  once  for  a  Poros 
boat  which  often  carried  lemons  to 
Constantinople. 

A  little  yellow  dog  came  to  the  edge 
of  the  boat,  and  barked  at  her  persist- 
ently. He  seemed  the  only  live  thing 
on  board. 

Without  pausing,  only  holding  the 
child  a  little  closer  to  her,  she  placed 
her  foot  on  the  sloping  plank  and 
stepped  firmly  up,  on  to  the  little 
deck. 

There  she  staggered  and  caught  at 
a  rope  to  steady  herself.  Her  limbs 
were  heavy  and  numb,  and  her  head 
felt  as  though  she  walked  in  a  dream. 

At  last  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
heard  a  movement  below,  like  the 
drawing  of  a  wooden  stool  across  the 
floor.  She  advanced  noiselessly  to  the 
dark  opening  leading  to  the  small 
cabin,  and  looked  down. 

A  man  was  there  alone,  seated  before 
a  table,  his  head  buried  in  his  arms. 

Suddenly  Myrto  seemed  to  awaken, 
and  with  an  inarticulate  cry,  just  as 
she  was,  with  the  child  in  her  arms,  she 
half  climbed,  half  flung  herself  down 
the  stairs  toward  him. 

It  was  long  after  sunrise  when  the 
man  and  the  woman,  with  their  child 
in  his  arms,  climbed  up  the  steep  cabin- 
stairs  and  stepped  out  together  into 
the  light. 


BY   WILLIAM    JEWETT   TUCKER 


UNDERGRADUATE  scholarship  has 
been  for  some  time,  and  not  without 
reason,  the  object  of  special  criticism 
in  educational  discussions.  It  is  a  mat- 
ter of  encouragement  that  criticism  is 
beginning  to  advance  toward  the  more 
direct  and  vital  issues  involved.  Prob- 
ably nine  tenths  of  the  critics,  aca- 
demic and  non-academic,  have  attrib- 
uted the  deficiencies  which  they  note 
to  athletics,  to  fraternities,  or  to  social 
distractions  of  various  sorts  —  in  a 
word,  to  the  environment  of  the  stu- 
dent. Such  criticism  is  not  uncalled  for, 
but  it  is  quite  insufficient.  It  makes 
the  problem  too  easy.  No  one,  for  ex- 
ample, who  deprecates  the  effect  of 
athletics  upon  scholarship  would  be 
willing  to  guarantee  an  advance  in 
scholarship  corresponding  to  a  decline 
in  athletics. 

Due  account  must  be  taken  of  the 
reflex  influence  of  environment  upon 
the  student;  but  any  criticism  of  the 
undergraduate  at  so  vital  a  point  as 
scholarship,  if  it  is  to  be  really  reme- 
dial, must  concern  itself  with  forces 
which  are  immediately  and  constantly 
directive,  —  forces  in  fact  which  are 
institutional.  Undergraduate  scholar- 
ship is  the  product  of  the  undergradu- 
ate school,  in  a  broad  sense  the  ex- 
ponent of  its  aim,  whether  the  school 
be  a  department  of  a  university,  or  an 
independent  college.  To  the  degree  in 
which  the  ideal  or  type  of  scholarship 
aimed  at,  differs  from  that  set  forth 
by  the  preparatory,  technical,  or  pro- 
fessional school,  there  must  be,  as  com- 
pared with  these  schools,  an  equival- 

740 


ent  adaptation  of  means  to  end.  At 
the  same  time  equal  attention  must 
be  given  to  those  principles  and  meth- 
ods in  general  practice,  which  are  found 
to  be  most  effective  in  stimulating 
scholarship. 

It  is  to  be  further  noted,  at  the  very 
outset  of  this  discussion,  that  under- 
graduate scholarship,  though  the  pro- 
duct of  the  undergraduate  school,  is 
not  altogether  and  exclusively  under  its 
influence.  Other  forces  which  cannot 
produce  scholarship  may  greatly  affect 
it.  Some  of  these  outlying  forces  are 
very  active  and  very  influential.  Spe- 
cial attention  will  be  called  later  to 
this  outward  environment  of  educa- 
tional work,  of  which  the  critics  ought 
to  be  more  observant  and  critical,  and 
with  which  all  who  wish  for  the  in- 
crease of  scholarship  ought  to  concern 
themselves. 

But  to  return  to  the  undergraduate 
school,  which  is  immediately  responsi- 
ble for  the  character  and  quality  of 
undergraduate  scholarship  —  where 
may  its  responsibility  be  increased  or 
be  made  more  controlling? 

A  student  is  admitted  to  college  by  cer- 
tification or  by  examination.  In  either 
event,  during  his  course  of  preparation, 
his  instructors  have  had  continually  in 
mind  the  tests  through  which  he  must 
pass  to  enter  upon  further  academic 
study.  They  know  that  they  are  to  be 
held  reasonably  responsible  for  the  re- 
sults of  their  instruction.  The  certi- 
ficate system  is  supposed  to  stand,  and 
does  stand,  in  increasing  degree,  for 
guaranteed  fitness  on  the  part  of  the 


UNDERGRADUATE  SCHOLARSHIP 


741 


student  certified.  By  the  restriction  of 
the  privilege  of  certification  to  schools 
amply  qualified  to  fit  for  college,  and 
by  the  further  restriction  of  the  priv- 
ilege, by  the  schools  themselves,  to 
students  of  high  grade,  a  college  is 
reasonably  assured  that  authorized  in- 
structors have  taken  a  proper  respon- 
sibility for  the  training  of  the  incom- 
ing student.  The  examination  system 
throws  a  greater  responsibility  upon 
the  college,  but  it  in  no  way  lessens  the 
feeling  on  the  part  of  the  preparatory 
teacher  that  he  is  held  to  definite 
results  from  his  teaching.  Whichever 
the  way  by  which  the  student  is  de- 
livered to  the  college,  he  comes  out  of 
the  hands  of  instructors  who  have  ac- 
cepted certain  well-defined  responsibil- 
ities for  results. 

Four  years  later  the  same  student, 
if  he  enters  a  professional  school,  finds 
himself  at  work  under  like  conditions. 
At  the  end  of  his  course  he  must  pass 
given  tests,  imposed  from  without  — 
by  Medical  Boards,  by  Bar  Associa- 
tions, by  Ecclesiastical  Councils,  in  the 
case  of  medicine  and  law  the  State 
virtually  determining  the  tests.  In- 
structors in  these  schools  know  that 
their  work  is  to  be  tested.  The  stu- 
dent in  the  graduate  school  (so  called), 
at  work  for  the  doctor's  degree,  car- 
ries on  his  investigations  independently, 
and  yet  in  a  kind  of  comradeship  with 
his  instructors. 

The  work  of  college  instructors  -is 
not  subjected  to  any  tests,  except  to 
those  which  are  self-imposed.  The 
diploma  of  a  reputable  college  will 
admit  to  any  professional  school,  un- 
less there  is  some  specific  requirement 
for  admission  called  for;  but  a  college 
diploma  represents  the  minimum  of  at- 
tainment which  a  given  faculty  judges 
to  be  necessary  for  graduation.  It  is 
not  a  certification  of  the  special  fitness 
of  the  student  who  holds  it  to  proceed 
with  academic  study.  The  majority 


of  college  graduates  do  not  carry  their 
studies  beyond  graduation.  This  ex- 
emption of  college  instruction  from 
such  tests  as  are  applied  elsewhere, 
from  outside  the  instructing  body,  has 
not  always  obtained  in  this  country.  In 
the  days  of  oral  examinations,  boards 
of  examiners  were  appointed  by  trus- 
tees, to  pass  upon  the  standing  of  stu- 
dents. The  work  of  these  boards,  at 
the  beginning  at  least,  was  not  per- 
functory. The  rating  of  students  was 
largely  determined  by  these  examin- 
ers, and  the  relative  proficiency  of  in- 
structors, as  well  as  of  students,  was 
freely  discussed  in  the  reports  which 
they  submitted  to  trustees.  With  the 
necessary  change  from  the  oral  to  the 
written  examination,  and  for  the  rea- 
sons attending  the  change,  the  prin- 
ciple fell  into  disuse.  Trustees  put  the 
examination  of  students,  as  well  as  their 
instruction,  into  the  hands  of  faculties. 

Where  the  principle  of  separating 
examination  from  instruction  survives, 
as  in  the  English  colleges,  it  is  gener- 
ally conceded  that  the  separation  is  to 
the  advantage  of  scholarship.  On  the 
one  hand,  the  instructor  is  relieved 
altogether  of  the  imputation  of  being 
a  taskmaster,  and  becomes  the  intel- 
lectual helper  and  friend  of  the  student 
in  the  accomplishment  of  a  common 
task.  And  on  the  other  hand,  the  sub- 
stitution of  an  outside  standard  for 
one  of  his  own  making  is  a  stimulus  to 
the  instructor,  so  far  as  his  work  with 
and  upon  the  student  is  concerned  with 
definite  results.  This  phase  of  schol- 
astic life  in  the  English  colleges  is 
brought  out  at  first  hand  very  clearly 
in  an  article  by  Assistant  Professor 
Reed  of  Yale,  entitled  '  Yale  from  an 
Oxford  Standpoint,'  in  the  Yale  Alum- 
ni Weekly  for  October  7,  1910;  and 
also  in  the  editorial  comment  upon  this 
article  in  the  Harvard  Alumni  Bulletin, 
under  date  of  November  2. 

Unfortunately,  there    has  come  of 


742 


UNDERGRADUATE  SCHOLARSHIP 


late  into  our  American  colleges  a  meth- 
od of  separating  examination  from  in- 
struction which  is  antagonistic  to  the 
original  principle,  and  in  every  way 
deleterious  to  scholarship.  As  this 
method  was  in  use  while  I  was  en- 
gaged in  college  work,  and  as  I  was 
'  consenting  to  it '  under  the  exigencies 
of  administration,  I  feel  justified  in 
condemning  it,  as  in  so  doing  I  con- 
demn myself  for  any  official  support 
which  I  then  gave  it.  The  instructor 
is  allowed,  and  in  most  cases  provision 
is  made  in  accordance  with  the  allow- 
ance, to  turn  over  minor  examinations, 
and  not  infrequently  a  large  part  of  the 
major  examinations,  to  subordinates 
who  have  had  no  place  in  instruction. 
The  equal,  if  not  superior,  work  of  ex- 
amination is  committed  to  the  inferior 
person.  The  examiner,  known  as  the 
reader,  may  have  scarcely  more  at- 
tainment in  the  subject  than  the  better 
student.  What  incentive  has  such  a 
student  to  do  his  best  in  an  examina- 
tion-paper which  never  comes  under 
the  eye  of  a  really  competent  examiner? 
As  a  relief  to  an  over-worked  profes- 
sor, or  to  an  over-burdened  treasury, 
the  method  speaks  for  itself;  but  it 
also  speaks  for  itself  as  a  method  to 
degrade  the  examination  system,  to 
make  instruction  more  impersonal,  and 
to  remove  one  of  the  chief  incentives 
to  the  highest  scholarship.  The  results 
of  scholarship,  when  it  really  becomes 
scholarship,  require  delicate  handling. 
The  student  of  good  intention  and 
hard  work,  who  can  never  be  classed 
among  scholars,  is  no  less  entitled  to 
the  most  discriminating  and  therefore 
stimulating  treatment. 

It  is  also  to  be  considered  that  the 
dignity  as  well  as  the  validity  of  an  ex- 
amination depends  upon  the  safeguards 
which  are  thrown  around  it.  But  proc- 
toring  is  irksome,  if  not  repugnant,  to 
many  members  of  a  faculty.  Conse- 
quently there  is  so  much  difference  in 


the  personal  conduct  of  examinations 
as  to  affect  at  times  the  value  of  the  re- 
sult :  and,  what  is  of  more  account,  the 
indifference  or  inefficiency  of  reluctant 
proctors  lowers  the  general  value  and 
significance  of  the  test. 

The  arrangement  of  the  curriculum 
of  the  undergraduate  school  has  a  di- 
rect bearing  upon  the  character  of  un- 
dergraduate scholarship.  In  general, 
it  may  be  said  that  whereas  the  curric- 
ulum of  the  preparatory  school  is  to  a 
degree  intensive  and  cumulative,  and 
that  of  the  professional  school  alto- 
gether intensive  and  cumulative,  the 
curriculum  of  the  undergraduate  school 
is  extensive  and  discursive.  Some  of 
the  subjects  which  make  up  the  curri- 
culum are  brought  over  from  the  pre- 
paratory school  for  advanced  treat- 
ment. Whether  specifically  required 
or  not,  the  further  study  of  them  is 
requisite  as  a  condition  to  the  choice 
of  distinctively  college  subjects.  The 
increasing  variety  of  subject-matter 
consists  in  part  in  the  introduction  of 
new  subjects,  but  more  in  the  constant 
division  and  subdivision  of  subjects 
old  and  new. 

In  considering  the  effect  of  this  con- 
fusing or  tempting  variety  of  subject- 
matter  upon  scholarship,  account  is  to 
be  taken  chiefly  of  its  effect  upon  those 
who  have  the  aptitudes  and  desires  of 
the  scholar.  The  omnivorous  scholar 
still  exists.  Every  new  subject  whets 
his  appetite.  Practically  all  subjects  are 
of  equal  interest  to  him.  The  scholar 
still  exists  who  likes  to  play  the  game, 
even  though  competition  has  pretty 
much  died  out.  He  is  not  so  much  in- 
terested in  the  thing  to  be  done,  as  in 
the  way  of  doing  it.  If  anything  is  to 
be  done  it  can  be  done  in  one  way  only, 
and  that  the  best  way  —  this  compul- 
sion being  with  him  quite  as  much  a 
matter  of  taste  as  of  conscience.  Such 
scholars  as  these  are  not  types:  they 
are  simply  individuals-.  .  ,. 


UNDERGRADUATE  SCHOLARSHIP 


748 


Undergraduate  scholars  are  for  the 
most  part  of  three  types :  the  born  spe- 
cialist, taking  everything  within  reach 
bearing  upon  his  specialty,  taking  any- 
thing else  only  by  compulsion;  the 
student  who  works  under  the  lure  of 
the  practical  end,  keeping  as  close  as 
possible  to  the  vocational  subject;  and 
the  man  who  wishes  to  make  himself 
familiar  with  the  widest  range  of  sub- 
jects practicable.  It  is  evident  that  no 
one  of  these  types  can  represent  the 
highest  degree  of  conventional  scholar- 
ship. The  undergraduate  specialist 
is  pulled  down  by  the  necessary,  but 
undesired  subjects;  the  practical  stu- 
dent cannot  make  his  whole  course,  or 
indeed  any  large  part  of  it,  vocational; 
and  the  man-of-the-world  in  college 
does  not  aim  so  much  at  supreme  ex- 
cellence as  at  ready  attainments. 

What  is  the  effect  of  the  college  cur- 
riculum upon  the  scholarship  of  the 
average  student  ?  It  cannot  be  said  that 
it  is  a  stimulus  to  competitive  scholar- 
ship. Competition  presupposes  a  com- 
mon and  restricted  field  of  endeavor. 
Men  do  not  compete  in  scholarship 
more  than  in  other  things  for  general 
excellence.  The  curriculum  lacks  the 
essential  stimulus  of  concentrated  and 
protracted  interest.  It  tends  rather  to 
discursiveness,  to  a  certain  amount  of 
experimentation,  and  to  a  conclusion 
of  effort  in  secondary  results. 

It  was  assumed,  and  with  good  rea- 
son, that  the  elective  system  would 
prove  to  be  a  stimulus  by  individu- 
alizing scholarship:  that  somewhere 
within  the  range  of  personal  choice  the 
subject  would  '  find  *  the  man.  I  think 
that  it  has  in  many  cases  justified  this 
assumption.  I  have  in  mind  not  a  few 
brilliant  illustrations  of  its  finding- 
power.  But  in  fulfilling  this  purpose  it 
necessarily  allows  much  experimenting. 
As  a  result  the  majority,  unaided  (and 
too  much  aid  is  inconsistent  with  the 
principle),  never  get  beyond  the  stage 


of  self-experimenting.  They  keep,  that 
is  to  say,  too  closely  within  the  range 
of  elementary  courses;  and  when  they 
are  through  college  they  can  look  back 
only  upon  a  series  of  unfinished  jobs. 

Certain  correctives,  like  the  group 
system,  the  system  of  majors  and  min- 
ors, and,  best  of  all,  the  requirement 
making  proficiency  in  some  advanced 
courses  essential  to  graduation,  have 
been  introduced  with  good  effect;  but 
still  comparatively  few  students  reach 
the  satisfaction,  the  courage,  the  joy, 
of  any  great  accomplishment.  It  is 
something,  sometimes  it  is  very  much, 
to  have  gained  a  certain  facility  in 
foreign  languages,  to  have  found  out 
some  of  the  methods  of  scientific  re- 
search, to  have  become  familiar  with 
some  of  the  problems  of  philosophy 
and  of  the  social  sciences,  but  these 
results  cannot  be  very  well  expressed 
in  the  terms  of  exact  scholarship.  The 
construction  of  a  curriculum  which 
shall  be  a  surer  guide  and  a  more  ef- 
fective stimulus  to  scholarship,  is  one 
of  the  inner  problems  of  college  ad- 
ministration which  is  yet  to  be  solved, 
if  scholarship  of  the  intensive  and  cu- 
mulative type  is  expected  of  the  col- 
leges. At  present,  the  curriculum  is  set 
toward  breadth  rather  than  toward  in- 
tensity, toward  quantity  rather  than 
toward  quality. 

A  much  more  serious  difficulty,  in 
its  effect  upon  undergraduate  scholar- 
ship, than  either  of  the  foregoing,  is  the 
difficulty  of  making  right  adjustment 
between  the  mind  of  the  instructor 
and  the  mind  of  the  student.  In  the 
other  higher  departments  of  the  educa- 
tional system  this  adjustment  is  more 
nearly  complete.  The  sympathetic 
relation  between  a  preparatory-school 
teacher  and  his  students  is  usually 
very  close.  The  most  effective  teach- 
ers in  this  department,  the  most  ef- 
fective because  the  most  influential  and 
stimulating,  are  what  Phillips  Brooks 


744 


UNDERGRADUATE  SCHOLARSHIP 


used  to  call  'boys'  men.'  In  the  tech- 
nical and  professional  schools  the 
mental  adjustment  of  instructor  to 
student  is  almost  complete,  largely 
because  the  specific  intellectual  inter- 
ests are  identical.  The  medical  stu- 
dent is  as  eager  to  understand,  as  his 
instructor  is  eager  to  explain,  the  last 
discovery  in  medical  science.  So  far  as 
intellectual  interest  is  concerned,  the 
gap  between  the  immature  and  the 
mature  mind  closes  rapidly  when  the 
professional  stage  is  reached. 

Probably  there  are  no  two  states  of 
mind  within  any  educational  group  of 
persons  more  remote  from  one  another 
than  the  state  of  mind  of  the  average 
boy  entering  college,  and  the  state  of 
mind  of  the  doctor  of  philosophy  just 
leaving  the  graduate  school  to  enter 
upon  college  instruction.  These,  of 
course,  are  the  extremes  in  the  col- 
lege group,  yet  they  meet  there  and 
have  to  be  adjusted.  The  solution  of 
the  difficulty  does  not  lie  in  any  lessen- 
ing of  the  intellectual  authority  of  the 
instructor.  College  students  take  very 
little  account  of  instructors  who  do  not 
know  their  subject,  who  have  to  draw 
too  hard  upon  their  reserves  in  teach- 
ing. But  contact  between  instructor 
and  student  comes  about  only  through 
the  mutual  widening  of  their  intellect- 
ual sympathies,  and  here  the  greater 
obligation  rests  upon  the  instructor. 
That  is,  at  least,  the  practical  part  of 
his  business. 

The  separating  effect  of  specialized 
study  cannot  be  overlooked.  It  is 
manifest  in  the  intellectual  life  of  any 
faculty.  The  tendency  of  personal  in- 
terest is  more  and  more  from  the  gen- 
eral to  the  specific.  A  language  club 
tends  to  break  up  into  several  groups, 
or  a  scientific  club,  or  any  other  club, 
which  starts  with  wide  affiliations.  Any 
general  club,  to  be  successful,  must 
be  altogether  social  in  its  aims.  It  is 
doubtful  if  many  members  of  a  faculty 


take  much  interest  in  those  parts  of 
the  curriculum  which  are  unrelated  to 
their  own,  but  which  make  an  equal 
claim  upon  the  interest  of  the  student. 
Probably  the  relative  number  of  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  men  among  college-  in- 
structors is  less  than  formerly,  not  be- 
cause the  men  are  less  intellectual,  but 
because  they  are  more  specialized, 
caring  more  for  the  training  of  the 
graduate  than  of  the  undergraduate 
school. 

Meanwhile  the  undergraduate  is  in 
the  dilemma  of  working  under  a  cur- 
riculum which  is  growing  more  ex- 
tensive (through  the  constant  division 
and  subdivision  of  subject-matter),  and 
under  instructors  who  are  growing 
more  specialized  in  their  intellectual 
interests.  The  curriculum  bears  the 
stamp  of  the  college,  the  faculty  bears 
the  stamp  of  the  university,  many  of 
them  being  on  their  way  to  university 
teaching,  or  having  that  before  them 
as  the  goal  of  their  ambition.  Which 
stamp  shall  be  put  upon  the  student? 
Which  type  of  scholarship  shall  he  ex- 
press, so  far  as  he  becomes  distinct- 
ively a  scholar?  Or,  if  it  be  insisted  that 
the  inconsistency  is  not  so  great  as  it 
appears  to  be,  how  shall  the  spirit 
of  scholarship  be  kindled  and  devel- 
oped under  these  general  conditions? 
When  the  question  is  thus  simplified,  it 
is  quickly  answered  —  the  instructor 
must  take  the  initiative.  The  student 
is  the  objective  of  the  instructor,  not 
the  instructor  of  the  student.  The  im- 
mediate objective  of  the  student  is  the 
subject  before  him.  If  the  instructor, 
who  is,  as  he  ought  to  be,  an  investi- 
gator, is  to  be  a  quickening  force  among 
undergraduate  students,  he  must  see 
to  it  that  his  intellectual  sympathies 
widen  as  his  intellectual  interest  in- 
tensifies. A  recognized  authority  he 
must  be  at  any  cost,  but  this  will  not 
avail  without  some  equivalent  power 
of  contact. 


UNDERGRADUATE  SCHOLARSHIP 


745 


The  adjustment  between  instructor 
and  student  through  the  principle  of 
intellectual  sympathy  is  substantially 
the  process  which  is  at  work  in  the  pre- 
ceptorial system  at  Princeton.  Under- 
graduates are  grouped  around  an  in- 
structor, who  is  not  only  qualified  to 
instruct,  but  is  in  sympathy  with  the 
method ;  and  who  is  at  an  age  when  he 
can  afford  to  take  the  time  which  the 
method  demands.  It  is  at  least  ger- 
mane to  the  preceptorial  system  that 
an  instructor  shall  have  to  do  with 
two  or  three  related  subjects,  thus 
neutralizing  in  some  measure  the  ef- 
fec.s  of  specialization.  The  retirement 
of  President  Wilson  from  Princeton 
while  this  most  interesting  experiment 
is  going  on,  however  great  may  be  the 
ultimate  advantage  to  the  country,  is 
to  be  much  regretted  from  the  educa- 
tional point  of  view. 

The  questions  which  have  been  un- 
der consideration,  suggested  by  the 
present  state  of  undergraduate  scholar- 
ship, are  all  inner  questions,  institu- 
tional, as  being  in  and  of  the  under- 
graduate school  itself.  Reversing  the 
order  of  inquiry:  How  shall  the  right 
adjustment  be  effected  between  the 
mind  of  the  instructor  and  the  mind 
of  the  student?  Which  shall  determine 
the  type  of  scholarship  in  the  under- 
graduate, the  curriculum,  or  the  intel- 
lectual interests  of  the  instructor? 
Who  shall  examine  the  undergraduate? 
Shall  examination  be  included  in  in- 
struction, or  shall  instructor  and  stu- 
dent work  together  under  the  common 
stimulus  of  an  outside  test?  These  are 
questions  which  have  an  immediate 
bearing  upon  the  scholarship  of  the 
undergraduate.  On  the  one  hand,  the 
answer  to  them  may  relieve  his  mind 
of  confusion  as  to  the  type  of  scholar- 
ship demanded  of  him.  And  on  the 
other  hand,  the  answer  may  determine 
more  clearly  the  relation  in  which  he 
stands  to  his  instructor,  and  to  his 


examiner,  whether  these  be  one  and 
the  same  or  different  persons.  Other 
questions  of  like  character  are  coming 
under  discussion.  The  suggestive  and 
encouraging  fact  is,  as  has  been  al- 
ready intimated,  that  the  college  mind 
is  becoming  introspective.  The  turn  of 
thought  is  that  way.  It  is  no  longer 
satisfied  with  excuses,  or  explanations, 
or  criticisms,  which  have  to  do  chiefly 
with  the  environment  of  the  under- 
graduate. 

Neither  is  it  content  to  abide  in  the 
gains  which  have  defined  the  progress 
of  the  colleges  during  the  past  thirty 
years.  From  the  strictly  educational 
point  of  view,  the  great  gain  of  this 
period  has  consisted  in  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  new  and  vast  subject-mat- 
ter of  the  sciences,  physical  and  social, 
into  the  curriculum;  in  the  reconcilia- 
tion of  this  subject-matter  with  that 
already  in  place;  and  in  the  provision 
made  for  the  adequate  treatment  of  the 
new  and  the  old,  by  methods  equally 
essential  to  both.  In  the  order  of  pro- 
gress it  was  clear  that  the  next  gain 
must  come  from  the  utilization  of  the 
new  material  and  the  new  methods  in 
the  advancement  of  scholarship.  By  a 
happy  coincidence,  in  the  case  of  sev- 
eral of  the  New  England  colleges,  the 
opportunity  for  this  specific  result  in 
college  development  comes  at  the  same 
time  with  changes  in  administration. 
A  group  of  relatively  young  men,  of 
similar  training,  with  like  general  views 
and  purposes,  and  all  imbued  with  the 
high  spirit  of  modern  scholarship,  have 
entered  upon  their  several  tasks  with 
a  fine  community  of  interest,  and  a 
clear  definiteness  of  aim.  Much  in 
every  way  is  to  be  expected  from  their 
individual  and  united  action,  much  es- 
pecially because  their  approach  to 
their  task  has  been  singularly  positive 
and  direct  in  the  endeavor  to  reach 
the  springs  of  scholarship.  Unlike 
many  of  the  critics,  they  do  not  appear 


746 


to  be  overmuch  concerned  with  ques- 
tions of  mere  environment,  while  closer 
and  more  determining  questions  lie 
unsolved. 

But  what  of  the  environment  of  the 
undergraduate  as  affecting  his  scholar- 
ship? Because  it  is  not,  as  commonly 
interpreted,  the  determining  influence, 
it  does  not  follow  that  it  is  not  a  po- 
tent influence.  There  is  a  very  definite, 
though  very  subtle,  danger  to  scholar- 
ship in  the  environment  of  the  under- 
graduate. It  is  important  that  no  mis- 
takes be  made  in  the  attempt  to  locate 
it.  When  a  student  enters  college  he 
goes  into  residence  for  four  years  in  a 
somewhat  detached  community.  This 
fact  of  protracted  residence  has  gradu- 
ally created  an  environment  unlike  any- 
thing which  has  preceded  in  the  experi- 
ence of  the  undergraduate,  except  as  he 
may  have  come  from  a  private  school 
of  long  history;  and  unlike  anything 
which  will  probably  follow.  The  aver- 
age professional  student  can  hardly 
be  said  to  be  in  residence.  He  may  live 
anywhere;  and,  for  that  matter,  any- 
how. Careful  provision  has  been  made 
for  the  undergraduate  in  all  that  goes 
to  make  up  his  life  in  residence.  Col- 
lege halls  are  halls  of  learning;  they 
are  equally  the  homes  of  men.  This 
man  lived  or  lives  here,  that  man 
there.  This  life  in  residence,  as  it  goes 
on  from  generation  to  generation, 
evolves  its  own  environment  of  tradi- 
tions, of  associations  and  fellowships, 
of  collective  or  organized  activities, 
and,  most  subtle  and  powerful  of  all 
influences,  of  sentiment  —  college  sen- 
timent. 

The  ordinary  effect  of  traditions  is 
easily  overestimated.  In  emergencies, 
or  on  occasions,  the  great  traditions 
come  out  in  commanding  force.  But 
the  traditions  which  affect  the  daily 
life  are  quite  ephemeral.  Many  of  them 
disappear  as  quickly  as  they  are  formed. 
A  graduate  of  ten  years  is  surprised  to 


find,  on  his  return,  that  most  of  the 
traditions  of  his  time  have  been  sup- 
planted. Few  customs,  good  or  bad, 
persist  under  the  force  of  tradition;  and 
of  those  which  do  persist,  few  have  any 
direct  bearing  upon  scholarship. 

The  social  life  of  the  undergraduate 
seems  complex  and  distracting,  but 
the  complexity  and  distraction  are 
more  in  appearance  than  in  reality. 
For  one  thing,  the  undergraduate  has 
no  social  duties.  A  few  functions  like 
Junior  Prom,  are  exacting.  These  are 
in  contrast  with  the  ordinary  conven- 
tions. There  is  the  constant  -oppor- 
tunity to  waste  time  agreeably.  The 
temptation  to  loaf  is  always  at  hand, 
but  so  is  the  remedy  —  increase  the 
requirement  of  work.  As  to  fraternities 
and  clubs,  it  is  probable  that  men  who 
belong  to  them  rank  in  scholarship  be- 
low those  who  do  not.  It  is,  however, 
an  open  question  whether  the  lower 
rank  is  due  to  the  fraternity  or  to  the 
man.  The  unsocial  man  has  the  ad- 
vantage over  the  social  man  in  respect 
to  the  use  of  time.  It  is  doubtful  if 
this  advantage  is  a  sufficient  compens- 
ation for  real  social  losses.  The  college 
fraternity  has  the  same  reason  in  hu- 
man nature  as  the  club  in  the  town- 
community.  A  lonesome  mind  is  not 
the  only  mind  fitted  for  study.  Com- 
panionship is  a  proper  setting  for  in- 
tellectual effort.  For  this  reason  it  is 
doubtful  if  social  intimacy  between  the 
members  of  a  faculty  and  younger  un- 
dergraduates can  be  real  enough  to 
be  very  helpful.  Among  mature  under- 
graduates there  is  a  sufficient  social 
basis  for  any  direct  intellectual  stimu- 
lus from  those  of  a  faculty  who  are  in- 
clined and  qualified  to  make  use  of  it. 

It  is  only  as  we  enter  the  field  of  the 
organized  activities  of  undergraduate 
life  that  we  find  anything  which  comes 
into  competition  with  scholarship. 
All  else  is  merely  diverting:  athletics 
alone  are  competitive.  Why  are  aca- 


UNDERGRADUATE  SCHOLARSHIP 


747 


demic  athletics  competitive  with  schol- 
arship ?  Because  they  represent  attain- 
ment, an  attainment  representing  many 
of  the  qualities,  and  much  of  the  dis- 
cipline, which  scholarship  requires. 
At  present,  football  is  the  only  game 
which  rises  to  the  dignity  of  competi- 
tion, largely  because  of  its  intellectual 
demands.  It  is  a  game  of  strategy 
quite  as  much  as  of  force.  The  recent 
uncovering  of  the  game  makes  this 
fact  more,  evident.  Baseball  has  be- 
come, for  the  most  part,  a  recreation, 
and  training  for  track  events  is  an  in- 
dividual discipline. 

An  attitude  of  jealousy  on  the  part 
of  a  faculty  toward  athletics,  viewed 
as  competitive  with  scholarship,  is  a 
weak  attitude.  Athletics,  rising  to  the 
standard  of  attainment,  and  there- 
fore of  interest  to  a  college  at  large, 
ought  to  be  recognized,  —  in  a  certain 
way  organized  into  the  life  of  the  col- 
lege; or  they  ought  to  be  abolished, 
that  is,  reduced  to  a  recreation.  Can 
the  colleges  afford  to  reduce  athletics 
to  a  recreation  ?  Would  this  course  be 
in  the  interest  of  scholarship?  What 
would  take  their  place  in  supplying 
virility,  physical  discipline,  and  the 
preventive  moral  influence  which  they 
exert?  What  substitute  would  be  in- 
troduced for  protection  against  the  soft 
vices?  The  alternative  to  athletics 
is  to  be  feared.  The  virile  sports  must 
keep  their  place  among  us,  lest  there 
become  'dear  to  us,'  as  to  the  Phsea- 
cians  of  the  Odyssey, '  the  banquet,  and 
the  harp,  and  the  dance,  and  changes 
of  raiment,  and  the  warm  bath,  and 
love,  and  sleep.' 

Academic  athletics  have  their  draw- 
backs: there  are  personal  liabilities 
from  overtraining  as  from  overstudy, 
there  are  tendencies  to  professional- 
ism which  must  be  carefully  watched, 
there  are  rivalries  which  may  become 
ungenerous,  and  which  ought  to  be 
suspended;  but,  fundamentally,  ath- 


letics are  a  protection  to  vigorous  and 
healthy  scholarship  far  more  than  a 
detriment  to  it,  as  I  believe  would  ap- 
pear in  no  long  time,  if  recreation  were 
offered  as  a  substitute  for  athletics. 
From  the  days  of  the  Greeks  till  now, 
athletics  have  had  a  legitimate  place 
in  academic  life. 

Wherein,  then,  lies  the  danger  to 
scholarship  from  the  environment  of 
the  undergraduate?  I  reply  at  once, 
in  college  sentiment — the  most  subtle, 
constant,  and  powerful  influence  which 
comes  upon  the  undergraduate  out  of 
his  environment.  College  sentiment 
is  at  present  negative  toward  scholar- 
ship. By  contrast,  it  is  positive  toward 
one  form  of  athletics.  But,  as  has  been 
argued,  if  the  athlete  were  removed, 
it  does  not  follow  that  coHege  senti- 
ment would  become  positive  toward 
the  scholar.  We  must  look  deeper  for 
the  reason  of  the  lack  of  undergradu- 
ate enthusiasm  for  scholarship. 

Any  analysis  of  college  sentiment  will 
show,  I  think,  two  facts  bearing  direct- 
ly upon  the  question.  First,  the  under- 
graduate has  learned  to  dissociate  schol- 
arship from  leadership.  Has  learned, 
I  say,  for  this  is  the  result  of  his  own 
observation  within  his  own  world.  It 
is  difficult  to  show  an  undergraduate 
that  he  is  mistaken  in  his  observation, 
for  leadership  is  an  unmistakable  in- 
fluence. Men  feel  it,  and  can  tell  from 
whence  it  emanates.  The  opinions  and 
practices  of  the  leading  men  in  col- 
lege virtually  determine  college  sen- 
timent. Leadership  grows  out  of  the 
combination  of  personality  with  at- 
tainment. The  proportion  of  person- 
ality to  attainment  varies  greatly,  but 
neither  one  is  sufficient  of  itself  to  make 
a  leader.  The  loafer  cannot  become  a 
leader,  however  agreeable  he  may  be 
personally.  The  athlete  cannot  be- 
come a  leader,  if  he  is  not  essentially  a 
gentleman,  with  some  recognizable  in- 
tellectual force.  When  the  scholar  fails 


748 


UNDERGRADUATE  SCHOLARSHIP 


to  reach  leadership,  the  lack  is  some- 
where in  those  qualities  which  make  up 
effective  personality — authority,  viril- 
ity, sympathy,  sincerity,  manners. 

Probably  the  majority  of  real  col- 
lege leaders  are  to  be  found  in  the  sec- 
ond grade  of  scholarship,  adding  a  few 
athletes,  who  would  be  in  that  grade 
except  for  the  exacting  requirements 
of  athletics  at  some  one  season  of  the 
year.  These  men  have  personality  and 
attainment,  but  not  attainment  enough 
to  make  them  influential  scholars.  If 
with  one  accord  and  with  generous  en- 
thusiasm these  men  would  add  twenty 
per  cent  to  their  scholastic  attainment, 
they  would  in  due  time  convert  the  un- 
dergraduate to  the  idea  of  scholarship. 
This  act  on  their  part  would  require 
concentration  of  purpose,  where  now 
their  energies  are  directed  toward  va- 
rious kinds  of  attainment  and  accom- 
plishment. 

It  would  not  be  a  difficult  thing  to 
effect  this  result  were  it  not  for  the 
second  fact  which  must  be  considered 
in  this  connection,  namely,  the  fact 
that  undergraduate  sentiment  regard- 
ing scholarship  is  the  reflection,  in 
large  degree,  of  the  sentiment  of  the 
outside  world  regarding  it.  Although 
it  is  true,  as  has  been  said,  that  the 
undergraduate  lives  in  a  somewhat 
detached  community,  still  that  com- 
munity is  very  vitally  and  sensitively 
related  to  the  world  without,  of  which 
it  is  consciously  a  part.  In  this  world 
into  which  the  graduate  passes,  the 
scholar  as  such,  with  one  exception 
which  will  be  noted,  has  little  public 
recognition  and  less  public  reward. 
In  Germany  the  scholar  is  sure  of  re- 
putation, if  not  of  more  tangible  re- 
ward. This  at  least  is  the  present  fact. 
Whether  the  scholarship  of  the  nation, 
which  was  developed  during  the  period 
of  its  isolation,  will  maintain  its  relative 
place  as  the  nation  adjusts  itself  to  the 
rising  commercial  instinct,  and  takes 


the  political  fortune  of  a  world-power,  is 
yet  to  be  seen.  In  England,  the  leaders 
of  the  nation  are  picked  from  the  hon- 
or men  of  the  universities.  It  is  not 
necessary  that  they  make  connection 
with  the  public  service  through  related 
subjects  of  study.  It  is  enough  that 
they  prove  themselves  to  be  men  of 
power  by  the  ordinary  tests  of  scholar- 
ship. In  this  country  there  is  no  sure 
and  wide  connection  between  scholar- 
ship and  reputation,  or  between  schol- 
arship and  the  highest  forms  of  public 
service.  The  graduate,  as  he  takes  his 
place  in  the  outer  world,  must  pass  the 
tests  which  are  applied  to  personality 
quite  as  rigidly  as  to  attainment.  In 
Germany,  the  personal  element  is  of 
secondary  account.  In  England,  care 
is  taken  in  advance  to  see  that  it  meets 
public  requirements,  so  far  at  least  as 
it  can  be  secured  by  good  breeding. 
Among  us,  the  scholar  of  insufficient 
or  of  untrained  personality  takes  his 
chance  in  the  world,  and  usually  at 
his  cost. 

An  exception,  a  marked  exception 
to  the  unresponsiveness  of  the  public 
mind  to  scholarship,  appears  in  the 
recognition  and  appreciation  of  scien- 
tific research  leading  to  utility.  The 
president  of  a  university  has  recently 
proposed  to  concentrate  the  work  of 
his  university,  through  a  great  endow- 
ment, upon  scientific  research  as  the 
only  rewarding  business  of  a  univer- 
sity. This  would  mean,  as  he  frankly 
admits,  the  elimination  of  students  to 
whom  the  scientific  stimulus  could  not 
be  applied.  This  proposal  suggests 
the  changing,  if  not  the  lessening,  area 
of  contact  between  academic  scholar- 
ship and  the  outer  world.  Science  has 
done  much,  very  much,  to  quicken  and 
enlarge  the  intellectual  life;  but  it  has 
not  as  yet  created  a  widespread  cul- 
ture of  its  own.  Meanwhile,  through 
the  interest  which  it  has  aroused  in 
its  practical  application,  and  in  the 


UNDERGRADUATE  SCHOLARSHIP 


749 


expectation  which  it  is  awakening  of 
yet  greater  practical  results,  it  has  in 
a  measure  disconnected  the  mind  of 
the  world  from  the  intellectual  wealth 
of  the  past.  Interest  in  the  past  has 
become  of  the  same  general  kind  with 
interest  in  the  present  and  future: 
that  is,  scientific.  The  sympathetic 
attitude  toward  the  higher  experiences 
of  mankind,  resulting  in  a  familiarity 
with  the  best  things  which  men  have 
said  and  done,  has  given  place  to  the 
inquiring  and  investigating  attitude. 
The  humanities  have  not  been  dis- 
carded, but  they  have  been  discredited 
to  the  extent  that  no  expression  of  hu- 
man thought,  outside  the  realm  of 
poetry,  is  any  longer  taken  at  its  face 
value.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
the  current  intellectual  life  is  in  a  state 
of  confusion,  which  makes  it  incapable 
of  reacting  in  any  very  stimulating . 
way  upon  that  intellectual  life  in  the 
colleges  which  is  in  the  formative  and 
developing  stage.  The  intellectual  life 
of  the  undergraduate  cannot  be  con- 
sidered apart  from  the  intellectual  life 
out  of  which  he  comes,  and  to  which  he 
returns. 

There  is  a  certain  apologetic  atti- 
tude in  this  country  toward  intellectual 
achievement,  of  which  we  are  hardly 
conscious,  but  which  is  manifest  in  our 
desire  to  associate  intellectual  power 
with  some  conspicuously  worthy  end 
—  an  attitude  of  which  the  Nation 
has  fitly  reminded  us  in  a  recent  edit- 
orial on  'Intellect  and  Service.'  Ac- 
knowledging its  full  'admiration  of  the 
man  who  makes  his  scholarship  an  in- 
strument of  service,'  the  editorial  pro- 
ceeds: 'We  do  not  object  to  praise 
of  the  scholar  in  politics,  or  of  the 
scholar  in  social  betterment  or  in  eco- 
nomic reform;  we  object  only  to  the 
preaching  of  a  gospel  which  leaves  all 
other  scholars  out  in  the  cold.  If,  on 
the  one  hand,  you  offer  all  the  shining 
outward  rewards  of  effort  to  those 


who  do  not  go  into  intellectual  pur- 
suit at  all,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  you 
reserve  all  appreciation  and  praise  for 
such  intellectual  achievements  as  bear 
directly  on  the  improvement  of  polit- 
ical and  social  conditions,  you  cannot 
expect  the  life  of  the  scholar  and  think- 
er and  writer  in  other  domains  to  pre- 
sent to  aspiring  youth  that  fascination 
which  is  the  greatest  factor  in  deter- 
mining the  direction  of  his  ambitions. 
Exalt  service  by  all  means,  but  preserve 
for  pure  intellectual  achievement  its 
own  place  of  distinction  and  regard. 
Do  the  one,  and  applaud  it;  but  leave 
not  the  other  undone  or  unhonored.' 

The  advancement,  then,  of  under- 
graduate scholarship  is  to  be  consider- 
ed, not  merely  or  chiefly  as  a  question 
of  the  environment  of  the  undergrad- 
uate —  his  world  of  associations  or  act- 
ivities, or  even  of  sentiment,  except 
as  that  is  understood  in  its  wide  re- 
lations. Undergraduate  scholarship  is 
fundamentally  related  to  the  aim  and 
purpose  and  actual  operation  of  the 
undergraduate  school,  involving  many 
questions  of  the  kind  which  have  been 
suggested.  It  is  vitally  related  to  those 
laws  of  human  nature  which  insist  upon 
personal  power  as  an  element  in  leader- 
ship, and  which  cannot  be  waived  in 
favor  of  the  scholar  who  persists  in 
ignoring  the  requisite  physical  and 
social  training.  It  is  no  less  vitally 
related  to  the  intellectual  life  of  the 
whole  community,  committed  as  every 
college  is,  according  to  the  measure  of 
its  influence,  to  the  high  endeavor  of 
bringing  order  out  of  the  present  con- 
fusion; of  elevating  the  intellectual 
tone  of  society;  and  especially  of  creat- 
ing a  constituency  able  to  resist  the 
more  enticing,  but  demoralizing,  influ- 
ences of  modern  civilization,  and  able 
to  support  those  influences  which  can 
alone  invigorate  and  refine  it.  It  is 
always  best  to  take  the  real  measure 
of  an  urgent  problem,  to  dismiss  all 


750                                        THE    OLD  BRIDGE 

impatience,  to  work  on  under  the  in-  thing  will   have   been   gained   in   the 

spiration  of  the  knowledge  that  the  present  instance,  if  it  has  been  made 

process  of  solution  is  long  and  hard,  evident  to  the  public  that  the  problem 

and  that  it  widens  as  it  advances;  but  of  undergraduate  scholarship  is  not  so 

to  feel  that  delaying  questions,  which  easy,  so  narrow,  or   so  uninspiring  a 

rise  on  the  way,  contribute  to  the  as-  problem,  as  many  of  the  critics  would 

surance  of  a  satisfying  result.    Some-  have  us  believe. 


THE   OLD   BRIDGE 


BY   HENRY   VAN   DYKE 


ON  the  old,  old  bridge,  with  its  crumbling  stones 
All  covered  with  lichens  red  and  gray, 
Two  lovers  were  talking  in  sweet  low  tones: 
And  we  were  they! 

As  he  leaned  to  breathe  in  her  willing  ear 
The  love  that  he  vowed  would  never  die, 
He  called  her  his  darling,  his  dove  most  dear: 
And  he  was  I! 

She  covered  her  face  from  the  pale  moonlight 
With  her  trembling  hands,  but  her  eyes  looked  through, 
And  listened  and  listened  with  long  delight : 
And  she  was  you ! 

On  the  old,  old  bridge,  where  the  lichens  rust, 
Two  lovers  are  learning  the  same  old  lore; 
He  tells  his  love,  and  she  looks  her  trust: 
But  we,  —  no  more! 

1  Freely  rendered  from  the  French  of  Auguste  Angellier. 


THE  WAR  AGAINST  WAR 


BY  HAVELOCK   ELLIS 


IN  recent  years  a  famous  millionaire 
has  presented  a  more  than  princely 
gift  to  the  cause  of  peace.  His  action 
has  been  significant,  not  only  because 
it  has  shown  that  a  hard-headed  man 
of  business  considers  that  the  aboli- 
tion of  war  is  a  cause  in  which  he  may 
profitably  spend  millions,  but  because 
of  the  attitude  of  the  man  in  the  street. 
Not  so  very  long  ago  a  millionaire  who 
gave  money  for  the  cause  of  peace 
would  have  been  regarded  by  the  aver- 
age man  as  an  amiable  faddist,  per- 
haps touched  by  senile  decay,  who  was 
attracted  to  the  dream  of  Universal 
Peace  as  another  might  be  attracted  to 
a  Hospital  for  Consumptive  Cats  or  a 
Society  for  the  Promotion  of  Vegetari- 
anism in  Greenland.  But  Mr.  Carne- 
gie's magnificent  donation  has  to-day 
been  generally  received,  quite  serious- 
ly, as  a  noble  effort  toward  the  solu- 
tion of  a  practical  problem  which  is 
becoming  acute. 

There  are,  no  doubt,  special  reasons 
why  at  the  present  time  war,  and  the 
armaments  of  war,  should  appear  an 
intolerable  burden  which  must  be 
thrown  off  as  soon  as  possible.  But  the 
abolition  of  the  ancient  method  of  set- 
tling international  disputes  by  warfare 
is  not  a  problem  which  depends  for  its 
solution  on  any  mere  temporary  hard- 
ship. It  is  implicit  in  the  natural  devel- 
opment of  the  process  of  civilization. 
As  soon  as  in  primitive  society  two 
individuals  engage  in  a  dispute  which 
they  are  compelled  to  settle,  not  by 
physical  force,  but  by  a  resort  to  an 
impartial  tribunal,  the  thin  end  of  the 


wedge  is  introduced  and  the  ultimate 
destruction  of  war  becomes  merely  a 
matter  of  time.  If  it  is  unreasonable 
for  two  individuals  to  fight,  it  is  unrea- 
sonable for  two  groups  of  individuals 
to  fight. 

The  difficulty  has  been  that  while  it 
is  quite  easy  for  an  ordered  society  to 
compel  two  individuals  to  settle  their 
differences  before  a  tribunal,  in  accord- 
ance with  abstractly  determined  prin- 
ciples of  law  and  reason,  it  is  a  vastly 
more  difficult  matter  to  compel  two 
groups  of  individuals  so  to  settle  their 
differences.  This  is  the  case  even  with- 
in a  society.  Hobbes,  writing  in  the 
midst  of  civil  war,  went  so  far  as  to  lay 
down  that  the  '  final  cause '  of  a  com- 
monwealth is  nothing  else  but  the  abo- 
lition of  'that  miserable  condition  of 
war  which  is  necessarily  consequent  to 
the  natural  passions  of  men  when  there 
is  no  visible  power  to  keep  then  in 
awe.'  Yet  we  see  to-day  that,  even 
within  our  highly  civilized  communi- 
ties, there  is  not  always  any  adequately 
awful  power  to  prevent  employers  and 
employed  from  engaging  in  what  is 
little  better  than  a  civil  war;  nor  even 
to  bind  them  to  accept  the  decision  of 
an  impartial  tribunal  they  may  have 
been  persuaded  to  appeal  to.  The 
smallest  state  can  compel  its  individ- 
ual citizens  to  keep  the  peace;  a  large 
state  can  compel  a  small  state  to  do  so; 
but  hitherto  there  has  been  no  guaran- 
tee possible  that  large  states,  or  even 
large  compact  groups  within  the  state, 
should  themselves  keep  the  peace.  They 
commit  what  injustice  they  please,  for 

751 


752 


THE  WAR  AGAINST  WAR 


there  is  no  visible  power  to  keep  them 
in  awe.  We  have  attained  a  condition 
in  which  a  state  is  able  to  enforce  a 
legal  and  peaceful  attitude  in  its  own 
individual  citizens  toward  one  another. 
The  state  is  the  guardian  of  its  citizens' 
peace,  but  the  old  problem  recurs,  — 
Quis  custodiet  ipsos  custodies  ? 

It  is  obvious  that  this  difficulty  in- 
creases as  the  size  of  states  increases. 
To  compel  a  small  state  to  keep  the 
peace  by  absorbing  it  if  it  fail  to  do  so, 
is  always  an  easy  and  even  tempting 
process  to  a  neighboring  larger  state. 
This  process  was  once  carried  out  on 
a  complete  scale,  when  practically  the 
whole  known  world  was  brought  under 
the  sway  of  Rome.  'War  has  ceased,' 
Plutarch  was  able  to  declare  in  the 
days  of  the  Roman  Empire;  and  though 
himself  an  enthusiastic  Greek,  he  was 
unbounded  in  his  admiration  of  the 
beneficence  of  the  majestic  Pax  Ro- 
mana,  and  never  tempted  by  any  nar- 
row spirit  of  patriotism  to  desire  the 
restoration  of  his  own  country's  glories. 
But  the  Roman  organization  broke  up, 
and  no  single  state  will  ever  be  strong 
enough  to  restore  it. 

To-day  the  interests  of  small  states 
are  so  closely  identified  with  peace  that 
it  is  seldom  difficult  to  exert  pressure 
on  them  to  maintain  it.  It  is  quite  an- 
other matter  with  the  large  states.  The 
fact  that  during  the  past  half-century 
so  much  has  been  done  by  the  larger 
states  to  aid  the  cause  of  international 
arbitration,  and  to  submit  disputes  to 
international  tribunals,  shows  how 
powerful  the  motives  for  avoiding  war 
are  nowadays  becoming.  But  the  fact, 
also,  that  no  country  hitherto  has 
abandoned  the  liberty  of  withdrawing 
from  peaceful  arbitration  any  question 
involving  'national  honor,'  shows  that 
there  is  no  constituted  power  strong 
enough  to  control  large  states.  For  the 
reservation  of  questions  of  national 
honor  from  the  sphere  of  law  is  as  ab- 


surd as  would  be  any  corresponding 
limitation  by  individuals  of  their  lia- 
bility for  their  acts  before  the  law;  it  is 
as  though  a  man  were  to  say, '  If  I  com- 
mit a  theft,  I  am  willing  to  appear  be- 
fore the  court  and  will  probably  pay 
the  penalty  demanded;  but  if  it  is  a 
question  of  murder,  then  my  vital  in- 
terests are  at  stake,  and  I  deny  alto- 
gether the  right  of  the  court  to  inter- 
vene.' It  is  a  reservation  fatal  to  peace, 
and  could  not  be  accepted  if  pleaded  at 
the  bar  of  any  impartial  international 
tribunal  with  the  power  to  enforce  its 
decisions.  The  proposals,  therefore,  — 
though  not  yet  accepted  by  any  gov- 
ernment,—  lately  mooted  in  the  United 
States,  in  England,  and  in  France,  to 
submit  international  disputes,  without 
reservation,  to  an  impartial  tribunal, 
represent  an  advance  of  peculiar  signi- 
ficance. 

The  abolition  of  collective  fighting  is 
so  desirable  an  extension  of  the  aboli- 
tion of  individual  fighting,  and  its  in- 
troduction has  awaited  so  long  the  es- 
tablishment of  some  high  compelling 
power,  —  for  the  influence  of  the  Re- 
ligion of  Peace  has  in  this  matter  been 
less  than  nil,  —  that  it  is  evident  that 
only  the  coincidence  of  very  powerful 
and  peculiar  factors  could  have  brought 
the  question  into  the  region  of  practi- 
cal politics  in  our  own  time.  There  are 
several  such  factors,  most  of  which 
have  been  developing  during  a  long 
period,  but  none  have  been  clearly 
recognized  until  recent  years.  It  may 
be  worth  while  to  indicate  the  great 
forces  now  warring  against  war. 

1.  Growth  of  international  opinion. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  whatever  that 
during  recent  years,  and  especially  in 
the  more  democratic  countries,  an  in- 
ternational consensus  of  public  opinion 
has  gradually  grown  up,  making  itself 
the  voice,  like  a  Greek  chorus,  of  an 
abstract  justice.  It  is  quite  true  that  of 


THE   WAR  AGAINST  WAR 


753 


this  justice,  as  of  justice  generally,  it 
may  be  said  that  it  has  wide  limits. 
Renan  declared  once,  in  a  famous  allo- 
cution, that  'what  is  called  indulgence 
is,  most  often,  only  justice ';  and,  at  the 
other  extreme,  Remy  de  Gourmont 
has  said  that  'injustice  is  sometimes 
a  part  of  justice';  in  other  words,  there 
are  varying  circumstances  in  which 
justice  may  properly  be  tempered 
either  with  mercy  or  with  severity.  In 
any  case,  and  however  it  may  be'  qual- 
ified, a  popular  international  voice 
generously  pronouncing  itself  in  favor 
of  justice,  and  resolutely  condemning 
any  government  which  clashes  against 
justice,  is  now  a  factor  of  the  interna- 
tional situation. 

It  is,  moreover,  tending  to  become 
a  factor  having  a  certain  influence 
on  affairs.  This  was  the  case  during 
the  South  African  War,  when  Eng- 
land, by  offending  this  international 
sense  of  justice,  fell  into  a  discredit 
which  had  many  actual  unpleasant 
results,  and  narrowly  escaped,  there 
is  some  reason  to  believe,  proving  still 
more  serious.  The  same  voice  was 
heard  with  dramatically  sudden  and 
startling  effect  when  Ferrer  was  shot 
at  Barcelona.  Ferrer  was  a  person  ab- 
solutely unknown  to  the  man  in  the 
street;  he  was  indeed  little  more  than 
a  name  even  to  those  who  know  Spain; 
few  could  be  sure,  except  by  a  kind  of 
intuition,  that  he  was  the  innocent  vic- 
tim of  a  judicial  murder,  for  it  is  only 
now  that  the  fact  is  being  slowly  placed 
beyond  dispute.  Yet  immediately  after 
Ferrer  was  shot  within  the  walls  of 
Monjuich  a  great  shout  of  indignation 
was  raised,  with  almost  magical  sud- 
denness and  harmony,  throughout  the 
civilized  world,  from  Italy  to  Belgium, 
from  England  to  Argentina.  Moreover, 
this  voice  was  so  decisive  and  so  loud 
that  it  acted  like  those  legendary  trum- 
pet-blasts which  shattered  the  walls  of 
Jericho;  in  a  few  days  the  Spanish  gov- 
VOL.  107  -  NO.  e 


ernment,  with  a  powerful  minister  at 
its  head,  had  fallen.  The  significance 
of  this  event  we  cannot  easily  over- 
estimate. For  the  first  time  in  history, 
the  voice  of  international  public  opin- 
ion, unsupported  by  pressure,  political, 
social,  or  diplomatic,  proved  potent 
enough  to  avenge  an  act  of  injustice 
by  destroying  a  government. 

Anew  force  has  appeared  in  the  world, 
and  it  tends  to  operate  against  those 
countries  which  are  guilty  of  injust- 
ice, whether  that  injustice  be  exerted 
against  a  state  or  even  only  against  a 
single  obscure  individual.  The  modern 
developments  of  telegraphy  and  the 
press  —  unfavorable  as  the  press  is  in 
many  respects  to  the  cause  of  inter- 
national harmony — have  placed  in  the 
hands  of  peace  this  new  weapon  against 
war. 

2.  International  financial  develop- 
ment. There  is  another  international 
force  which  expresses  itself  in  the  same 
sense.  The  voice  of  abstract  justice 
raised  against  war  is  fortified  by  the 
voice  of  concrete  self-interest.  The 
interests  of  the  propertied  classes,  and 
therefore  of  the  masses  dependent  upon 
them,  are  to-day  so  widely  distributed 
throughout  the  world  that  whenever 
any  country  is  plunged  into  a  disas- 
trous war  there  arises  in  every  other 
country,  especially  in  rich  and  pro- 
sperous lands  with  most  at  stake,  a 
voice  of  self-interest  in  harmony  with 
the  voice  of  justice.  It  is  sometimes 
said  that  wars  are  in  the  interest  of 
capital,  and  of  capital  alone,  and  that 
they  are  engineered  by  capitalists  mas- 
querading under  imposing  humanitar- 
ian disguises.  That  is  doubtless  true 
to  the  extent  that  every  war  cannot 
fail  to  benefit  some  section  of  the  cap- 
italistic world,  which  will  therefore 
favor  it;  but  it  is  true  to  that  extent 
only.  The  old  notion  that  war  and 
the  acquisition  of  territories  encourage 


754 


THE  WAR  AGAINST  WAR 


trade  by  opening-up  new  markets,  has 
proved  fallacious.  The  extension  of 
trade  is  a  matter  of  tariffs  rather  than 
of  war,  and  in  any  case  the  trade  of  a 
country  with  its  own  acquisitions  by 
conquest  is  but  a  comparatively  insig- 
nificant portion  of  its  total  trade.  But 
even  if  the  financial  advantages  of  war 
were  much  greater  than  they  are,  thqy 
would  be  more  than  compensated  by 
the  disadvantages  which  nowadays 
attend  war. 

International  financial  relationships 
have  come  to  constitute  a  network 
of  interests  so  vast,  so  complicated, 
so  sensitive,  that  the  whole  thrills  re- 
sponsively  to  any  disturbing  touch, 
and  no  one  can  say  beforehand  what 
widespread  damage  may  not  be  done 
by  shock  even  at  a  single  point.  When 
a  country  is  at  war  its  commerce  is  at 
once  disorganized,  that  is  to  say,  its 
shipping,  and  the  shipping  of  all  the 
countries  that  carry  its  freights,  is 
thrown  out  of  gear  to  a  degree  that 
often  cannot  fail  to  be  internationally 
disastrous.  Foreign  countries  cannot 
send  in  the  imports  that  lie  on  their 
wharves  for  the  belligerent  country, 
nor  can  they  get  out  of  it  the  exports 
they  need  for  their  own  maintenance 
or  luxury.  Moreover,  all  the  foreign 
money  invested  in  the  belligerent  coun- 
try is  depreciated  and  imperiled.  The 
international  voice  of  trade  and  finance 
is,  therefore,  to-day  mainly  on  the  side 
of  peace. 

It  must  be  added  that  this  voice  is 
not,  as  it  might  seem,  a  selfish  voice 
only.  It  is  justifiable,  not  only  in  im- 
mediate international  interests,  but 
even  in  the  ultimate  interests  of  the 
belligerent  country;  and  not  less  so  if 
that  country  should  prove  victorious. 
So  far  as  business  and  money  are  con- 
cerned, a  country  gams  nothing  by  a 
successful  war,  even  though  that  war 
involve  the  acquisition  of  immense  new 
provinces:  after  a  great  war,  a  con- 


quered country  may  possess  more  finan- 
cial stability  than  its  conqueror,  and 
both  may  stand  lower  in  this  respect 
than  some  other  country  which  is  in- 
ternationally guaranteed  against  war. 
Such  points  as  these  have  of  late  been 
ably  argued  by  Norman  Angell  in  his 
remarkable  book,  The  Great  Illusion, 
and  for  the  most  part  convincingly 
illustrated.  As  was  long  since  said,  the 
ancients  cried,  Vae  victis!  We  have 
learnt  to  cry,  Vae  victoribusl 

It  may,  indeed,  be  added,  that  the 
general  tendency  of  war,  putting  aside 
peoples  altogether  lacking  in  stamina, 
is  to  moralize  the  conquered.  And  to 
demoralize  the  conquerors.  This  effect 
is  seen  alike  on  the  material  and  the 
spiritual  sides.  Conquest  brings  self- 
conceit  and  intolerance,  the  reckless 
inflation  and  dissipation  of  energies. 
Defeat  brings  prudence  and  concentra- 
tion; it  ennobles  and  fortifies.  All  the 
glorious  victories  of  the  first  Napoleon 
achieved  less  for  France  than  the  crush- 
ing defeat  of  the  third  Napoleon.  The 
triumphs  left  enfeeblement;  the  defeat 
acted  as  a  strong  tonic  which  is  still 
working  beneficently  to-day.  The  ac- 
companying reverse  process  has  been 
at  work  in  Germany:  the  German  soil 
that  Napoleon  ploughed  yielded  a 
Moltke  and  a  Bismarck,  while  to-day 
the  German  press  is  crying  out  that 
only  another  war  —  it  has  not  the  in- 
sight nor  the  honesty  to  say  an  unsuc- 
cessful war — can  restore  the  nation's 
flaccid  muscle.  It  is  yet  too  early  to 
see  the  results  of  the  Russo-Japanese 
war,  but  already  there  are  signs  that, 
by  industrial  over-strain  and  by  the  re- 
pression of  individual  thought,  Japan 
is  threatening  to  enfeeble  the  phy- 
sique and  to  destroy  the  high  spirit  of 
the  indomitable  men  to  whom  she 
owed  her  triumph. 

3.  The  natural  exhaustion  of  the 
warlike  spirit.  It  is  a  remarkable 


THE  WAR  AGAINST  WAR 


755 


tendency  of  the  warlike  spirit  —  fre- 
quently emphasized  in  recent  years  by 
the  distinguished  zoologist,  President 
David  Starr  Jordan  —  that  it  tends  to 
exterminate  itself.  Fighting  stocks, 
and  peoples  largely  made  up  of  fighting 
stocks,  are  naturally  killed  out,  and 
the  field  is  left  to  the  unwarlike.  It  is 
only  the  prudent,  those  who  fight  and 
run  away,  who  live  to  fight  another  day; 
and  they  transmit  their  prudence  to 
their  offspring. 

Great  Britain  is  a  conspicuous  ex- 
ample of  a  country  which,  being  an 
island,  was  necessarily  peopled  by  pre- 
datory and  piratical  invaders.  A  long 
succession  of  warlike  and  adventur- 
ous peoples  —  Celts,  Romans,  Anglo- 
Saxons,  Danes,  Normans  —  built  up 
England  and  imparted  to  it  their 
spirit.  They  were,  it  was  said,  '  a 
people  for  whom  pain  and  death  are 
nothing,  and  who  only  fear  hunger  and 
boredom.'  But  for  over  eight  hundred 
years  they  have  never  been  reinforced 
by  new  invaders,  and  the  inevitable 
consequences  have  followed.  There 
has  been  a  gradual  killing-out  of  the 
warlike  stocks,  a  process  immensely 
accelerated  during  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury by  a  vast  emigration  of  the  more 
adventurous  elements  in  the  popula- 
tion, pressed  out  of  the  over-crowded 
country  by  the  reckless  and  unchecked 
increase  of  the  population  which  oc- 
curred during  the  first  three  quarters 
of  that  century.  The  result  is  that  the 
English  (except  sometimes  when  they 
happen  to  be  journalists)  cannot  now 
be  described  as  a  warlike  people.  Old 
legends  tell  of  British  heroes  who,  when 
their  legs  were  hacked  away,  still  fought 
upon  the  stumps.  Modern  poets  feel 
that  to  picture  a  British  warrior  of  to- 
day in  this  attitude  would  be  some- 
what far-fetched.  The  historian  of  the 
South  African  War  points  out,  again 
and  again,  that  the  British  leaders 
showed  a  singular  lack  of  the  fighting 


spirit.  During  that  war  English  gener- 
als seldom  cared  to  engage  the  enemy's 
forces  except  when  their  own  forces 
greatly  outnumbered  them,  and  on 
many  occasions  they  surrendered  im- 
mediately they  realized  that  they  were 
themselves  outnumbered.  Those  reck- 
less Englishmen  who  boldly  sailed  out 
from  their  little  island  to  face  the  Span- 
ish Armada  were  long  ago  exterminated ; 
an  admirably  prudent  and  cautious  race 
has  been  left  alive. 

It  is  the  same  story  elsewhere.  The 
French  long  cherished  the  tradition 
of  military  glory,  and  no  people  has 
fought  so  much.  We  see  the  result  to- 
day. In  no  country  is  the  attitude  of 
the  intellectual  classes  so  calm  and  so 
reasonable  on  the  subject  of  war,  and 
nowhere  is  the  popular  hostility  to  war 
so  strongly  marked.  Spain  furnishes 
another  instance  which  is  even  still 
more  decisive.  The  Spanish  were  of  old 
a  preeminently  warlike  people,  cap- 
able of  enduring  all  hardships,  never 
fearing  to  face  death.  Their  aggress- 
ively warlike  and  adventurous  spirit 
sent  them  to  death  all  over  the  world. 
It  cannot  be  said,  even  to-day,  that  the 
Spaniards  have  lost  their  old  tenacity 
and  hardness  of  fibre,  but  their  passion 
for  war  and  adventure  was  killed  out 
three  centuries  ago. 

In  all  these  and  like  cases  there  has 
been  a  process  of  selective  breeding, 
eliminating  the  soldierly  stocks  and 
leaving  the  others  to  breed  the  race. 
The  men  who  so  loved  fighting  that 
they  fought  till  they  died  had  few 
chances  of  propagating  their  own  war- 
like impulses.  The  men  who  fought 
and  ran  away,  the  men  who  never 
fought  at  all,  were  the  men  who  created 
the  new  generation  and  transmitted  to 
it  their  own  traditions. 

This  selective  process,  moreover,  has 
not  merely  acted  automatically;  it  has 
been  furthered  by  social  opinion  and 
social  pressure,  sometimes  very  dras- 


756 


THE  WAR  AGAINST  WAR 


tically  expressed.  Thus  in  the  England 
of  the  Plantagenets  there  grew  up  a 
class  called  'gentlemen,'  —  not,  as  has 
sometimes  been  supposed,  a  definitely 
defined  class,  though  they  were  origin- 
ally of  good  birth,  —  whose  chief  char- 
acteristic was  that  they  were  good 
fighting  men,  and  sought  fortune  by 
fighting.  The  'premier  gentleman'  of 
England,  according  to  Sir  George  Sit- 
well,  and  an  entirely  typical  represent- 
ative of  his  class,  was  a  certain  glori- 
ous hero  who  fought  with  Talbot  at 
Agincourt,  and  also,  as  the  unearthing 
of  obscure  documents  shows,  at  other 
times  indulged  in  housebreaking  and 
in  wounding  with  intent  to  kill,  and  in 
'  procuring  the  murder  of  one  Thomas 
Page  who  was  cut  to  pieces  while  on 
his  knees  begging  for  his  life.'  There, 
evidently,  was  a  state  of  society  high- 
ly favorable  to  the  warlike  man,  highly 
unfavorable  to  the  unwarlike  man, 
whom  he  slew  in  his  wrath.  Nowadays, 
however,  there  has  been  a  revaluation 
of  these  old  values.  The  cowardly,  and 
no  doubt  plebeian,  Thomas  Page,  mul- 
tiplied by  the  million,  has  succeeded  in 
hoisting  himself  into  the  saddle,  and  he 
revenges  himself  by  discrediting,  hunt- 
ing into  the  slums,  and  finally  hanging, 
every  descendant  he  can  find  of  the 
premier  gentleman  of  Agincourt. 

It  must  be  added  that  the  advocates 
of  the  advantages  of  war  are  not  en- 
titled to  claim  this  process  of  selective 
breeding  as  one  of  the  advantages  of 
war.  It  is  quite  true  that  war  is  incom- 
patible with  a  high  civilization,  and 
must  hi  the  end  be  superseded.  But 
this  method  of  suppressing  it  is  too 
thorough.  It  involves  not  merely  the 
extermination  of  the  fighting  spirit,  but 
of  many  excellent  qualities,  physical 
and  moral,  which  are  associated  with 
the  fighting  spirit.  Benjamin  Franklin 
seems  to  have  been  the  first  to  point 
out  that  'a  standing  army  diminishes 
the  size  and  breed  of  the  human  spe- 


cies.' Even  in  Franklin's  lifetime  that 
was  being  demonstrated  on  a  wholesale 
scale,  for  there  seems  little  reason  to 
doubt  that  the  size  and  stature  of  the 
French  nation  have  been  permanently 
diminished  by  the  constant  levies  of 
young  recruits,  the  flower  of  the  popu- 
lation, whom  Napoleon  sent  out  to 
death  in  their  first  manhood  and  still 
childless.  Fine  physical  breed  involves 
also  fine  qualities  of  virility  and  daring 
which  are  needed  for  other  purposes 
than  fighting.  In  so  far  as  the  selective 
breeding  of  war  kills  these  out,  its  re- 
sults are  imperfect,  and  could  be  better 
attained  by  less  radical  methods. 

4.  The  growth  of  the  anti- military 
spirit.  The  decay  of  the  warlike  spirit 
by  the  breeding-out  of  fighting  stocks 
has  in  recent  years  been  reinforced  by 
a  more  acute  influence,  of  which  in  the 
near  future  we  shall  certainly  hear 
more.  This  is  the  spirit  of  anti-mili- 
tarism. This  spirit  is  an  inevitable  re- 
sult of  the  decay  of  the  fighting  spirit. 
In  a  certain  sense  it  is  also  complement- 
ary to  it.  The  survival  of  non-fight- 
ing stocks  by  the  destruction  of  the 
fighting  stocks  works  most  effectually 
in  countries  having  a  professional  army. 
The  anti-military  spirit,  on  the  con- 
trary, works  effectually  in  countries 
having  a  national  army,  in  which  it  is 
compulsory  for  all  young  citizens  to 
serve,  for  it  is  only  in  such  countries 
that  the  anti-militarist  can,  by  refusing 
to  serve,  take  an  influential  position  as 
a  martyr  in  the  cause  of  peace. 

Among  the  leading  nations,  it  is  in 
France  that  the  spirit  of  anti-militar- 
ism has  taken  the  deepest  hold  of  the 
people;  though  in  some  smaller  lands, 
notably  among  the  obstinately  peace- 
able inhabitants  of  Holland,  the  same 
spirit  also  flourishes.  Herve,  who  is  a 
leader  of  the  Insurrectional  Socialists, 
as  they  are  commonly  called,  in  op- 
position to  the  purely  Parliamentary 


THE  WAR  AGAINST  WAR 


757 


Socialists  led  by  Jaures,  —  though  the 
Insurrectional  Socialists  also  use  par- 
liamentary methods,  —  may  be  re- 
garded as  the  most  conspicuous  cham- 
pion of  anti-militarism,  and  many  of 
his  followers  have  suffered  imprison- 
ment as  the  penalty  of  their  convic- 
tions. In  France,  the  peasant  proprie- 
tors in  the  country  and  the  organized 
workers  in  the  town  are  alike  sym- 
pathetic to  anti-militarism.  The  syn- 
dicalists, or  trade-unionists,  with  the 
Confederation  Generale  du  Travail  as 
their  central  organization,  are  not  usu- 
ally anxious  to  imitate  what  they  con- 
sider the  unduly  timid  methods  of 
English  trade-unionists;  they  tend  to 
be  socialistic  and  anti-military.  The 
congress  of  delegates  of  French  trade- 
unions,  held  at  Toulouse  last  year, 
passed  the  significant  resolution  that 
'a  declaration  of  war  should  be  fol- 
lowed by  the  declaration  of  a  general 
revolutionary  strike.' 

The  same  tendency,  though  in  a  less 
radical  form,  is  becoming  international ; 
and  the  great  International  Socialist 
Congress  at  Copenhagen  has  passed  a 
resolution  instructing  the  International 
Bureau  to  'take  the  opinion  of  the  or- 
ganized workers  of  the  world  on  the 
utility  of  a  general  strike  in  preventing 
war.'  Even  the  English  working-classes 
are  slowly  coming  into  line.  At  a  Con- 
ference of  Labor  Delegates  held  at 
Leicester  last  February  to  consider  the 
Copenhagen  resolution,  the  policy  of 
the  anti-military  general  strike  was 
defeated  by  only  a  narrow  majority,  on 
the  ground  that  it  required  further  con- 
sideration and  might  be  detrimental  to 
political  action;  but  as  most  of  the 
leaders  are  in  favor  of  the  strike  policy 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  method 
of  combating  war  will  shortly  be  the 
accepted  policy  of  the  English  Labor 
•  movement.  In  carrying  out  such  a 
policy  the  Labor  Party  expects  much 
help  from  the  growing  social  and  polit- 


ical power  of  women.  The  most  influ- 
ential literary  advocate  of  the  Peace 
movement,  and  one  of  the  earliest,  was 
a  woman,  the  Baroness  Bertha  von 
Suttner,  and  it  is  held  to  be  incredible 
that  the  wives  and  mothers  of  the  peo- 
ple will  use  their  power  to  support  an 
institution  which  represents  the  most 
brutal  method  of  destroying  their  hus- 
bands and  sons. 

The  anti-militarist,  as  things  are  at 
present,  exposes  himself  not  only  to 
the  penalty  of  imprisonment,  but  also 
to  obloquy.  He  has  virtually  refused 
to  take  up  arms  in  defense  of  his  coun- 
try; he  has  sinned  against  patriotism. 
This  accusation  has  led  to  a  counter- 
accusation  directed  against  the  very 
idea  of  patriotism.  Here  the  writings 
of  Tolstoi,  with  their  poignant  and 
searching  appeals  for  the  cause  of  hu- 
manity as  against  the  cause  of  patri- 
otism, have  undoubtedly  served  the 
anti-militarists  well,  and  wherever  the 
war  against  war  is  being  urged,  even 
so  far  as  Japan,  Tolstoi  has  furnished 
some  of  its  keenest  weapons.  More- 
over, in  so  far  as  anti-militarism  is 
advocated  by  the  workers,  they  claim 
that  international  interests  have  al- 
ready effaced  and  superseded  the  nar- 
rower interests  of  patriotism.  In  refus- 
ing to  fight,  the  workers  of  a  country 
are  simply  declaring  their  loyalty  to 
fellow  workers  on  the  other  side  of  the 
frontier,  a  loyalty  which  has  stronger 
claims  on  them,  they  hold,  than  any 
patriotism  which  simply  means  loyalty 
to  capitalists;  geographical  frontiers 
are  giving  place  to  economic  frontiers 
which  now  alone  serve  to  separate  ene- 
mies. And  if,  as  seems  probable,  when 
the  next  attempt  is  made  at  a  great 
European  war,  the  order  for  mobiliza- 
tion is  immediately  followed  in  both 
countries  by  the  declaration  of  a  gen- 
eral strike,  there  will  be  nothing  to  say 
against  such  a  declaration  even  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  narrowest  patriotism. 


758 


THE  WAR  AGAINST  WAR 


If  we  realize  what  is  going  on  around 
us  it  is  easy  to  see  that  the  anti-militar- 
ist movement  is  rapidly  reaching  a 
stage  when  it  will  be  able  easily,  even 
unaided,  to  paralyze  any  war  immedi- 
ately and  automatically.  The  pioneers 
in  the  movement  have  played  the  same 
part  as  was  played  in  the  seventeenth 
century  by  the  Quakers.  In  the  name 
of  the  Bible  and  their  own  consciences, 
the  Quakers  refused  to  recognize  the 
right  of  any  secular  authority  to  com- 
pel them  to  worship  or  to  fight;  they 
gained  what  they  struggled  for,  and 
now  all  men  honor  their  memories.  In 
the  name  of  justice  and  human  frater- 
nity, the  anti-militarists  are  to-day 
taking  the  like  course  and  suffering  the 
like  penalties.  To-morrow,  they  also 
will  be  revered  as  heroes  and  martyrs. 

5.  The  overgrowth  of  armaments.  The 
hostile  forces  so  far  enumerated  have 
converged  slowly  on  to  war  from  such 
various  directions  that  they  may  be 
said  to  have  surrounded  and  isolated 
it;  its  ultimate  surrender  can  only  be 
a  matter  of  time.  Of  late,  however,  a 
new  factor  has  appeared,  of  so  urgent 
a  character  that  it  is  fast  rendering  the 
question  of  the  abolition  of  war  acute: 
the  overgrowth  of  armaments.  This  is, 
practically,  a  modern  factor  in  the  sit- 
uation, and  while  it  is,  on  the  surface, 
a  luxury  due  to  the  large  surplus  of 
wealth  in  great  modern  states,  it  is 
also,  if  we  look  a  little  deeper,  inti- 
mately connected  with  that  decay  of 
the  warlike  spirit  due  to  selective 
breeding.  It  is  the  weak  and  timid 
woman  who  looks  nervously  under  the 
bed  for  the  burglar  who  is  the  last  per- 
son she  really  desires  to  meet,  and  it  is 
old,  rich,  and  unwarlike  nations  which 
take  the  lead  in  laboriously  protecting 
themselves  against  enemies  of  whom 
there  is  no  sign  in  any  quarter. 

Within  the  last  half-century  only  have 
the  nations  of  the  world  begun  to  com- 


pete with  each  other  in  this  timorous 
and  costly  rivalry.  In  the  warlike  days 
of  old,  armaments,  in  time  of  peace, 
consisted  in  little  more  than  solid  walls 
for  defense,  a  supply  of  weapons  stored 
away  here  and  there,  sometimes  in  a 
room  attached  to  the  parish  church, 
and  occasional  martial  exercises,  with 
the  sword  or  the  bow,  which  were  little 
more  than  an  amusement.  The  true 
fighting-man  trusted  to  his  own  strong 
right  arm  rather  than  to  armaments, 
and  considered  that  he  was  himself  a 
match  for  any  half-dozen  of  the  enemy. 
Even  in  actual  time  of  war  it  was  often 
difficult  to  find  either  zeal  or  money 
to  supply  the  munitions  of  war.  The 
Diary  of  the  industrious  Pepys,  who 
achieved  so  much  for  the  English  navy, 
shows  that  the  care  of  the  country's 
ships  mainly  depended  on  a  few  unim- 
portant officials  who  had  the  greatest 
trouble  in  the  world  to  secure  attention 
to  the  most  urgent  and  immediate 
needs. 

A  very  different  state  of  things  pre- 
vails to-day.  The  existence  of  a  party 
having  for  its  watchword  the  cry  for 
retrenchment  and  economy  is  scarce- 
ly possible  in  a  modern  state.  All  the 
leading  political  parties  in  every  great 
state  —  if  we  leave  aside  the  party  of 
Labor  —  are  equally  eager  to  pile  up 
the  expenditure  on  armaments.  It  is 
the  boast  of  each  party  that  it  spends 
not  less,  but  more,  than  its  rivals 
on  this  source  of  expenditure,  now  the 
chief  in  every  large  state.  Moreover, 
every  new  step  in  expenditure  involves 
a  still  further  step;  each  new  improve- 
ment in  attack  or  defense  must  im- 
mediately be  answered  by  correspond- 
ing or  better  improvements  on  the  part 
of  rival  powers,  if  they  are  not  to  be 
out-classed.  Every  year  these  moves 
and  counter-moves  necessarily  become 
more  extensive,  more  complex,  more 
costly;  while  each  counter-move  in- 
volves the  obsolescence  of  the  improve- 


THE  WAR  AGAINST  WAR 


759 


ments  achieved  by  the  previous  move, 
so  that  the  waste  of  energy  and  money 
keeps  pace  with  the  expenditure.  It  is 
well  recognized  that  there  is  absolutely 
no  possible  limit  to  this  process  and  its 
constantly  increasing  acceleration. 

There  is  no  need  to  illustrate  this 
point,  for  it  is  familiar  to  all.  Any  news- 
paper will  furnish  facts  and  figures 
vividly  exemplifying  some  aspect  of 
the  matter.  For  while  only  a  handful 
of  persons  in  any  country  are  sincerely 
anxious  under  present  conditions  to 
reduce  the  colossal  sums  every  year 
wasted  on  the  unproductive  work  of 
armament,  an  increasing  interest  in  the 
matter  testifies  to  a  vague  alarm  and 
anxiety  concerning  the  ultimate  issue. 
For  it  is  felt  that  an  inevitable  crisis 
lies  at  the  end  of  the  path  down  which 
the  nations  are  now  moving. 

Thus,  from  this  point  of  view,  the 
end  of  war  is  being  attained  by  a  pro- 
cess radically  opposite  to  that  by 
which,  in  the  social  as  well  as  in  the 
physical  organism,  ancient  structures 
and  functions  are  outgrown.  The  usual 
process  is  a  gradual  recession  to  a 
merely  vestigial  state.  But  here  what 
may  perhaps  be  the  same  ultimate  re- 
sult is  being  reached  by  the  more 
alarming  method  of  over-inflation  and 
threatening  collapse.  It  is  an  alarming 
process,  because  those  huge  and  heavily- 
armed  monsters  of  primeval  days  who 
furnish  the  zoological  types  correspond- 
ing to  our  modern  over-armed  states, 
themselves  died  out  from  the  world 
when  their  unwieldy  armament  had 
reached  its  final  point  of  expansion. 
Will  our  own  modern  states,  one  won- 
ders, more  fortunately  succeed  in  es- 
caping from  the  rough  hides  that  ever 
more  closely  constrict  them,  and  fin- 
ally save  their  souls  alive? 

6.  The  dominance  of  social  reform. 
The  final  factor  in  the  situation  is  the 
growing  dominance  of  the  process  of 


social  reform.  On  the  one  hand,  the 
increasing  complexity  of  social  organiz- 
ation renders  necessary  a  correspond- 
ingly increasing  expenditure  of  money 
hi  diminishing  its  friction  and  aiding 
its  elaboration;  on  the  other  hand,  the 
still  more  rapidly  increasing  demands 
of  armament  render  it  ever  more  dif- 
ficult to  devote  money  to  such  social 
purposes.  Everywhere  even  the  most 
elementary  provision  for  the  finer 
breeding  and  higher  well-being  of  a 
country's  citizens  is  postponed  to  the 
clamor  for  ever-new  armaments.  The 
situation  thus  created  is  rapidly  be- 
coming intolerable. 

It  is  not  alone  the  future  of  civiliza- 
tion which  is  forever  menaced  by  the 
possibility  of  war:  the  past  of  civiliza- 
tion, with  all  the  precious  embodiments 
of  its  traditions,  is  even  more  fatally 
imperiled.  As  the  world  grows  older 
and  the  ages  recede,  the  richer,  the 
more  precious,  the  more  fragile  become 
the  ancient  heirlooms  of  humanity. 
They  constitute  the  final  symbols  of 
human  glory;  they  cannot  be  too  care- 
fully guarded,  too  highly  valued.  But 
all  the  other  dangers  that  threaten 
their  integrity  and  safety,  if  put  to- 
gether, do  not  equal  war.  No  land  that 
has  ever  been  a  cradle  of  civilization 
but  bears  witness  to  this  sad  truth. 
All  the  sacred  citadels,  the  glories  of 
humanity,  —  Jerusalem  and  Athens, 
Rome  and  Constantinople,  —  have 
been  ravaged  by  war,  and  in  every  case 
the  ruin  has  been  a  disaster  that  can 
never  be  repaired.  If  we  turn  to  the 
minor  glories  of  more  modern  ages,  the 
special  treasure  of  England  has  been 
its  parish  churches,  a  treasure  of  unique 
charm  in  the  world  and  the  embodi- 
ment of  the  people:  to-day  in  their  bat- 
tered and  irreparable  condition  they 
are  the  monuments  of  a  civil  war 
waged  all  over  the  country  with  ruth- 
less religious  ferocity.  Spain,  again, 
was  a  land  which  had  stored  up,  during 


760 


THE  WAR  AGAINST  WAR 


long  centuries,  nearly  the  whole  of  its 
accumulated  possessions  in  every  art, 
sacred  and  secular,  of  fabulous  value, 
within  the  walls  of  its  great  fortress- 
like  cathedrals;  Napoleon's  soldiers 
overran  the  land  and  brought  with 
them  rapine  and  destruction;  so  that  in 
many  a  shrine,  as  at  Montserrat,  we 
still  can  see  how  in  a  few  days  they 
turned  a  paradise  into  a  desert.  It  is 
not  only  the  West  that  has  suffered. 
In  China  the  rarest  and  loveliest  wares 
and  fabrics  that  the  hand  of  man  has 
wrought  were  stored  in  the  Imperial 
Palace  of  Pekin;  the  savage  military 
hordes  of  the  West  broke  in  less  than 
a  century  ago,  and  recklessly  trampled 
down  and  fired  all  that  they  could  not 
loot.  In  every  such  case  the  loss  is 
final;  the  exquisite  incarnation  of  some 
stage  in  the  soul  of  man  that  is  for- 
ever gone,  is  permanently  diminished, 
deformed,  or  annihilated. 

At  the  present  time  all  civilized  coun- 
tries are  becoming  keenly  aware  of  the 
value  of  their  embodied  artistic  pos- 
sessions. This  is  shown  in  the  most 
decisive  manner  possible  by  the  enor- 
mous prices  placed  upon  them.  Their 
pecuniary  value  enables  even  the  stu- 
pidest and  most  unimaginative  to  real- 
ize the  crime  that  is  committed  when 
they  are  ruthlessly  and  wantonly  de- 
stroyed. Nor  is  it  only  the  products  of 
ancient  art  which  have  to-day  become 
so  peculiarly  valuable.  The  products 
of  modern  science  are  only  less  valu- 
able. So  highly  complex  and  elaborate 
is  the  mechanism  now  required  to  in- 
sure progress  in  some  of  the  sciences 
that  enormous  ^ums  of  money,  the 
most  delicate  skill,  long  periods  of 
time,  are  necessary  to  produce  it.  Gali- 
leo could  replace  his  telescope  with  but 
little  trouble;  the  destruction  of  a  single 
modern  observatory  would  be  almost  a 
calamity  to  the  human  race. 

Such  considerations  as  these  are,  in- 
deed, at  last  recognized  in  all  civilized 


countries.  The  engines  of  destruction 
now  placed  at  the  service  of  war  are 
vastly  more  potent  than  any  used  in 
the  wars  of  the  past.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  value  of  the  products  they 
can  destroy  is  raised  in  a  correspond- 
ingly high  degree.  But  a  third  factor 
is  now  intervening.  And  if  the  muse- 
ums of  Paris,  or  the  laboratories  of 
Berlin,  were  threatened  by  a  hostile 
army  it  would  certainly  be  felt  that  an 
international  power,  if  such  existed, 
should  be  empowered  to  intervene,  at 
whatever  cost  to  national  susceptibil- 
ities, in  order  to  keep  the  peace.  Civil- 
ization, we  now  realize,  is  wrought  out 
of  inspirations  and  discoveries  which 
are  forever  passed  and  repassed  from 
land  to  land;  it  cannot  be  claimed  by 
any  individual  land.  A  nation's  art- 
products  and  its  scientific  activities  are 
not  mere  national  property:  they  are 
international  possessions,  for  the  joy 
and  service  of  the  whole  world.  The 
nations  hold  them  in  trust  for  human- 
ity. The  international  force  which  will 
inspire  respect  for  that  truth  it  is  our 
business  to  create. 

The  only  question  that  remains  — 
and  it  is  a  question  the  future  alone 
will  solve  —  is  the  particular  point  at 
which  this  ancient  and  overgrown 
stronghold  of  war,  now  being  invested 
so  vigorously  from  so  many  sides,  will 
finally  be  overthrown, — whether  from 
within  or  from  without,  whether  by  its 
own  inherent  weakness,  by  the  persuas- 
ive reasonableness  of  developing  civil- 
ization, by  the  self-interest  of  the  com- 
mercial and  financial  classes,  or  by  the 
ruthless  indignation  of  the  proletariat. 
That  is  a  problem  still  insoluble,  but  it 
is  not  impossible  that  some  already 
living  may  witness  its  solution. 

Two  centuries  ago  the  Abbe  de 
Saint-Pierre  set  forth  his  scheme  for 
a  federation  of  the  states  of  Europe, 
which  meant,  at  that  time,  a  federa- 
tion of  all  the  civilized  states  of  the 


THE   WAR  AGAINST  WAR 


world.  It  was  the  age  of  great  ideas 
scattered  abroad  to  germinate  in  more 
practical  ages  to  come.  The  amiable 
abbe  enjoyed  all  the  credit  of  his  large 
and  philanthropic  conceptions.  But  no 
one  dreamed  of  realizing  them,  and  the 
forces  which  alone  could  realize  them 
had  not  yet  appeared  above  the  hori- 
zon. In  this  matter,  at  all  events,  the 
world  has  progressed,  and  a  federation 
of  the  states  of  the  world  is  no  longer 
the  mere  conception  of  a  philosophic 
dreamer.  The  first  step  will  be  taken 
when  two  of  the  leading  countries  of 
the  world  —  and  it  would  be  most 
reasonable  for  those  which  have  the 
closest  community  of  origin  and  lan- 
guage to  take  the  initiative  —  resolve 
to  submit  all  their  differences,  without 
reserve,  to  arbitration.  As  soon  as  a 
third  power  of  magnitude  joined  this 
federation  the  nucleus  would  be  con- 
stituted of  a  world-state.  Such  a  state 
would  be  able  to  impose  peace  on  even 
the  most  recalcitrant  outside  states, 
for  it  would  furnish  that  'visible  power 
to  keep  them  in  awe'  which  Hobbes 
rightly  declared  to  be  indispensable:  it 
could  even  in  the  last  resort,  if  neces- 
sary, enforce  peace  by  war.  There  are 
other  methods  than  war  of  enforcing 
peace,  and  these  such  a  federation  of 
great  states  would  be  easily  able  to 
bring  to  bear  on  even  the  most  warlike 
of  states,  but  the  necessity  of  a  mighty 
armed  international  force  would  re- 
main for  a  long  time  to  come.  To  sup- 
pose, as  some  seem  to  suppose,  that  the 
establishment  of  arbitration  in  place  of 
war  means  immediate  disarmament  is 
an  idle  dream.  At  the  recent  Confer- 
ence of  the  English  Labor  Party  on  this 
question,  the  most  active  opposition  to 


the  proposed  strike-method  for  render- 
ing war  impossible  came  from  the  dele- 
gates representing  the  workers  in  arse- 
nals and  dockyards.  But  there  is  no 
likelihood  of  arsenals  and  dockyards 
closing  in  the  lifetime  of  the  present 
workers;  and  though  the  establishment 
of  peaceful  methods  of  settling  inter- 
national disputes  cannot  fail  to  dimin- 
ish the  number  of  the  workers  who  live 
by  armament,  it  will  be  long  before  they 
can  be  dispensed  with  altogether. 

It  is  feared  by  some  that  the  reign 
of  universal  peace  will  deprive  them  of 
the  opportunity  of  exhibiting  daring 
and  heroism.  Without  inquiring  too 
carefully  what  use  has  been  made  of 
their  present  opportunities  by  those 
who  express  this  fear,  it  must  be  said 
that  such  a  fear  is  altogether  ground- 
less. There  are  an  infinite  number  of 
positions  in  life  in  which  courage  is 
needed,  as  much  as  on  a  battlefield,  al- 
though, for  the  most  part,  with  less 
risk  of  that  total  annihilation  which 
in  the  past  has  done  so  much  to  breed 
out  the  courageous  stocks.  Moreover, 
the  certain  establishment  of  peace  will 
immensely  enlarge  the  scope  for  daring 
and  adventure  in  the  social  sphere. 
There  are  departments  in  the  higher 
breeding  and  social  evolution  of  the 
race — some  perhaps  even  involving 
questions  of  life  and  death  —  where 
the  highest  courage  is  needed.  It 
would  be  premature  to  discuss  them, 
for  they  can  scarcely  enter  the  field  of 
practical  politics  until  war  has  been 
abolished.  But  those  persons  who  are 
burning  to  display  heroism  may  rest 
assured  that  the  course  of  social  evo- 
lution will  offer  them  every  oppor- 
tunity. 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  PRISCILLA 


BY    FRANCIS   E.  LEUPP 


THE  older  children  have  gone  their 
several  ways  out  of  the  home.  Tom 
took  his  bachelor's  degree  in  the  arts 
department  of  his  university,  spent  two 
years  in  the  law  school  and  two  in  the 
office  of  an  all-round  practitioner,  and 
then  hung  out  his  sign  as  an  attorney 
and  sat  down  to  wait  for  clients.  Sarah, 
almost  immediately  on  leaving  school, 
was  claimed  in  marriage  by  a  thrifty 
young  business  man  who  had  been  one 
of  the  big  boys  there  while  she  was  in 
the  primary  class,  and  had  early  mark- 
ed her  for  his  own.  Emily  kept  at  her 
studies  longer,  took  a  year  of '  finishing ' 
at  the  Lafayette  Seminary  for  Young 
Ladies,  and  enjoyed  a  winter  or  two  of 
social  experience  before  settling  down 
at  home  'to  take  care  of  mamma  and 
papa';  and  then,  without  offering 
rhyme  or  reason  to  account  for  her 
change  of  purpose,  one  day  decided  to 
give  herself  for  life  to  a  physician  sev- 
eral years  her  senior,  whom  she  had 
first  met  at  the  bedside  of  a  friend. 

'And  now,'  says  mamma,  'Priscilla 
is  going  on  seventeen,  and  her  father 
and  I  are  wondering  what  we  had  bet- 
ter do  with  her.'  For  mamma  is  a  rather 
old-fashioned  person,  who  still  cherishes 
the  traditions  of  an  era  when  parents 
were  accustomed  to  'do  something 
with'  their  offspring.  As  an  intimate 
of  the  family,  I  have  been  called  into 
consultation,  and  I  find  that  the  ques- 
tion uppermost  is  whether  or  not  to 
send  Priscilla  to  college.  'More  and 
more  girls  go  every  year,'  mamma  adds, 
presently.  'I  don't  know  just  why;  but 
I  dare  say  it  is  because  so  many  more 

762 


young  men  go  now  than  formerly,  and 
it  is  only  natural  that  a  girl  should 
wish  to  fit  herself  for  intellectual  com- 
panionship with  her  husband.' 

'As  we  can't  consult  the  taste  of  the 
still  shadowy  Mr.  Priscilla,'  papa  in- 
terrupts, with  a  quizzical  glance  in  my 
direction,  'we  may  dismiss  this  phase 
of  the  case  from  consideration.  How 
about  its  larger  aspects?' 

It  is  an  embarrassing  problem  to 
lay  before  me,  and  I  tell  them  so;  for 
I  am  not  by  profession  an  instructor 
of  youth  or  a  statistician,  neither  am 
I  widely  read  on  the  subject  of  sex  as 
related  to  the  scholastic  career.  There 
is  no  escaping  the  fact  that  the  college 
woman  is  here  to  stay,  that  she  has  be- 
come as  well  recognized  an  institution 
as  taxation,  and  a  factor  in  our  social 
evolution  as  surely  to  be  reckoned 
with  as  the  annual  death-rate.  Yet  my 
memory  goes  back  to  the  time  when 
she  was  a  novelty  almost  inchoate,  and 
when  learned  men  wrangled  fiercely 
over  such  mooted  points  as  whether 
the  female  brain  could  stand  the  strain 
of  four  years  of  incessant  exercise  on 
the  conventional  curriculum;  whether 
the  higher  education  would  not  take 
all  the  bloom  off  girlhood,  and  leave  its 
votaries  defeminized  and  graceless;  and 
whether  the  tendency  of  this  mental 
over-stimulation  of  one  half  the  hu- 
man race  would  not  be  to  reduce  mat- 
rimony, the  home,  and  posterity,  to 
so  many  cold  and  colorless  terms  in  a 
mathematical  proposition.  I  never  fol- 
lowed these  debates  so  far  as  to  sum 
up  my  own  conclusions  thereon;  all 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   PRISCILLA 


763 


that  I  know  —  perhaps  it  would  be 
more  seemly  to  say,  all  that  I  think  — 
about  girls  and  the  higher  education, 
is  the  fruit  of  close  observation  of  indi- 
vidual cases,  of  which  I  have  studied 
not  a  few,  and  with  ever-deepening 
interest. 

Physically,  certainly,  Priscilla  is  as 
fit  as  any  girl  of  my  acquaintance;  she 
is  strong,  well-nourished,  active,  fond 
of  outdoor  sports.  But  also,  she  has 
always  been  a  trifle  bookish,  with  a 
fair  faculty  of  observation,  an  absorb- 
ent memory,  and  a  little  leaning 
toward  hero-worship  in  a  maidenly 
way,  though  she  is  too  alive  to  be  in 
any  sense  a  prig;  and  how  she  browses 
on  rainy  days  betrays  itself  now  and 
then  in  conversation,  when  she  cites 
Lubbock  for  an  analogue  or  barbs  a 
moral  with  Lecky.  So  I  tell  mamma 
and  papa  that  the  first  thing  to  ask, 
it  seems  to  me,  is  how  Priscilla  herself 
looks  at  the  matter. 

A  dear  old  friend  of  mine,  lamenting 
his  own  deficiencies  of  learning,  used  to 
say  that  if  he  had  forty  sons  he  would 
send  them  all  through  college,  even 
though  he  had  to  flog  them  through. 
That  is  mistaken  zeal.  By  forcing  a 
boy  through  college  against  his  will, 
you  risk  spoiling  a  fair  initiator  to  make 
a  poor  pedant.  It  is  better  to  treat 
scholarship  as  we  do  morals:  show  by 
precept  and  example  the  practical  wis- 
dom of  doing  the  right  thing;  but,  if 
your  pupil  prefers  penalties  to  rewards, 
let  him  taste  the  consequences  of  his 
waywardness.  No  adviser  can  take  the 
place  of  experience.  • 

Priscilla,  it  appears,  although  not 
averse  to  the  idea  of  going  to  college, 
is  not  stirred  to  enthusiasm  by  it.  She 
has  talked  over  the  subject  with  friends 
who  have  gone  or  are  going,  and  finds 
a  wide  variety  of  motives  inspiring 
their  action.  Amy  has  literary  ambi- 
tions; Kate  a  taste  for  science;  Eliza- 
beth expects  to  earn  her  living  by  teach- 


ing, and  feels  that  a  degree  would  be 
a  valuable  asset;  Julia  is  going  because 
Elizabeth  is;  Louise  frankly  declares 
that  she  is  going  for  the  purpose  of  hav- 
ing a  good  time,  and  intends  to  stay 
only  as  long  as  she  gets  that;  while 
Ann  desires  a  college  course  for  the 
same  reason  that  a  baby  reaches  for 
the  moon :  she  could  n't  tell  exactly 
why  —  she  justs  wants  it. 

On  the  whole,  Priscilla  thinks  that  it 
would  be  'rather  nice'  to  go  to  college; 
so  we  turn  our  attention  to  the  ques- 
tion, Where?  which  involves  more  con- 
siderations than  any  one  has  dreamed 
of.  One  leading  institution,  we  find, 
makes  a  specialty  of  its  training  for 
domestic  life;  another  is  like  a  nunnery 
in  its  abjuration  of  male  instructors,  at 
least  of  any  still  in  marriageable  condi- 
tion; a  third  goes  to  the  opposite  ex- 
treme, and  employs  men  in  every  post  of 
real  responsibility;  in  a  fourth,  most  of 
the  studies  are  elective,  and  what  passes 
for  discipline  is  substantially  student 
rule;  and  there  are  several  other  va- 
riants, unnecessary  to  catalogue  here. 
Priscilla  conscientiously  assorts  and 
regroups  these  manifold  characteris- 
tics, and  selects  the  college  showing  the 
broadest  average,  first  discarding  all 
coeducational  projects  on  the  theory 
that  her  sex  would  place  her  at  a  dis- 
advantage there,  regardless  of  her  inde- 
pendent merits.  At  this  point,  we  who 
are  interested  in  her  must  pass  from  set- 
tled facts  to  prophecy  or  conjecture. 

When  a  boy  says  that  he  would  like 
to  go  to  college,  even  though  he  may  not 
show  any  strong  thirst  for  erudition, 
we  take  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
the  only  uncertainties  have  to  do  with 
ways  and  means.  When  a  girl  says  the 
same  thing,  why  does  it  occasion  a 
flurry,  or  even  surprise?  Is  it  because 
there  still  lingers  in  so  many  minds  a 
doubt  as  to  the  value  of  the  investment 
proposed?  Not  that  alone,  perhaps; 
though  the  air  yet  rings  with  praises 


764 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  PRISCILLA 


of  the  wife  and  mother  of  the  good  old 
days,  when  homes  were  run  with  far 
less  respect  for  sanitary  precautions 
or  executive  method,  and  when  grand- 
ma had  a  hand  in  everything  in  her  do- 
main, prescribed  for  most  of  the  child- 
ren's ills,  and  fed  all  her  household,  from 
baby  to  grandpa,  on  what  they  wished, 
rather  than  on  what  they  ought,  to  eat. 
Woman,  say  the  glorifiers  of  that  era, 
was  then  the  chief  figure  in  the  home, 
received  the  recognition  which  she  had 
earned,  and  filled  the  place  in  our  cos- 
mogony for  which  Nature  had  designed 
her.  There  was  no  need,  they  insist, 
for  the  higher  education  of  her  mind, 
because  she  was  devoting  her  best  ener- 
gies to  the  education  of  her  character, 
which  was  of  vastly  more  importance. 
The  inevitable  inference  is  that  the 
two  educational  enterprises  are  so  alien 
to  each  other  as  to  be  beyond  harmon- 
izing. 

A  moment's  reflection  will  expose  the 
fundamental  fallacy  of  this  view.  One 
might  as  well  assume  that  because 
Daniel  Webster  was  a  great  lawyer  in 
spite  of  a  great  failing,  no  lawyer  with 
controlled  appetites  could  hope  for 
like  success;  or  that,  because  Thomas 
Edison  has  wrested  so  many  secrets 
from  air  and  earth  without  a  univer- 
sity course,  the  graduate  contingent 
can  never  produce  his  equal.  A  more 
sensible  reflection  would  be,  how  much 
greater  Webster  might  have  been  with- 
out his  weakness,  or  what  might  not 
Edison  have  accomplished  if  his  native 
cleverness  and  grit  had  been  armed 
with  weapons  sharpened  in  the  college 
laboratory.  There  are  kinks,  too,  in  the 
logic  of  some  preachers  of  the  crusade 
for  female  education  who  take  all  dis- 
crimination between  women  and  men 
as  casting  a  constructive  libel  on  the 
former.  Is  not  a  woman's  brain  as  good 
as  a  man's,  they  demand.  Undoubt- 
edly. So  is  a  machine  for  making  enve- 
lopes as  fine  and  useful  an  industrial 


instrument  as  one  for  weaving  barbed 
fence-wire;  but  it  would  be  stupid  to 
ignore  the  essential  difference  between 
them,  as  regards  the  care  to  be  taken 
of  each  or  the  product  to  be  expected 
of  it. 

The  young  of  our  species  learn  as 
much  from  rubbing  elbows  with  each 
other  as  from  their  formal  schooling. 
The  little  boy  usually  is  turned  out  to 
find  his  own  amusement  with  other  lit- 
tle boys,  while  his  sister  is  more  cau- 
tiously guarded  in  her  companionships. 
This,  I  suppose,  is  due  to  our  instinct- 
ive presumption  of  a  more  delicate 
moral  fibre  in  the  girl  and  a  keener 
sensitiveness  to  impressions.  So  she  is 
apt  to  grow  up  with  the  hall-mark  of 
her  home  always  in  evidence,  while  the 
boy  has  it  pounded  out  of  him.  He  may 
loyally  believe  that  his  father  and 
mother  are  the  wisest  of  human  beings; 
but  this  faith  finds  its  counterpoise  as 
soon  as  he  enters  into  controversy  with 
a  larger  boy.  He  has  the  best  of  the 
argument  logically  when  he  makes  af- 
firmative assertions  on  the  authority 
of  his  parents  to  which  his  adversary 
vouchsafes  no  more  satisfying  answer 
than  'Rats!'  The  next  course  on  his 
argumentative  menu  is  knuckles  au 
naturel;  and  although  no  myriad  of 
bruises  and  abrasions  would  convince 
him  that  his  father  and  mother  have 
borne  false  witness,  he  begins  to  realize 
that  other  persons  may  have  views  on 
the  same  topics  which  are  worthy  of 
examination. 

Now,  this  preliminary  trimming- 
down,  coarse  and  sordid  as  it  may  seem, 
is  of  incalculable  value  to  the  boy  when 
he  passes  the  portal  leading  to  young 
manhood  and  enters  a  class  in  college. 
He  has,  in  a  certain  measure,  already 
found  himself.  An  oracular  statement 
from  one  of  the  faculty  he  accepts  as 
the  depositor  accepts  the  bank's  foot- 
ing of  his  account:  'errors  and  omis- 
sions excepted.'  If  it  differs  from  what 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  PRISCILLA 


765 


he  has  been  taught  at  home,  he  gives 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  temporarily, 
perhaps,  to  the  professor,  as  having 
come  lately  from  the  great  sources  of 
learning;  but  he  is  not  ready  to  sur- 
render the  beliefs  in  which  he  has  been 
reared,  till  they  have  had  their  fair 
chance  in  the  open  field  of  discussion. 

This  was  Tom's  attitude  toward  his 
new  life  when  he  entered  college.  Will 
it  be  Priscilla's?  Probably  not.  Her 
protected  existence  up  to  this  time  can- 
not be  brought  into  sudden  contrast 
with  the  freedom  of  the  collegiate  at- 
mosphere without  an  unsettling  shock 
to  her  preconceptions  in  matters  of  au- 
thority. Obedient  to  the  feminine  im- 
pulse to  cling  to  something  within  reach 
in  whose  strength  she  trusts,  she  is 
likely  to  transfer  her  intellectual  allegi- 
ance from  parents  to  professors.  The 
faculty  is  always  at  hand;  the  home  is 
far  away.  Her  parents  are  the  salt  of 
the  earth,  and  she  loves  them  as  deeply 
as  ever;  but  they  have  put  her  into  this 
institution  for  her  mental  improvement, 
and  it  would  be  ungrateful  not  to  take 
full  advantage  of  her  privileges.  There^ 
fore,  whereas  formerly  whatever  papa 
said  about  the  tariff  or  the  Panama 
Canal,  and  all  mamma's  forthgivingson 
the  ethics  of  human  intercourse,  were 
treasured  for  repetition  to  her  mates 
as  the  last  word  on  the  subject,  hence- 
forward any  comment  of  papa's  is 
liable  to  be  faced  down  with  a  citation 
from  'Professor  Newfresh  of  our  col- 
lege —  the  most  eminent  living  expert, 
you  know,  on  social  dynamics,'  or 
what-not.  Mamma's  antique  maxims, 
likewise,  will  be  exploded  by  an  echo 
from  the  last  lecture  of '  the  Dean,'  who 
once  a  week  tells  the  undergraduate 
body  what  it  ought  to  think  about 
everything.  It  is  immaterial  that  the 
Professor  has  never  been  heard  of  in 
the  larger  world  in  which  papa  moves, 
or  that  the  Dean  is  a  rather  pompous 
person  whose  tragedy-queen  manner 


has  done  more  to  advance  her  career 
than  any  very  solid  merits;  whatever 
either  of  these  worthies  says  must  be 
accepted  as  part  of  the  eternal  verities, 
and  cuts  off  debate. 

But  let  us  not  be  disconcerted  by  all 
this.  It  is  merely  a  surface  froth,  and 
will  evaporate  by  degrees  during  Pris- 
cilla's passage  from  freshman  to  senior 
years,  till,  before  the  ink  on  her  diploma 
is  dry,  her  mental  processes  will  have 
acquired  such  independence  of  action 
that  she  can  smile  charitably  at  some 
of  the  infatuations  of  her  very  imma- 
ture youth.  You  will  notice  a  like  alter- 
ation in  some  other  respects,  notably 
in  her  companionships.  To  share  her 
first  vacation  —  if  I  know  her  good 
heart  as  I  think  I  do  —  she  will  bring 
home  a  classmate  whom,  with  ail  your 
hospitable  prepossessions,  you  will  not 
be  able  quite  to  make  out.  Priscilla 
will  not  fail  to  notice  the  unconscious 
reserves  in  your  bearing  which  show 
that  you  do  not  look  upon  her  friend 
as  belonging  in  just  the  same  stratum 
with  herself.  It  may  be  necessary  even 
for  the  dear  child  to  remind  you,  in  a 
moment  of  confidential  chiding,  that 
'  the  scholastic  world  is  a  great  demo- 
cracy, where  the  lines  of  cleavage  do 
not  parallel  those  in  the  common  world 
outside.'  Before  the  fortnight  is  ended, 
however,  your  diminished  heads  will 
harbor  a  suspicion  that  she  has  found 
her  guest  no  light  load  to  carry;  and  this 
will  harden  into  assurance  as  time  goes 
on  and  you  observe  that  the  same  class- 
mate does  not  come  back  a  second  time, 
every  succeeding  vacation  introducing 
a  new  visitor  a  shade  more  congenial 
than  any  who  have  come  before,  as  if 
the  young  hostess  were  slowly  finding 
her  way  out  of  a  fog  of  altruistic  senti- 
ment and  into  the  warmer  glow  of  nat- 
ural selection. 

Nor  should  I  wonder  if  mamma's  old- 
fashioned  soul  received  an  occasional 
jar  like  that  which  beset  the  hen  in  the 


766 


THE   PROBLEM  OF   PRISCILLA 


barnyard  fable  on  discovering  a  duck- 
ling among  her  brood  of  chicks.  I  knew 
one  girl  like  Priscilla  who  terrified  her 
elders  by  developing  opinions  on  mar- 
riage and  divorce.  Though  brought  up 
in  a  home  fragrant  with  love  and  the 
spirit  of  mutual  helpfulness,  she  reached 
the  conclusion  that  matrimony  was  a 
fetter  to  which  no  normal  human  be- 
big  could  submit  without  more  or  less 
discomfort;  that,  as  soon  as  it  becomes 
seriously  irksome,  either  party  should 
be  able  to  break  loose  from  it  by  an 
easy  process  of  divorce,  since  to  con- 
tinue bound  would  be  a  progressive 
torment,  paralyzing  to  all  ambition 
and  effort;  and  that  the  present  system 
of  life-contract  is  merely  a  scion  of  the 
barbarous  twelfth  century  grafted  upon 
the  stock  of  the  enlightened  twentieth. 
She  had  the  charity  to  admit  that  in  a 
few  instances,  like  that  of  her  father 
and  mother  for  example,  uncommonly 
forbearing  dispositions  on  both  sides 
made  the  bond  endurable;  but  for  the 
race  at  large  — ! 

'And  what  would  become  of  the 
children?'  her  mother  ventured  to  ask 
between  gasps  of  horror. 

'They  should  be  cared  for  by  the 
state,'  was  the  prompt  response.  'As 
the  family's  contribution  to  the  com- 
monwealth, they  are  more  properly  a 
public  than  a  private  charge.' 

Are  you  affronted  by  my  suggestion 
that  Priscilla's  sweet,  modest  mind 
could  ever  be  tainted  with  such  dreadful 
doctrines?  Pardon  me.  Your  girl  was 
a  baby  once,  mamma,  and  rashes  came 
out  on  her  little  body.  They  were  not 
pleasant  to  look  at,  but  you  went  into 
no  panic  over  them;  on  the  contrary, 
you  took  comfort  in  the  reflection  that 
every  disagreeable  thing  on  the  surface 
meant  one  less  inside.  Bear  in  mind 
that  the  tongue  is  as  faithful  a  safety- 
valve  for  sophistical  humors  as  the 
skin  is  for  those  of  the  blood.  The 
mind  has  to  go  through  a  certain  round 


of  measles  and  chicken-pox  and  the 
like,  about  as  uniformly  as  the  body 
has;  every  one  who  reads  and  thinks, 
but  lacks  experience  of  the  matters  he 
thus  studies  in  the  abstract,  is  a  victim 
first  or  last;  and,  at  one  stage  of  her 
life,  a  girl  with  a  moral  constitution  as 
sound  and  a  character  as  wholesome 
as  Priscilla's  may  babble  all  day  about 
social  problems  whose  premises  she 
knows  only  by  hearsay,  without  giving 
her  parents  reason  for  five  minutes' 
solicitude.  Why,  every  man  who  has 
been  through  college  will  support  me 
in  saying  that,  even  after  their  rougher 
preparation,  the  same  phenomena  may 
be  observed  among  boys.  During  my 
own  course,  there  swept  across  our  ado- 
lescent firmament  a  Huxley  fad,  and 
a  Swinburne  fad,  and  a  dozen  others 
whose  very  names  I  have  long  since 
forgotten.  Lads  who  had  been  reared 
in  the  literal  belief  that  the  creation  of 
the  universe  began  a  little  before  Sun- 
day morning  and  ended  Friday  night, 
locked  themselves  in  their  rooms  and 
shudderingly  peered  into  the  blasphe- 
mies of  modern  biology;  while  others, 
who  would  n't  knowingly  have  trifled 
with  the  moral  sensibilities  of  a  lady- 
bug,  tucked  'Laus  Veneris'  under  their 
pillows  to  read  when  they  awoke  in  the 
night.  Our  generation  was  simply  re- 
peating the  history  of  its  fathers  with 
Tom  Paine  and  Lord  Byron;  it  would 
be  strange  indeed  if  Tom's  and  Pris- 
cilla's should  not  repeat  ours. 

Mamma,  who  has  followed  me  thus 
far  with  evidences  of  alternate  dismay 
and  relief,  now  interrupts  to  ask  what 
I  think  will  happen  after  Priscilla  has 
been  graduated.  Well,  a  good  many 
things  may.  You  will  introduce  her 
to  society,  doubtless,  in  the  same  way 
in  which  you  introduced  your  older 
daughters.  She  will  greet  your  friends 
so  prettily  that  they  will  be  charmed 
with  her.  Then  will  begin  the  usual 
round  of  luncheons  and  dinners  and 


THE   PROBLEM   OF  PRISCILLA 


767 


dances  with  which  the  town  celebrates 
the  advent  of  every  year's  crop  of  de- 
butantes. Priscilla  will  try  hard,  for 
your  sake,  to  keep  up  an  appearance 
of  enjoying  her  festivities;  but  if  you 
could  peep  into  some  of  the  letters  she 
is  writing  to  her  beloved  classmates, 
now  scattered  all  over  the  country,  you 
would  discover  that  her  heart  is  not  in 
the  whirl,  but  back  in  the  classic  shades 
where  they  spent  the  happiest  part  of 
their  girlhood;  at  least,  that  is  the 
way  she  will  express  what  is  really  not 
a  longing  for  a  return  to  the  old  con- 
ditions, but  only  a  natural  uneasiness 
in  the  process  of  adjusting  herself  to 
the  new.  For  a  while,  every  mention 
of  college  will  bring  a  little  lump  into 
her  throat;  she  will  seize  eagerly  any 
opportunity  that  offers  to  run  back 
there  for  a  day  or  two;  and  if  you  culti- 
vate her  intimacy  she  may  confide  to 
you  her  conviction  that  she  will  never 
be  able  to  build  up  any  more  friend- 
ships like  those  that  she  formed  as  an 
undergraduate. 

But  all  this,  too,  will  pass.  One  by 
one  the  intimacies  of  the  campus  will 
grow  a  little  less  intense.  Amy,  let  us 
say,  will  become  a  librarian,  and  im- 
merse herself  in  her  work;  Kate  will 
go  upon  the  stage,  and,  like  other  be- 
ginners, spend  most  of  her  time  on  the 
road,  making  correspondence  difficult; 
Julia  and  Elizabeth  will  marry  early, 
and  be  full  of  the  excitement  of  start- 
ing homes;  Louise  will  teach  school; 
and  Ann  will  become  secretary  to  a 
man  of  science,  and  dabble  a  bit  in  re- 
search on  her  own  hook.  Scarcely  one 
of  them,  I  '11  be  bound,  will  follow  the 
career  she  originally  marked  out  for 
herself;  but  every  one  will,  in  her  turn, 
strike  her  roots  down  into  the  day-by- 
day  world  and  become  so  reconciled  to 
it  as  to  give  up  living  in  the  past.  Of 
course,  Priscilla's  turn  will  come  like 
the  others.  Her  long  and  satisfying 
Association  with  her  own  sex  exclusive- 


ly may  make  her  appear  somewhat  in- 
different to  men  for  a  while;  and  during 
that  period  she  will  be  open  to  the  se- 
ductions of,  say,  some  branch  of  bene- 
volent work,  for  she  must  fill  the  gap 
left  by  the  cessation  of  her  student 
routine  and  the  falling-off  of  her  class 
correspondence.  And  here  again,  my 
friends,  fortify  yourselves  against  sur- 
prises. 

To-day  she  may  have  just  finished  a 
course  of  lectures  on  applied  philan- 
thropy, only  to  fall  to-morrow  under 
the  spell  of  a  cult  which  deifies  the 
Civic  Uplift,  denounces  philanthropy 
as  a  drag  upon  progress,  and  declares 
the  very  word  '  charity '  odious.  If  her 
activities  in  this  field  bring  her  for  the 
first  time  into  close  contact  with  the 
so-called  working  classes,  she  will  view 
their  condition  only  through  the  media 
which  they  hold  up  to  her  eyes;  and 
trade-unionism,  boycotts,  picket-serv- 
ice, scab-stalking,  may  fill  her  thoughts 
by  day  and  her  dreams  by  night,  till 
you  are  electrified,  when  a  parade  of 
the  unemployed  passes  your  house,  to 
see  her  lean  out  of  her  window  and 
shout  her  shrill  huzzah  for  the  Peerless 
Debs! 

Pray  muster  your  philosophy.  I  know 
what  you  will  ask:  Is  this  the  child 
you  have  brought  up  in  love  of  law 
and  respect  for  the  constituted  author- 
ities? Surely,  none  other.  Did  you 
ever  run  into  a  storm  on  shipboard  in 
mid-ocean,  and  feel  your  stanch  ves- 
sel leaning  over  so  far  on  one  side  that 
you  half  expected  her  to  turn  turtle? 
Yet  here  you  are,  to  tell  the  tale.  On 
the  whole,  you  have  reason  to  be  thank- 
ful that  the  ship  yielded  to  the  assault 
instead  of  presenting  to  it  so  stiff  a 
broadside  as  to  be  broken  in  two.  She 
need  not  have  encountered  any  storm, 
if  her  master  had  been  willing  to  let 
her  lie  still  in  port  instead  of  ploughing 
the  seas;  but,  being  a  ship  and  not  a 
wagon,  it  is  a  good  thing  that  she  did 


768 


THE  PROBLEM  OF   PRISCILLA 


go  through  just  such  experiences  of  the 
harder  phases  of  her  calling.  So  with 
Priscilla.  You  have  set  out  to  make 
her  an  educated  woman.  If  she  is 
built  of  first-rate  timber,  and  you  have 
equipped  her  with  suitable  machinery, 
calked  and  trimmed  her  as  you  ought, 
and  headed  her  for  the  right  point  on 
her  chart,  you  may  trust  her  in  any 
sea,  however  tempestuous;  confident 
that,  though  she  may  bend  to  the  gale 
when  it  strikes  her,  she  will  right  her- 
self after  all  and  go  ahead,  the  surer 
of  her  own  strength  and  worth  the 
more  for  the  experience. 

The  educated  woman  is,  at  her  best, 
a  woman  seasoned  in  life  as  well  as 
stored  with  knowledge.  Priscilla's  short- 
comings, if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to 
analyze  them,  are  due  either  to  too 
generous  impulses  or  to  a  belated  ma- 
turity. The  other  daughters  did  not 
carry  you  through  this  sort  of  an 
ordeal,  yet  they  are  fine  girls?  True. 
Their  continuance  with  their  feet  on 
the  earth  during  her  four  years  of  sub- 
limated segregation,  will  fit  them, 
though  not  less  pitiful  toward  human 
misfortune,  to  apprehend  more  readily 
than  she  the  extent  to  which  it  is  the 
fault  of  the  unfortunates.  With  her 
trained  boldness  in  attacking  obstacles, 
leaping  to  the  conclusion  that  the  whole 
system  on  which  the  world  now  con- 
ducts its  affairs  must  be  wrong,  she  may 
ally  herself  for  a  time  with  some  party 
which  is  trying  to  make  everything  over 
to  its  own  taste.  While  its  novelty 
lasts,  she  will  be  pretty  thoroughly  ab- 
sorbed in  this  association.  Be  patient 
with  her,  and  give  the  ballast  of  her 
common  sense  a  chance  to  make  itself 
felt. 

Now,  I  fully  realize  that  I  am  not 
casting  the  horoscope  of  any  common- 
place, phlegmatic  miss,  whose  case 
would  never  present  a  problem  after 
you  had  decided  to  let  her  go  to  col- 
lege, and  provided  the  wherewithal  to 


pay  her  term-bills.  I  am  dealing  with 
Priscilla,  who  is  neither  a  plodder  nor 
a  wooden  image,  but  a  girl  with  an 
alert  mind,  high  spirits,  a  good  diges- 
tion, and  a  circulation  that  can  be 
counted  on  to  furnish  seventy-two 
heart-beats  to  the  minute.  But  I  have 
heard  more  than  one  Priscilla  of  my 
acquaintance,  who  is  at  worst  no  more 
of  an  abnormality  than  the  live-witted, 
mettlesome  college  boy,  and  whose 
most  grievous  sin  has  been  her  can- 
dor in  following  the  lead  of  her  individ- 
uality, used  as  an  argument  to  prove 
the  unwisdom  of  bestowing  the  higher 
education  upon  girls. 

Do  you  know  why  this  type  is  singled 
out  for  criticism  in  one  sex  and  not  in 
the  other?  Because  the  critics  have 
got  into  the  habit  of  looking  for  some- 
thing different  in  a  girl  —  more  of  the 
graces  and  less  of  the  brawn,  moral  as 
well  as  physical,  than  in  a  boy.  But  I 
tried  to  show  you,  early  in  this  paper, 
that  the  girl's  start  in  childhood  differs 
from  the  boy's.  When  he  goes  away 
from  home  he  is  already  prepared  to 
some  extent  for  the  change  awaiting 
him;  she,  emerging  from  her  shelter  for 
the  first  time,  is  not.  It  is  like  a  re-birth 
for  her,  and  into  a  strange  world.  Her 
sense  of  perspective  is  still  embryotic, 
and  her  judgment  of  relative  weights 
and  values  is  unawakened.  Therefore, 
as  new  things  loom  on  her  horizon,  she 
is  without  trustworthy  tests  to  apply 
to  them,  and  often  novelty  usurps  in 
her  estimate  the  place  that  belongs  to 
merit. 

If  you  could  imagine  the  situation 
of  a  person  who  had  always  lived  in 
some  corner  of  the  earth  where  disease 
was  unknown,  and,  coming  suddenly 
into  a  miasma-laden  region,  had  had 
thrust  under  his  notice  a  dozen  pat- 
ented nostrums,  would  you  wonder  if 
he  fell  a  victim  to  quackery?  By  ana- 
logy you  can  explain  what  may  have 
seemed  to  you  a  weather-vane  quality 


THE   PROBLEM  OF  PRISCILLA 


769 


in  Priscilla,  as  I  have  forecast  the  pos- 
sibilities of  her  career.  She  will  have 
to  find  out  for  herself  later,  what  her 
brother  found  out  long  ago,  that  who- 
ever resolves  to  overturn  the  existing 
social  order  and  crush  with  one  blow 
our  well-crystallized  code  of  conven- 
tions, had  better  think  out  his  pro- 
gramme carefully  in  advance,  and  go 
a  trifle  slow  at  the  outset. 

Another  phase  of  Priscilla's  problem 
remains  to  be  considered ;  mamma  hint- 
ed at  it  in  our  first  talk.  What  sort  of 
home-maker  will  she  be?  I  have  heard 
undiscerning  people  sneer  at  college 
women  for  their  lack  of  that  incom- 
parable something  which  we  recog- 
nize, by  sensibility  rather  than  by  the 
senses,  as  distinguishing  femininity, 
wifehood,  motherliness.  So  I  have 
heard  ministers  as  a  class  accused  of 
a  canting,  physicians  of  a  fawning, 
teachers  of  a  didactic,  and  lawyers  of 
a  cut  and-dried,  manner.  Such  general- 
izations belong  in  the  same  category 
of  absurdities  with  the  claim  that  au- 
thors and  painters  can  be  picked  out  of 
a  crowd  by  their  neckwear,  or  leaders 
in  high  finance  by  their  spats.  There 
are  persons  whose  calling  is  so  much 
bigger  than  they  are  that  it  envelops 
them  as  with  a  cloak,  and  others  so 
much  bigger  than  any  form  of  liveli- 
hood that  they  are  men  and  women  first, 
and  ministers,  lawyers,  or  artists  only 
incidentally. 

The  same  principle  holds  good  of  fe- 
male college  graduates.  There  is  some 
human  material  cast  in  feminine  mould 
out  of  which  you  could  no  more  make 
the  head  of  a  real  home  than  you 
could  make  a  rose  out  of  a  dahlia.  But 
sharpened  intuitions,  a  large  resource- 
fulness in  the  presence  of  difficulties, 
a  deep-rooted  sense  of  self-dependence, 
a  fearless  front  to  turn  toward  untried 
things,  and  a  never  wearying  receptive- 
ness  for  whatever  can  prove  itself  de- 
serving: these  traits  do  no  more  harm 
VOL.  107 -<vo,  * 


to  the  womanly  girl  than  to  the  manly 
boy;  and,  so  far  as  a  college  course 
tends  to  encourage  and  develop  them, 
let  us  commend  it  for  either  sex.  Hea- 
ven forbid  that  any  word  of  mine  should 
be  tortured  into  disparagement  of  that 
sturdy  phalanx  of  wives  and  mothers 
and  grandmothers  who  never  saw  the 
inside  of  a  college  hall,  to  whom  Latin 
and  Greek  are  not  only  dead  but  buried 
languages,  and  whose  mathematical  ac- 
complishments leave  them  still  a  bit 
uncertain  where  to  put  the  decimal 
point,  but  whose  sunny  souls  and  splen- 
did lives  entitle  them  to  a  high  place 
on  the  world's  honor-roll!  Let  us  not, 
however,  drop  into  the  easy  error  of 
assuming  that  Priscilla,  if  made  of  the 
same  stuff  as  they,  will  be  the  worse 
for  an  education  which  will  empower 
her  to  begin  her  lifework  where  theirs 
has  ended. 

It  is  possible  that  Priscilla  may  take 
longer  about  making  up  her  mind  to 
marry  than  her  sisters  did.  She  may 
not  draw  any  better  prize  in  the  lottery 
than  either  of  them,  but  I'll  venture 
to  say  that  she  will  be  able  to  analyze 
more  clearly  the  considerations  which 
govern  her  in  holding  out  till  she  is 
sure.  On  his  part,  her  future  husband 
will  not  choose  her,  consciously  at 
least,  for  her  'intellectual  companion- 
ship ' ;  if  that  is  his  desideratum,  he  will 
find  it  cheaper  to  marry  a  Carnegie 
Library  than  a  woman.  I  will  not  deny 
that  her  cultivated  responsiveness  may 
add  greatly  to  her  attractions.  But 
what  will  happen  to  this  young  man 
is  what  happens  to  most  of  us  male 
creatures:  he  will  conclude  one  day 
that  Priscilla  is  the  only  girl  he  knows 
with  whom  he  would  like  to  spend  the 
rest  of  his  life,  and  he  will  tell  her  so, 
in  phrases  so  far  from  intellectual  that 
they  would  n't  parse.  If  such  things, 
my  friends,  were  of  the  mind  and 
not  the  heart,  those  clever  old  Greeks 
would  have  clad  Minerva  in  a  pair  of 


770 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  PRISCILLA 


infantile  wings  and  armed  her  with  a 
bow-and-arrow. 

Sarah  and  Emily  are  good  house- 
keepers, and  understand  the  art  of  mak- 
ing a  modicum  of  the  world's  wealth 
go  a  long  way.  There  is  no  reason  why 
Priscilla  should  not  do  as  well  as  they, 
and  perhaps  with  less  expenditure  of  ef- 
fort. She  may  not  be  so  ready  to  accept 
advice  or  the  reported  experience  of 
others,  until  she  has  got  at  the  under- 
lying principle  involved  and  assured 
herself  that  it  is  sound;  but,  once  con- 
vinced to  the  point  of  trying  a  plan, 
she  will  keep  turning  it  over  in  her  mind 
as  she  used  to  turn  her  algebraic  puz- 
zles, adding  and  eliminating  till  she 
has  become  an  inventor  instead  of  a 
mere  learner. 

Her  children  will  not  be  neglected 
like  those  of  the  blue-stocking  in  the 
comic  weeklies,  or  dosed  and  swaddled, 
punished  and  hardened  by  rule  of 
thumb,  as  children  were  in  the  good 
old  times  we  love — to  read  about. 
They  will  draw  out  of  her  all  that  is  in- 
stinctively motherly,  seasoned  with  the 
salt  of  an  enriched  intelligence;  and 
her  discipline  of  them,  like  her  hand- 
ling of  her  servants,  will  command  the 
respect  of  those  on  whom  it  is  exercised 
because  it  will  be  based  on  her  study 
of  the  psychology  of  every  situation 
rather  than  on  its  surface  indications. 

But,  then,  suppose    Priscilla    does 


not  marry?  A  good  many  women  do 
not.  Probably  the  proportion  of  mar- 
riages worthy  the  name  would  be 
found,  if  we  could  make  an  accurate 
census,  as  large  among  college  women 
as  among  others.  It  is  not  a  college 
course  that  takes  a  woman  out  of  the 
marrying  class,  but  something  with 
which  her  education  has  rarely  any- 
thing to  do  —  native  traits,  or  domes- 
tic responsibilities,  or  the  lack  of  a  call- 
ing for  matrimony,  or  accident,  or  any 
of  a  thousand  things  which  might  have 
diverted  the  current  of  your  career  and 
mine  without  our  voluntary  complic- 
ity. In  that  event  you  will  find,  dear 
papa  and  mamma,  that  you  have  in 
your  daughter  no  dead  weight  to  carry. 
Whatever  she  is  not,  you  may  be  as- 
sured of  her  being  a  busy  woman,  and 
of  her  putting  her  full  strength  and  a 
brave  spirit  into  the  work  to  which  she 
settles  down.  Though  a  home  of  her 
own  may  have  been  the  centre  of  your 
ideal  career  for  her,  she  will  make  a  not 
less  important  success  in  yours;  or,  if 
her  interests  take  her  elsewhere,  in  the 
activities  of  her  chosen  field.  At  any 
rate,  you  will  have  given  her  the  chance 
to  live  her  own  life,  and  on  the  highest 
plane  accessible  to  her;  and  the  solu- 
tion of  Priscilla's  problem  need  not  be 
the  less  complete  because  the  road  to 
the  result  is  not  the  one  you  first  sur- 
veyed. 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE   GARDEN 


BY   ELIZABETH    COOLIDGE 


LATE  in  life  I  have  come  into  an  ex- 
perience which  is  to  me  a  very  new 
and  fundamental  one,  although  doubt- 
less trite  enough  to  many  of  my  sisters. 
Advisedly  I  call  them  sisters,  for  my 
new  experience  is  nothing  less  than  the 
joining  of  a  sisterhood,  —  the  Order 
of  the  Garden.  I  hesitate  to  speak  of 
gardens,  well  appreciating  the  strain 
that  has  already  been  put  upon  the 
reading  public  by  the  constantly  in- 
creasing body  of  gardening-authors. 
For  years  I  was  myself  a  member  of 
that  public,  and  vividly  enough  I  re- 
member my  own  unsympathetic  state 
of  mind  at  the  time.  But  I  now  live  in 
the  country;  my  home  demands  the 
ornament  of  a  garden,  and  my  name  is 
Elizabeth.  These  facts  have  proven'too 
compelling  for  me,  and  I  have  indeed 
joined  the  Order  of  the  Garden. 

The  patience  which  to-day  you  are 
putting  at  my  disposal,  however,  I 
should  not  abuse  by  delivering  a  tech- 
nical horticultural  treatise,  even  were 
such  a  feat  an  intellectual  possibility 
on  my  part.  Fascinated  as  I  myself 
have  been  by  the  'cultural  notes'  of  the 
nurserymen's  catalogues,  and  credu- 
lously as  I  have  gloated  over  their  im- 
possibly illustrated  wonders,  I  think 
it  well,  nevertheless,  at  once  to  assure 
my  listeners  that  my  enthusiasm  is 
as  yet  purely  visionary,  and  that  the 
garden  I  speak  of  consists  to-day  of 
nothing  but  a  few  hundred  feet  of 
earth,  buried  under  tons  of  mountain 
snow;  and  of  a  pile  of  text-books,  al- 
manacs, manuals,  seed-lists,  drawings, 
and  charts,  which  represent  to  me  a 


Great  Cause.  In  short,  it  must  remain, 
until  planting-time,  purely  a  Mind- 
Garden,  —  a  hot-bed  of  Ideas,  —  one 
of  those  Eternal  Values  to  which  I  have 
only  recently  given  my  assent. 

As  such,  it  is  to  me  a  fresh  testimony 
to  Truth  and  Beauty;  it  is  a  vehicle  of 
future  Perfection.  Existing  until  spring 
merely  as  an  ideal,  nothing  is  impos- 
sible to  it.  No  beauty  of  color-scheme 
but  may  be  mapped  out  in  its  plan; 
no  bewildering  profusion  and  length 
of  bloom  that  cannot  be  entered  upon 
its  charts,  assigned  a  certain  number 
of  square  feet  of  soil  (scale,  ten  feet  to 
an  inch),  or  alphabetically  listed  in  my 
seedling  mail-orders.  To  me,  at  pre- 
sent, it  is  perfectly  logical  to  assume 
the  ownership  of  the  most  beautiful 
garden  in  Berkshire.  Everything  lovely 
can  be  made  (on  paper)  to  agree  with 
everything  practical,  in  a  marvelous 
synthesis  of  horticultural  beauty. 

I  almost  dread  to  plant  my  little 
Garden  of  Eden;  the  entire  authority 
which  I  now  exercise  over  its  every  de- 
tail (on  paper,  again)  will,  I  fear,  but  ill 
fit  me  to  deal  with  the  stubborn  self- 
assertion  of  a  firmly-rooted  plant,  vig- 
orously engaged  in  its  individual  strug- 
gle for  life.  It  is  one  thing  to  wipe  out, 
with  a  ruthless  hand,  a  border  of 
pansies  in  a  chart,  and  firmly  to  replace 
it  by  a  border  of  candytuft,  in  order  to 
balance  my  purples  and  whites;  it  may 
be  a  very  different  matter  to  discipline 
a  purple  pansy  that  insists  on  being 
yellow,  or  to  coerce  a  bed  of  hyacinths 
to  stop  blooming  in  time  to  let  me  put 
into  the  same  bed  my  verbena  seed- 

771 


772 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE  GARDEN 


lings,  while  they  are  still  amenable  to 
transplantation.  That  is  why  this  period 
of  idealism  is  so  glorious.  With  time 
and  enthusiasm,  almost  any  desirable 
fact  can  be  verified  by  some  authority 
or  other,  and  theory  can  be  adjusted  to 
fit  the  most  beautiful  garden-scheme  in 
the  world.  At  all  events,  such  a  one  I 
mean  to  enjoy,  up  to  the  very  moment 
of  committing  my  precious  seeds  to 
the  earth. 

My  novitiate  in  the  Order  of  the 
Garden  has  been  to  me  an  experience 
of  mental,  moral,  and  spiritual  discip- 
line; in  order  to  become  worthy  to  en- 
ter that  sisterhood,  I  have  found  my 
self  undergoing  the  education  of  almost 
all  the  faculties  that  I  have,  and  the  de- 
velopment of  others  that  were,  to  say 
the  least,  very,  very  latent.  Perhaps 
you  will  pardon  the  personality  of  my 
topic  if,  instead  of  describing  to  you 
(as  I  should  adore  to  do)  the  imman- 
ent glories  of  my  future  phlox,  or  the 
ravishing  combination  of  my  hypothet- 
ical white  lilies  with  my  potential  blue 
delphiniums,  I  tell  you  of  the  surpris- 
ing crops  of  a  different  nature  which 
my  garden  has  already  produced  in  my 
character. 

Blooming  beside  the  asters  and  holly- 
hocks of  my  imagination,  I  have  dis- 
covered the  shoots  of  many  spiritual 
perennials  which  I  had  not  deemed 
essential  to  a  well-planned  hardy  bor- 
der. I  have  found  it  necessary  to  in- 
clude these,  one  by  one,  in  my  group- 
ing; to  foster  their  culture  and  provide 
them  with  nourishment,  in  order  that 
I  might  the  better  understand  their 
kinship  to  other  varieties  of  more  con- 
crete 'habit.' 

Thus,  I  have  discovered  that  one 
of  the  most  invaluable  backgrounds  to 
a  good  garden  is  a  mixed  growth  of 
Enthusiasm  and  Patience.  The  soil 
and  climate  of  my  temperament  have 
ever  been  friendly  to  the  former,  so  it 
has  not  been  at  all  difficult  to  sow  the 


seeds  and  raise  a  large  bed  of  Enthusi- 
asm. Indeed,  I  soon  found  that  the 
crop  needed  a  decided  thinning-out  if 
space  were  to  be  left  for  anything  else, 
and  that  a  mixture  of  the  blooms  of 
Patience  would  be  a  very  pleasant  re- 
lief to  the  eye.  This  latter  culture  has 
involved  a  great  deal  of  effort.  Pa- 
tience is  an  exotic  plant  in  my  soul; 
much  cultivation  and  weeding,  careful 
mulching  and  pinching  back  have  been 
necessary  in  order  to  induce  it  to  grow; 
but  when  I  found  how  much  more  love- 
ly my  beautiful  flower-beds  would  be 
if  set  off  against  them,  I  determined  to 
coax  the  tender  young  Patience-plants 
into  the  semblance  of  a  sturdy  growth, 
and  the  mixture  with  Enthusiasm 
proved  very  helpful  to  both. 

Prudence,  too,  I  found  it  wise  to  add 
as  an  edging;  without  it  I  might  have 
been  tempted,  by  the  alluring  advertise- 
ments I  saw,  to  experiment  with  totally 
impracticable  and  very  strange  novel- 
ties indeed.  Dimorphotheca  aurantiaca, 
'a  rare  and  showy  annual  from  South 
Africa';  eryngium  amethystium,  'fine 
for  winter  bouquets';  or  cyperus  ar- 
temifolius,  'excellent  for  growing  in 
water  and  damp  spots  '  (my  garden 
being  designed  for  the  sunny  slope  of 
a  hill!),  would,  but  for  the  Prudence, 
probably  have  attracted  me  by  their 
unusual  merits.  'Pocket-like  flowers' 
and  '  spiny  foliage '  would  have  sounded 
irresistibly  interesting;  and  the  very 
superlativeness  of  such  names  as  heli- 
chrysum  monstrosum,  gomphrena  su- 
perba,  kermesina  splendens,  or  celosia 
plumosa  thompsonii  magnified,  would 
have  exercised  a  fatal  fascination  upon 
my  imagination.  But  having  planted 
my  Prudence,  I  chose  to  go  with  it  a 
selection  of  pinks  and  poppies  and 
petunias  and  pansies,  which  will  bloom 
anywhere  and  involve  no  risk. 

I  never  knew,  before  I  had  this  mind- 
garden,  that  the  pursuit  of  horticul- 
ture, even  in  the  most  amateurish  way, 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE  GARDEN 


773 


even,  I  might  say,  in  a  purely  abstract 
way,  was  a  tremendous  stimulus  to  the 
cardinal  virtues  of  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity.  Pray  how  is  one  to  put  one's 
trust  in  the  seed-catalogues  (which 
one's  friends  unanimously  declare  to 
be  mendacious);  or  to  glow  over  pic- 
tures and  descriptions  that  one  knows 
to  be  romance;  or  actually  to  write 
out  money-orders  with  hands  trembling 
in  eagerness,  money-orders  for  packets 
and  ounces  and  dozens  and  hundreds, 
—  without  faith?  Faith  in  man,  faith 
in  Nature,  faith  in  seeds,  and  faith  in 
print?  Hope,  too,  receives  the  same 
vivifying  stimulus;  and  Charity,  most 
of  all,  is  necessary  if  one  would  plan  a 
pretty  garden ;  the  charity  that  belie v- 
eth  all  things  and  hopeth  all  things, 
and  must  be  ready  to  endure  and  for- 
give all  things,  when  Nature  and  the 
Garden  take  things  into  their  own 
control.  Without  charity  for  the  mis- 
informing guides  I  have  consulted,  and 
still  more  charity  for  my  own  invin- 
cible and  happy  credulity,  I  should  not 
dare  to  face  the  failures  of  next  sum- 
mer; but  with  charity,  I  go  gladly  for- 
ward, feeling  that  to  seek  and  learn 
the  truth  about  my  own  dear  garden 
will  be  to  me  a  precious  soul-experi- 
ence, even  though  the  most  conspicu- 
ous truths  of  all  should  prove  to  be  the 
mistakes. 

The  history  of  my  paper-garden 
runs  thus.  Duly  incorporated  into  a 
central  scheme  for  the  creation  of  a 
new  home,  —  thrown  in,  as  it  were, 
with  the  general  outlay  of  plans  for  the 
house,  the  driveways,  the  fences,  the 
garage,  the  planting  of  thickets,  the 
grading  and  drainage  of  the  land,  and 
the  general  overhauling  of  old  neglected 
acres,  —  came  from  the  hands  of  the 
architects  the  casual  drawing  of  a  little 
formal  flower-garden.  It  was  brightly 
colored  with  chalks  and  its  delicate 
pencilings  showed  forth  charming  pos- 
sibilities of  arbor  and  bench,  pool  and 


pergola.  But  it  had  to  be  laid  away  in 
our  pigeon-hole  of  'perhapses'  and 
'  some-days '  until  one  year  should  have 
completed  the  roadways,  another  the 
vegetable  garden,  another  the  miles  of 
fence,  and  another  the  out-buildings. 
Once  in  every  six  months,  or  there- 
abouts, it  was  taken  out  of  the  pigeon- 
hole and  affectionately  regarded  as  the 
promise  of  a  vague  future  happiness; 
or  its  destined  role  in  the  general 
scheme  was  explained  to  an  interested 
friend,  much  as  one  might  explain  the 
topography  of  Carcassonne.  But  then 
it  was  put  back  again,  among  the  other 
perhapses,  and  we  went  on  with  the 
fence. 

Last  October,  however,  when  we 
had  planted  the  last  of  dozens  of  small 
trees  between  our  windows  and  a  reek- 
ing brewery  chimney,  we  realized  that 
most  of  the  really  necessary  perhapses 
had  come  true;  that  the  some-days  had 
gone  by,  adding  one  touch  to  another, 
until  at  last  the  Garden  Some-day 
stood  at  our  threshold  with  the  allur- 
ing crayon  plan  in  its  hand.  We  recog- 
nized that  instead  of  a  paper  Perhaps 
it  might  become  a  fragrant,  blooming 
Certainty.  Joyfully  we  looked  our 
happiness  in  the  face,  and,  with  the 
intrepidity  of  ignorance,  prepared  to 
lay  the  garden  out  immediately,  and 
to  plant  it  in  the  spring.  As  usual,  I 
decided  to  do  the  deciding.  (If  I 
were  writing  in  the  popular  garden- 
author  idiom  I  should  label  the  other 
members  of  my  family  in  some  such 
way  as  this,  —  the  Man  of  Trustful- 
ness, or  the  Youth  of  Reposefulness; 
indicating  that  they  were  the  ones  to 
regard  and  admire,  I  the  one  to  do  and 
to  dare;  but  I  prefer  to  summarize  our 
case  by  repeating  that  I,  as  usual,  de- 
cided to  do  the  deciding.)  So  I  began 
to  map  out  the  beds  as  they  were  de- 
signed to  lie,  in  front  of  our  south  ter- 
race, allowing  the  yellow  chalk-marks 
to  indicate  yellow  lilies;  the  blue  spots, 


774 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE  GARDEN 


canterbury-bells;  and  the  pink  patches, 
poppies  and  hollyhocks. 

Here  began  the  first  term  in  my  new 
course  of  education.  The  flower-beds 
showed  such  a  marked  inclination  to 
lay  themselves  out  that,  in  order  to 
get  the  paths  in  the  middle,  the  grass- 
plots  of  equal  size,  and  the  beds  run- 
ning at  right  angles  and  parallel  to  the 
house,  I  was  obliged  to  grope  my  way 
fumblingly  back  to  the  rudiments  of 
geometry  and  arithmetic.  To  what  I 
had  imagined  I  could  do  in  a  few  hours, 
I  devoted  several  days,  growing  ever 
more  enthusiastic  as  I  noted  the  transi- 
tion from  pencil-marks  to  clothes-lines, 
from  clothes-lines  to  rows  of  sod,  and 
from  these  to  actual  flower-beds  in  the 
solid  earth. 

Meantime,  when  wind  and  labor  and 
happiness  had  tired  me  to  the  point 
of  a  retreat  indoors,  I  sat  down  to  make 
out  a  list  of  plants  which  should  carry 
out  the  promise  of  the  colored  chalks, 
for  I  had  been  told  that  it  was  well  to 
order  early,  against  the  first  spring 
warmth  and  rains. 

I  selected  blue  canterbury-bells  to 
fill  in  a  bed  which  was  visible  from  my 
favorite  sofa;  and  here  began  my  re- 
polishing  of  another  branch  of  mathe- 
matics,—  algebra:  to  let  x  represent 
the  square  space  to  be  filled,  and  y  the 
size  of  a  canterbury-bell,  and  find  z, 
the  number  of  plants  I  should  need, 
—  knowing  absolutely  nothing  of  can- 
terbury-bells, except  that  my  friend's 
vases  of  them  had  enchanted  me,  and 
that  I  had  been  the  recipient  of  a 
beautiful  blue  bunch  one  day  last 
April,  —  or  was  it  October?  I  remem- 
bered that  they  illumined  my  blue 
dining-room  upon  the  occasion  of  a 
luncheon-party;  and  by  that  token  I 
knew  that  it  must  have  been  in  June. 
But  perhaps  they  had  come  out  of  a 
greenhouse? 

I  realized  that  I  must  really  inform 
myself  about  these  flowers.  To  that 


end  I  looked  up  some  old  and  slight- 
ed seed-catalogues  and  began  my 
researches.  With  shame  I  now  recall 
the  depths  of  ignorance,  in  spite  of 
which  I  gayly  undertook  the  disposi- 
tion of  my  garden  space.  Why!  I 
could  not  even  find  the  canterbury- 
bells  until  I  stumbled  upon  a  prepos- 
terous lithograph  of  their  familiar 
faces,  and  through  this  clue  discovered 
them  to  be  campanula?.  So  Latin 
was  to  be  added  to  my  curriculum!  My 
pretty  bouquets  of  pinks  and  baby's- 
breath  were  henceforth  to  be  gathered 
from  beds  of  dianthi  and  gypsophilcs; 
my  daisies  and  lilies  became  bunches  of 
bellis  perennis  and  of  longiflori  rubri; 
a  double  flower  claimed  the  adjective 
plenissimum,  and  the  colors  changed 
from  blue  and  white  and  pink  to  ceru- 
leum,  album,  roseum.  It  was  all  very 
interesting;  soon  my  tired  sense  of 
humor  began  to  be  roused.  I  found 
myself  laughing  at  the  mixed  assembly 
who  had  stood  godfathers  to  my  plants 
—  especially  the  Latinized  Irishmen, 
Scotchmen  and  Germans;  the  O'Brieni, 
the  MacArthuri,  the  Kuhli,  the  Hoop- 
esi,  the  Smalli,  the  Shorti.  I  began  to 
think  of  my  dearest  friends  as  Jonesi, 
Browni,  and  Dickensonii. 

I  felt  as  I  used  to  feel  when  I  and 
the  other  small  girls  in  the  neighbor- 
hood indulged  in  what  was  known 
to  us  as  'pig-Latin.'  And  when,  at 
night,  my  overcharged  brain  attempt- 
ed to  sleep,  I  fancied  myself  to  be 
Ophelia,  distractedly  scattering  my 
treasures  before  the  Danish  monarchs 
and  singing,  'There's  rosmarinus  offici- 
nalis,  that's  for  remembrance;  pray 
you,  love,  remember:  and  there  is 
viola  lutea  splendens,  that 's  for  thoughts 
.  .  .  There's  phceniculum  vulgare  for 
you,  and  aquilegice  ccerulece  hybridas; 
there's  thalictrum  paniculatum;  .  .  . 
you  must  wear  your  thalictra  with  a 
difference.  There's  an  arctotis  grandis; 
I  would  give  you  some  viola  odoratce, 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE  GARDEN 


775 


but  they  withered  all  when  my  father 
died.'  Poor  Hamlet  and  his  poor  crazy 
love!  What  might  not  a  Berkshire 
garden  have  done  for  them! 

But  further  in  regard  to  my  can- 
terbury-bells. I  think  I  can  no  more 
vividly  picture  to  you  my  complete 
horticultural  ignorance  than  by  telling 
you  that  I  used  often  to  wonder  what 
there  was  to  be  done  in  a  garden  in  the 
autumn;  was  not  the  out-of-door  period 
almost  over?  The  astonishing  informa- 
tion that  my  pretty  campanidce  should 
have  been  planted  early  in  October  (and 
then  not  by  seeds,  but  with  well-started 
little  plants)  was  somewhat  disquiet- 
ing, as  it  was  already  the  middle  of 
that  month,  and  the  ground  was  not 
even  ready.  I  had  been  supposing  that 
all  that  was  necessary  was  to  deposit 
my  seeds  next  April,  and  to  pick  my 
flowers  next  June;  whereas  they  should 
have  been  started  at  least  three  months 
ago!  My  disappointment  would  have 
been  very  great  had  I  not  found  com- 
fort in  my  catalogues,  which  assured 
me  that  the  nurserymen  had  previous- 
ly dealt  with  unprepared  amateurs,  and 
had  raised,  for  my  benefit  apparently, 
young  plants  all  ready  for  their  second 
season  of  existence. 

In  determining  not  to  be  caught  un- 
awares again,  I  acquired  a  new  sense  of 
the  value  of  Foresight,  a  virtue  which 
I  had  hitherto  somewhat  underprized, 
along  with  thrift  and  caution,  as  being 
of  too  utilitarian  a  nature  to  be  strictly 
beautiful  or  noble.  Spontaneity  is  to  me 
so  much  more  charming,  always,  than 
calculation !  Generosity  so  much  more 
lovable  than  prudence!  But  my  little 
prospective  blue-bells  were  teaching  me 
many  things,  and  this  was  one  of  their 
most  emphatic  lessons,  —  that  fore- 
sight is  morally  and  aesthetically  more 
dependable  than  impulse;  and  that 
painstaking  may  be  duller  than  ardor, 
but  that  it  produces  more  and  longer 
bloom. 


The  moral  course  of  discipline  thus 
connected  with  my  novitiate  ran  side 
by  side  with  the  mental.  While  Pa- 
tience, Prudence,  Foresight,  Faith, 
Hope,  and  Charity  had  all  been  pressed 
into  the  service  of  my  future  garden,  I 
had  been  reviving  at  the  same  time  my 
disused  talents  for  Arithmetic,  Geo- 
metry, Algebra,  and  Latin.  Now  it  be- 
came necessary  to  take  up  Chemistry 
and  Climatology  in  order  that  my  little 
seedlings  might  have  the  proper  kind 
of  soil,  and  that  they  should  be  chosen 
with  regard  to  the  mountain-climate 
which  was  their  destined  environment. 
The  subject  of  fertilizers  (who  would 
ever  have  thought  it!)  became  to  me 
an  engrossing  fad.  My  sisters  of  the 
Order,  who  seem  to  possess  an  a  priori 
knowledge  of  the  proper  proportion 
of  sand  and  leaf-mould,  of  sunshine 
and  shade,  of  dampness  and  dryness, 
requisite  to  the  needs  of  their  various 
gardens,  can  hardly  imagine  the  re- 
assurance which  I  found  in  the  state- 
ment that  such  and  such  an  enticing 
plant  was ' perfectly  hardy  in  any  soil'; 
or  my  discouragement  in  learning  that 
I  had  selected  an  alluring  variety 
which  could  thrive  only  in  the  South- 
ern States.  A  new  world  of  unheard- 
of  fascinations  was  opened  up  to  me 
through  the  insidious  pages  of  those 
seedmen's  lists! 

As  an  aid  to  the  assimilation  and 
quick  application  of  so  much  undi- 
gested and  recent  information,  I  fin- 
ally drew  up  a  series  of  colored  maps 
and  tables;  for  the  thing  was  growing 
so  complicated  to  my  mental  grasp  that 
I  needed  visual  assistance  in  classifying 
the  colors,  heights,  periods  of  bloom, 
lengths  of  life,  and  methods  of  culture, 
of  my  prospective  garden-products. 
To  verify  the  conflicting  statements  of 
different  text-books,  to  tabulate  this 
mass  of  contradictory  statistics,  and 
then  to  draw  and  color  the  plans  and 
order  the  seeds,  —  for  these  labors  all 


776 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE  GARDEN 


my  faculties  were  marshaled  into  serv- 
ice :  imagination  and  business  acumen, 
technique,  and  creative  impulse. 

My  charts  demanded  toll  of  Art, 
Science,  and  Philosophy,  with  an  un- 
compromising peremptoriness  that  no 
live  garden  would  ever  inflict.  One 
little  growing  plant  that  fails  to  bloom 
cannot  have  much  significance  in  a  big 
flower-bed;  but  one  little  error  in  the 
reckoning  of  its  distance  apart  from 
its  neighbors  may  make  a  difference  of 
hundreds  of  plants  and  thousands  of 
blossoms.  One  small  discrepancy  in 
the  statistics  of  the  blooming  period 
of  some  particular  plant,  upon  which 
one  has  depended  to  supply  a  pink 
patch  in  an  otherwise  colorless  bed,  — 
say  the  tulip  bed  after  June,  —  may 
give  rise  to  an  elaborate  revision  of 
the  whole  color  scheme,  when,  for  in- 
stance, one  textbook  tells  you  that  it 
blooms  all  summer,  and  another  that  it 
blooms  from  July  sixteenth  to  August 
twelfth. 

But,  close  as  my  concentration  was 
obliged  to  be,  I  felt  that  it  was  good  for 
my  relaxed  mind.  Even  if  to-day  I  did 
not  confidently  hope  to  see  my  dear 
posies  where  I  now  see  but  a  water- 
color  drawing,  I  should  thank  them  (or 
my  visions  of  them)  for  the  beneficial 
discipline  which  my  mind  and  heart 
have  undergone  in  their  imaginary 
behalf. 

My  acquaintance  with  flowers,  hith- 
erto, has  been  mainly  conducted 
through  the  medium  of  the  botanist  or 
the  florist;  as  though  one  should  seek 
to  acquire  a  pleasant  circle  of  friends 
by  studying  their  physiology  and  ana- 
tomy, or  by  visiting  an  ethnological 
exhibit!  I  intend  henceforth  to  make 
friends  with  my  family  of  plants,  and 
am  already  taking  much  delight  in 
learning  to  speak  the  language  of  their 
domestic  life.  Certain  words  and 
phrases  which  I  have  but  recently 
heard  or  understood  I  now  can  never 


speak  without  an  exultant  feeling  of  in- 
timacy which  belongs  to  the  inner  cir- 
cles of  the  Order  of  the  Garden.  Such  a 
term  is  'mulch,'  which  seems  to  me  to 
signify  a  sort  of  poultice;  another  is 
'pinching  back';  still  another  is  'a 
habit  of  growth.' 

According  to  the  dictum  of  modern 
analysis,  it  is  habit  of  growth  that  actu- 
ally makes  a  personality;  our  habits  lay 
the  very  corner-stone  of  our  mental, 
moral,  and  physical  selves;  so  that  it 
would  be  quite  justifiably  profound  to 
say,  'by  men's  habits  shall  ye  know 
them.'  As,  in  my  researches,  I  was 
constantly  meeting  the  application  to 
plant-life  of  this  term  'habit,'  I  per- 
ceived that  a  very  nice  appreciation 
of  values  might  be  displayed  in  the 
choice  of  the  plants  which  one  is  think- 
ing of  introducing  into  one's  own  gar- 
den. This  choice  involves  the  impart- 
ing, or  the  not  imparting,  of  a  certain 
moral  tone  to  the  garden.  A  well- 
defined  individuality  seems  to  inhere 
in  a  plant  which  is  described  as  'very 
dwarf  in  habit.'  When  I  remember 
the  pettiness,  the  closeness  to  earthy 
things,  the  low  spiritual  stature,  that 
go  with  a  dwarf  habit  of  mind  outside 
our  flower-gardens,  I  think  I  will  not 
have,  in  my  own,  very  many  plants  of 
that  kind.  Then  I  think  of  the  'dense, 
bushy  habit'  of  certain  other  people; 
the  'spreading'  habit,  the  'trailing, 
drooping'  habit,  and  even  the  'weep- 
ing' habit;  and  turn  instinctively 
toward  the  plants  whose  habits  are  said 
to  be  'branching  and  free,'  'stately,' 
'erect,'  'feathery  and  graceful,'  or 
'neat  and  compact';  realizing  that  one 
flower  differeth  in  glory  from  another 
even  as  do  one's  other  friends;  and  that 
in  the  garden  of  plants,  as  in  the  garden 
of  Life,  one  may  be  fastidious  without 
learning  to  be  unkind. 

There  are  also  other  traits  in  plants 
which,  although  they  may  not  exactly 
have  a  moral  bearing  upon  our  regard 


THE  ORDER  OF  THE  GARDEN 


777 


for  them,  may,  nevertheless,  remind 
us  of  secret  affinities  or  exasperations 
existing  between  us  and  our  fellow- 
perennials.  Do  you  not  feel,  in  regard- 
ing a  seed  which  requires  six  months 
to  germinate  (as  in  the  case  of  certain 
violets),  that  you  have  had  the  same 
sensation  before?  Perhaps  in  the  pre- 
sence of  a  leisurely  friend  whose  irri- 
tating delays  and  procrastinations  are 
always  forgotten  and  atoned  for  by 
the  violet-like  freshness  and  aroma 
of  her  personality?  Or  when  you  are 
told  that  other  seeds,  like  those  of  the 
morning-glory,  will  be  greatly  facili- 
tated and  hastened  in  their  sprouting, 
if  given  a  night's  soaking  in  warm  water, 
do  you  not  recall  a  friend  with  symp- 
toms? 

Do  not  the  splendid  varieties  of 
poppies  and  larkspur  labeled  '  hybrid  ' 
and  glowing  among  their  aristocratic, 
but  uninteresting,  relatives  of  purer 
descent,  remind  you  of  a  glorious  west- 
ern girl  in  Boston?  And  by  the  habit, 
color,  perfume,  and  generosity  of 
bloom,  in  fact,  by  all  the  excellences 
of  its  species  which  are  foretold  upon 
its  label,  I  find  much  to  symbolize  the 
best  and  pleasantest  of  American  so- 
ciety, in  a  packet  of  seeds  catalogued 
as  'specially-selected  double-mixed.' 

My  heart  expands  to  meet  the  little 


flowers  that  shall  some  day  bloom  for 
me,  as  I  think  of  all  that  I  want  them 
to  do  for  me.  I  must  be  ambitious  if 
I  am  to  associate  with  their  teeming, 
striving  life;  but  also  very  calm  when 
I  come  into  their  silence,  their  still 
rapture  in  the  hot  sunshine,  their  pa- 
tient endurance  of  drought,  their  quiet, 
steadfast  growth.  They  must  free  me 
from  envy  if  my  neighbor's  garden 
outshines  mine;  when  their  own  su- 
periority gladdens  my  eyes,  they  must 
make  me  very  magnanimous;  and 
I  must  be  tender  and  helpful  toward 
their  struggles  and  weakness.  Freely 
they  will  have  received  their  bounty 
from  sun  and  wind  and  bee  and  bird; 
freely  they  will  spill  their  perfume  for 
me,  their  only  rivalry  lying  in  their 
endeavor  to  be  the  more  alive,  the 
more  abundant,  the  more  responsive, 
to  the  universal  life  about  them.  So 
they  must  make  me  very  generous. 
I  want  them,  too,  to  bring  me  their 
own  health  of  soul  and  body;  to  teach 
me  to  love  their  unconscious,  open- 
air  freedom,  their  joy  in  the  common 
soil  and  the  skyward  gaze  of  their  faces. 
Let  their  honest  clamor  for  light  and 
warmth  teach  me  to  love  the  vivid, 
innocent  life  of  the  senses.  Let  my 
imagination  see  in  them  the  poetry 
and  religion  of  the  summer  world. 


LEE  AND  JACKSON 


BY  GAMALIEL   BRADFORD,   JR. 


JACKSON  was  a  born  fighter.  In  his 
youth  he  fought  poverty.  He  fought 
for  an  education  at  West  Point.  There 
he  fought  his  way  through  against  pre- 
judice and  every  disadvantage.  Fight- 
ing in  Mexico  he  thoroughly  enjoyed 
himself.  As  a  professor  at  the  Virginia 
Military  Institute  he  probably  did  not. 
When  the  war  came,  it  was  a  godsend 
to  him;  and  he  fought  with  every  nerve 
in  his  body  till  he  fell,  shot  by  his  own 
soldiers,  at  Chanceliorsville 

For  purely  intellectual  power  he  does 
not  seem  to  have  been  remarkable. 
He  learned  what  he  set  out  to  learn, 
by  sheer  effort.  What  interested  him 
he  mastered.  Without  doubt  his  rest- 
less, active  mind  would  have  fought 
abstract  problems,  if  it  had  found  no- 
thing else  to  fight.  But  I  do  not  imag- 
ine he  loved  thinking  for  itself,  or  had 
the  calm  breadth  to  study  imperson- 
ally the  great  questions  of  the  world 
and  flash  sudden,  sharp  illumination 
on  them,  as  did  Napoleon. 

And  Jackson  had  no  personal  charm. 
He  was  courteous,  but  with  a  labored 
courtesy;  he  was  shy,  abrupt,  ungainly, 
forgetful,  and  apt  to  be  withdrawn  into 
himself.  His  fellow  students  admired 
him,  but  shrank  from  him.  His  pupils 
laughed  at  his  odd  ways  and  did  not 
always  profit  by  his  teaching.  This, 
before  his  star  shone  out.  And  it  is 
strange  to  contrast  such  neglect  with 
the  adoration  that  pressed  close  about 
his  later  glory.  In  Martinsburg  the 
ladies  'cut  every  button  off  his  coat, 
commenced  on  his  pants,  and  at  one 
time  threatened  to  leave  him  in  the 

778 


uniform  of  a  Georgia  colonel  —  shirt 
collar  and  spurs.'  Nothing  similar  is 
recorded  of  Lee — even  humorously. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that,  though 
unsuccessful  in  general  society,  Jack- 
son lacked  warmth  or  human  kindness. 
He  was  sensitive,  emotional,  suscepti- 
ble. He  felt  the  charm  of  art  in  all 
its  forms.  He  read  Shakespeare,  and 
quoted  him  in  a  military  dispatch,  — 
'we  must  burn  no  more  daylight,'  — 
as  I  cannot  imagine  Lee  doing.  When 
he  was  in  Europe,  he  keenly  enjoyed 
painting,  and  architecture,  and  loved 
to  talk  of  them  after  his  return,  enter- 
taining the  Times  correspondent  with 
a  long  discussion  of  English  cathedrals, 
—  partly,  to  be  sure,  to  avoid  talk  on 
things  military.  When  in  Mexico,  he 
was  charmed  by  the  Mexican  girls,  so 
much  so  that  he  fled  them,  as  Dr. 
Johnson  fled  Garrick's  ballet.  In  his 
youth  he  was  even  a  dancer.  When 
age  and  religion  came  upon  him  he 
used  still  to  indulge,  for  exercise,  in 
an  occasional  polka;  'but,'  as  Mrs. 
Jackson  remarks,  deliciously,  'no  eye 
but  that  of  his  wife  was  ever  permit- 
ted to  witness  this  recreation.'  In  his 
family  he  was  tender,  affectionate,  play- 
ful, sympathetic.  'His  abandon  was 
beautiful  to  see,  provided  there  were 
only  one  or  two  people  to  see  it.' 
His  letters  to  his  wife  are  ardent  and 
devoted,  full  of  an  outpouring  and  self- 
revelation  which  one  never  finds  in  the 
printed  letters  of  Lee. 

In  short,  he  was  a  man  with  a  soul 
of  fire.  Action  was  his  life.  To  do 
something,  to  do  high,  heroic  things, 


LEE  AND  JACKSON 


779 


to  do  them  with  set  lip  and  strained 
nerve  and  fierce  determination  —  to 
him  this  was  all  the  splendor  of  exist- 
ence. In  his  youth  he  had  not  learned 
Latin  well,  and  it  was  questioned 
whether  he  could  do  it  in  age.  He  said 
he  could.  He  was  set  to  teach  matters 
that  were  strange  to  him,  and  some 
doubted  whether  he  could  do  it.  He 
said  he  could.  Extempore  prayer  came 
to  him  with  difficulty,  and  his  pastor 
advised  his  not  attempting  it,  if  he 
could  not  do  it.  He  said  he  could.  'As 
to  the  rest,  I  knew  that  what  I  willed 
to  do,  I  could  do.'  Such  a  statement 
has  its  foolish  side  and  takes  us  back  to 
what  I  said  above  about  Jackson's  in- 
telligence. Pure  intelligence  sees  insur- 
mountable difficulties,  too  many  and 
too  plain.  Jackson,  if  ever  any  man, 
came  near  to  being  pure  will. 

It  seems  that  his  courage,  flawless  as 
it  was,  was  courage  of  will  rather  than 
of  stolid  temperament.  He  visited  the 
hospitals  less  often  than  he  wished, 
because,  he  said,  when  he  was  in  cold 
blood,  his  nerves  could  not  endure  the 
sight  of  wounds  and  torture.  '  It  was 
not  unusual  to  see  him  pale  and  trem- 
bling with  excitement  at  the  firing  of 
the  first  gun  of  an  opening  battle.' 
Yet  his  power  of  concentration  was  so 
enormous  that  when  he  was  thinking 
out  a  military  problem  he  forgot  bul- 
let and  shell  and  wounds  and  death. 
'  This  was  the  true  explanation  of  that 
seeming  recklessness  with  which  he 
sometimes  exposed  himself  on  the  field 
of  battle.' 

Also  he  had  the  magnetic  faculty  of 
extending  to  others  his  own  furious 
determination.  He  could  demand  the 
impossible  of  them  because  he  per- 
formed it  himself.  'Come  on,'  he  cried 
in  Mexico,  'you  see  there  is  no  dan- 
ger.' And  a  shot  passed  between  his 
legs  spread  wide  apart.  His  soldiers 
marched  to  death,  when  he  bade  them. 
What  was  even  worse,  they  marched  at 


the  double  through  Virginia  mud,  with- 
out shoes,  without  food,  without  sleep. 
'  Did  you  order  me  to  advance  over  that 
field,  sir?'  said  an  officer  to  him.  'Yes,' 
said  Jackson.  'Impossible,  sir!  My 
men  will  be  annihilated !  Nothing  can 
live  there!  They  will  be  annihilated!' 
'General,'  said  Jackson,  'I  always  en- 
deavor to  take  care  of  my  wounded 
and  to  bury  my  dead.  You  have  heard 
my  order  —  obey  it.' 

What  was  there  back  of  this  magni- 
ficent, untiring,  inexhaustible  will  and 
energy,  what  long  dream  of  glory, 
what  splendid  hope  of  imperishable 
renown?  Or  was  it  a  blind  energy,  a 
mere  restless  thirst  for  action  and 
adventure,  unceasing,  unquenchable? 
Something  of  the  latter  there  was  in  it 
doubtless,  of  the  love  of  danger  for  its 
pure  nerve-thrill,  its  unrivaled  magic 
of  oblivion.  'Nothing  is  more  certain 
than  that  this  love  of  action,  move- 
ment, danger,  and  adventure,  was  a 
prominent  trait  in  his  organization,' 
says  one  of  his  earlier  biographers.  '  I 
envy  you  men  who  have  been  in  battle. 
How  I  should  like  to  be  in  one  battle,' 
he  remarked  in  Mexico;  and  he  con- 
fessed that  to  be  under  fire  filled  him 
with  a  delicious  excitement. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  far  enough 
from  being  a  mere  common  sworder, 
or  even  the  gay,  careless  fighter  who 
does  the  day's  work  and  never  looks 
beyond  it.  In  his  youth  there  can  be 
no  doubt  that  he  dreamed  dreams  of 
immense  advancement,  of  endless  con- 
quest, of  triumph  and  admiration  and 
success.  During  the  war  some  one  ex- 
pressed the  belief  that  Jackson  was  not 
ambitious.  'Ambitious!'  was  the  an- 
swer. 'He  is  the  most  ambitious  man 
in  the  Confederacy.'  We  have  his  own 
reported  words  for  his  feelings  at  an 
earlier  date.  'The  only  anxiety  I  was 
conscious  of  during  the  engagement 
was  a  fear  lest  I  should  not  meet 
danger  enough  to  make  my  conduct 


780 


LEE  AND  JACKSON 


conspicuous.'  And  again,  'To  his  in- 
timate friend  he  once  remarked  that 
the  officer  should  make  attainment  of 
rank  supreme,  within  honorable  bounds, 
over  every  other  consideration.' 

Very  little  things  often  throw  a  fine 
light  on  character  and  difference  of 
character.  On  one  occasion,  as  the 
troops  were  marching  by,  they  had 
been  forbidden  to  cheer,  lest  the  noise 
might  betray  them  to  the  enemy. 
When  Jackson's  own  brigade  passed 
their  general,  however,  their  enthusi- 
asm was  too  much  for  any  prohibition, 
and  they  cheered  loud  and  long.  Jack- 
son smiled  as  he  listened,  and  turning 
to  those  beside  him,  murmured,  'You 
see,  I  can't  stop  them.'  Whether  Lee 
had  any  ambition  or  not,  it  is  difficult 
to  imagine  him  betrayed  into  such  a 
naive  expression  as  this.  The  smile 
might  have  been  possible  for  him,  the 
words  never. 

So  in  Jackson's  younger  days  his  de- 
vouring ardor  fed  on  worldly  hopes. 
Then  religion  took  possession  of  him, 
not  suddenly,  but  with  a  gradual,  fierce 
encroachment  that  in  the  end  grasped 
every  fibre  of  his  being.  Like  a  very 
similar  nature  in  a  different  sphere, 
John  Donne,  he  examined  all  creeds 
first,  notably  the  Catholic,  but  finally 
settled  in  an  austere  and  sturdy  Cal- 
vinism. Not  that  his  religion  was 
gloomy  or  bitterly  ascetic;  for  it  had 
great  depths  of  love  in  it,  and  sunny 
possibilities  of  joy.  But  it  was  all-ab- 
sorbing, and  he  fought  the  fight  of  God 
with  the  same  fury  that  he  gave  to  the 
battles  of  this  world.  There  must  be 
no  weakness,  no  trifling,  no  inconsist- 
ency. 

'He  weighed  his  lightest  utterance 
in  the  balance  of  the  sanctuary,'  writes 
one  who  knew  him  well.  Christians 
are  enjoined  to  pray.  Therefore  Jack- 
son prayed  always,  even  in  associa- 
tion with  the  lightest  act.  'I  never 
raise  a  glass  of  water  to  my  lips  with- 


out lifting  my  heart  to  God  in  thanks 
and  prayer  for  the  water  of  life.'  They 
must  remember  the  Sabbath  day  to 
keep  it  holy.  Therefore  Jackson  not 
only  refrained  from  writing  letters  on 
Sunday;  he  would  not  read  a  letter  on 
Sunday:  he  even  timed  the  sending  of 
his  own  letters  so  that  they  should  not 
encumber  the  mails  on  Sunday.  It  was 
the  same  with  a  scrupulous  regard  for 
truth.  Every  statement,  even  indif- 
ferent, must  be  exact;  or,  if  inexact, 
corrected.  And  Jackson  walked  a  mile 
in  the  rain  to  set  right  an  error  of  in- 
advertence. 

The  wonder  is  that  a  man  of  such 
temper  accomplished  anything  in  the 
world  at  all.  I  confess  that  I  feel  an 
unsanctified  satisfaction  in  seeing  the 
exigencies  of  war  override  and  wither 
this  dainty  scrupulousness.  It  is  true 
that  they  cannot  do  it  always.  'Had 
I  fought  the  battle  on  Sunday  in- 
stead of  on  Monday  I  fear  our  cause 
would  have  suffered.'  But  then  again, 
the  Puritan  Lee  writes  to  the  Puritan 
Jackson : '  I  had  hoped  her  own  [Mary- 
land's] citizens  would  have  relieved 
us  of  that  question,  and  you  must  en- 
deavor to  give  to  the  course  you  may  find 
it  necessary  to  pursue  the  appearance  of 
its  being  the  act  of  her  own  citizens.' 
How  many  leagues  the  praying  Jack- 
son should  have  walked  in  the  rain  to 
correct  the  fighting  Jackson's  pecadil- 
loes? 

And  now  how  did  Jackson's  ambi- 
tion and  his  religion  keep  house  to- 
gether? His  admirers  maintain  that 
religion  devoured  the  other  motive 
completely.  'Duty  alone  constrained 
him  to  forego  the  happiness  and  com- 
forts of  his  beloved  home  for  the  daily 
hardships  of  a  soldier's  life.'  But  cer- 
tain of  his  reported  words  in  the  very 
closing  scene  make  me  think  that  the 
thirst  for  glory  was  as  ardent  as  ever, 
even  if  it  had  a  little  shifted  its  form. 
'I  would  not  agree  to  the  slightest  di- 


LEE  AND  JACKSON 


781 


minution  of  my  glory  there  [in  heaven], 
no,  not  for  all  the  fame  which  I  have 
acquired  or  shall  ever  win  in  this 
world.'  It  does  not  sound  quite  like 
the  chastened  spirit  of  a  son  of  peace, 
does  it? 

No,  the  early  Jackson  and  the  later 
Jackson  were  the  same  Jackson.  The 
blare  of  trumpets,  the  crash  of  guns, 
the  cheers  of  an  adoring  army,  were 
a  passionate  delight  to  him,  and  would 
have  been  as  long  as  he  walked  this 
fighting  world.  But  that  will,  which  by 
itself  was  mighty  enough,  was  doubled 
and  tripled  in  power  when  it  got  the 
will  of  God  behind  it.  To  gratify  per- 
sonal ambition  the  man  might  have 
hesitated  at  destruction  and  slaughter. 
But  to  do  his  duty,  to  carry  out  the  de- 
signs of  Providence,  that  mission  must 
override  all  obstacles  and  subdue  all 
scruples.  In  face  of  it  human  agony 
counted  simply  as  nothing. 

Henderson,  who  is  reluctant  to  find 
shadows  in  his  idol,  questions  the 
authenticity  of  Jackson's  interview 
with  his  brother-in-law,  as  reported  by 
Mrs.  Jackson ;  but  I  am  perfectly  ready 
to  believe  that  the  hero  of  the  Valley 
declared  for  hoisting  the  black  flag  and 
giving  'no  quarter  to  the  violators  of 
our  homes  and  firesides.'  Certainly  no 
one  denies  that  when  he  was  asked  how 
to  dispose  of  the  overwhelming  num- 
bers of  the  enemy,  his  answer  was, 
'Kill  them,  sir!  kill  every  man!'  And 
again,  when  some  one  deplored  the 
necessity  of  destroying  so  many  brave 
men, ' No,  shoot  them  all;  I  do  not  wish 
them  to  be  brave.' 

Such  a  tremendous  instrument  as 
this  might  have  gone  anywhere  and 
done  anything,  and  if  Jackson  had 
lived,  his  future  defies  prevision.  'No 
man  had  so  magnificent  a  prospect  be- 
fore him  as  General  Jackson,'  wrote 
Lawley,  the  correspondent  of  the  Lon- 
don Times.  'Whether  he  desired  it  or 
not,  he  could  not  have  escaped  being 


Governor  of  Virginia,  and  also,  in  the 
opinion  of  many  competent  judges, 
sooner  or  later  President  of  the  Con- 
federacy.' But  this  regular  method  of 
ascent  would  have  been  slow.  When 
things  went  wrong,  when  politicians 
intrigued  and  triumphed,  when  the 
needs  of  the  army  were  slighted  and 
forgotten  for  petty  jealousies,  Jackson 
would  have  been  just  the  one  to  have 
cried  out,  'Here  is  man's  will,  where  is 
God's  will?'  just  the  one  to  have  felt 
God's  strength  in  his  own  right  arm, 
to  have  purged  war-offices,  and  turned 
out  Congresses,  and  made  incompetent 
presidents  feel  that  they  must  give  up 
to  those  who  saw  more  clearly  and 
judged  more  wisely.  There  would  have 
been  no  selfishness  in  all  this,  no  per- 
sonal ambition,  because  it  would  have 
been  just  doing  the  will  of  God.  And 
I  can  perfectly  imagine  Jackson  riding 
such  a  career,  and  overwhelming  every 
obstacle  in  his  way  except  one  — 
Robert  E.  Lee. 

When  Jackson  and  Lee  first  met  does 
not  appear.  Jackson  said  early  in  the 
war  that  he  had  known  Lee  for  twenty- 
five  years.  They  may  have  seen  some- 
thing of  each  other  in  Mexico.  They 
may  have  seen  something  of  each  other 
in  Virginia  before  the  war.  If  so,  there 
seems  to  be  no  record  of  it.  At  any 
rate,  Jackson  thought  well  of  Lee  from 
the  first,  and  said  of  him  when  he  was 
appointed  to  command  the  Virginia 
forces, '  His  services  I  regard  as  of  more 
value  to  us  than  General  Scott  could 
render  as  a  commander.  ...  It  is 
'  understood  that  General  Lee  is  to  be 
commander-in-chief.  I  regard  him  as  a 
better  officer  than  General  Scott.' 

From  that  beginning  the  lieutenant's 
loyalty  to  his  chief  grew  steadily;  not 
only  his  loyalty,  but  his  personal  ad- 
miration and  affection.  I  like  the  ele- 
mentary expression  of  it,  showing  un- 
consciously Jackson's  sense  of  some  of 
his  own  deficiencies,  in  his  remark  to 


782 


LEE  AND  JACKSON 


McGuire,  after  visiting  Lee  in  the  hos- 
pital: 'General  Lee  is  the  most  perfect 
animal  form  I  ever  saw.'  But  illustra- 
tions on  a  somewhat  broader  plane  are 
abundant  enough.  'General  Lee  has 
always  been  very  kind  to  me  and  I 
thank  him,'  said  Jackson  simply,  as  he 
lay  on  his  death-bed. 

The  enthusiasm  of  that  ardent  nature 
was  ever  ready  to  show  itself  in  an  al- 
most over-zealous  devotion.  Lee  once 
sent  word  that  he  should  be  glad  to 
talk  with  his  subordinate  at  his  con- 
venience on  some  matter  of  no  great 
urgency.  Thereupon  Jackson  instantly 
rode  to  headquarters  through  the  most 
inclement  weather.  When  Lee  express- 
ed surprise  at  seeing  him,  the  other 
answered,  'General  Lee's  lightest  wish 
is  a  supreme  command  to  me,  and  I 
always  take  pleasure  in  prompt  obedi- 
ence.' If  we  consider  what  Jackson's 
nature  was,  it  is  manifest  that  he  gave 
the  highest  possible  proof  of  loyalty, 
when  it  was  suggested  that  he  should 
return  to  an  individual  command  in 
the  Valley,  and  he  answered  that  he 
did  not  desire  it,  but  in  every  way 
preferred  a  subordinate  position  near 
General  Lee. 

Jackson's  personal  affection  for  Lee 
was,  of  course,  intimately  bound  up 
with  confidence  in  his  military  ability. 
Even  in  the  early  days,  when  Jackson 
had  been  in  vain  demanding  reinforce- 
ments and  word  was  brought  of  Lee's 
appointment  to  supreme  command, 
Jackson's  comment  was,  'Well,  ma- 
dam, I  am  reinforced  at  last.'  On  vari- 
ous occasions,  when  others  doubted 
Lee's  judgment  or  questioned  his  de- 
cisions, Jackson  was  entirely  in  agree- 
ment with  his  chief.  For  instance, 
Longstreet  disapproved  Lee's  deter- 
mination to  fight  at  Sharpsburg,  and 
Ropes  and  other  critics  have  since  con- 
demned it.  Jackson,  however,  though 
he  had  no  part  in  it,  gave  it  his  entire 
and  hearty  approval. 


I  do  not  find  anywhere,  even  in  the 
most  private  letters,  a  disposition  in 
Jackson  to  quarrel  with  Lee's  plans  or 
criticize  his  arrangements.  On  the  con- 
trary, when  objections  are  made,  he  is 
ready  to  answer  them,  and  eagerly, 
and  heartily.  '  General  Lee  is  equal  to 
any  emergency  that  may  arise.  I  trust 
implicitly  in  his  great  ability  and  su- 
perior wisdom.' 

Jackson  had  plans  of  his  own  and 
sometimes  talked  of  them.  He  was 
asked  why  he  did  not  urge  them 
upon  Lee.  'I  have  done  so,'  was  his 
answer.  'And  what  does  he  say  to 
them?'  ' He  says  nothing.  But  do  not 
understand  that  I  complain  of  this 
silence;  it  is  proper  that  General  Lee 
should  observe  it.  He  is  wise  and  pru- 
dent. He  feels  that  he  bears  a  fearful 
responsibility  and  he  is  right  in  declin- 
ing a  hasty  expression  of  his  purpose 
to  a  subordinate  like  me.' 

Again,  some  one  found  fault  with 
Lee's  slowness.  Jackson  contradicted 
warmly:  '  General  Lee  is  not  slow.  No 
one  knows  the  weight  upon  his  heart, 
his  great  responsibility.  He  is  com- 
mander-in-chief,  and  he  knows  that  if 
an  army  is  lost,  it  cannot  be  replaced. 
No!  There  may  be  some  persons  whose 
good  opinion  of  me  will  make  them 
attach  some  weight  to  my  views,  and 
if  you  ever  hear  that  said  of  General 
Lee,  I  beg  you  will  contradict  it  in  my 
name.  I  have  known  General  Lee  for 
twenty-five  years;  he  is  cautious;  he 
ought  to  be.  But  he  is  not  slow.'  And 
he  concluded  with  one  of  the  finest  ex- 
pressions of  loyalty  ever  uttered  by  a 
subordinate,  and  such  a  subordinate: 
'  Lee  is  a  phenomenon.  He  is  the  only 
man  I  would  follow  blindfold.' 

After  this,  who  can  question  the  sin- 
cerity of  the  words  spoken  on  his  death- 
bed :  '  Better  that  ten  Jacksons  should 
fall  than  one  Lee ! '  ? 

And  what  did  Lee  think  of  Jackson? 
As  always,  Lee's  judgments  are  more 


LEE  AND  JACKSON 


783 


difficult  to  get  at.  In  spite  of  all  respect 
and  all  affection,  I  cannot  but  think 
that  his  large  humanity  shrank  a  little 
from  Jackson's  ardors.  When  he  told 
a  lady,  with  gentle  playfulness,  that 
General  Jackson,  'who  was  smiling  so 
pleasantly  near  her,  was  the  most  cruel 
and  inhuman  man  she  had  ever  seen/ 
I  have  no  doubt  it  was  ninety-nine 
parts  playfulness,  but  perhaps  there 
was  one  part,  one  little  part,  earnest. 
As  late  as  after  Antietam  Lee's  military 
commendation  of  Jackson  was  very 
restrained,  to  say  the  least.  '  My  opin- 
ion of  the  merits  of  General  Jackson 
has  been  greatly  enhanced  during  this 
expedition.  He  is  true,  honest,  and 
brave,  has  a  single  eye  to  the  good  of 
the  service,  and  spares  no  exertions  to 
accomplish  his  object.'  No  superla- 
tives here.  Sharp  words  of  criticism, 
even,  are  reported,  which,  singular  as 
they  are,  seem  to  come  with  excellent 
authority.  'Jackson  was  by  no  means 
so  rapid  a  marcher  as  Longstreet  and 
had  an  unfortunate  habit  of  never 
being  on  time.' 

Yet  Lee's  deep  affection  for  his  great 
lieutenant  and  perfect  confidence  in 
him  are  beyond  question.  It  has  been 
well  pointed  out  that  this  is  proved 
practically  by  the  fact  that  the  com- 
mander-in-chief  always  himself  re- 
mained with  Longstreet  and  left  Jack- 
son to  operate  independently,  as  if  the 
former  were  more  in  need  of  personal 
supervision.  Lee's  own  written  words 
to  Jackson  are  also  —  for  Lee  —  very 
enthusiastic:  'Your  recent  successes 
have  been  the  cause  of  the  liveliest  joy 
in  this  army  as  well  as  in  the  country. 
The  admiration  excited  by  your  skill 
and  boldness  has  been  constantly  min- 
gled with  solicitude  for  your  situation.' 

Jackson's  wound  and  death  and  the 
realization  of  his  loss  produced  at  a 
later  time  expressions  of  a  warmth  so 
unusual  as  to  be  almost  startling.  'If 
I  had  had  Stonewall  Jackson  at  Gettys- 


burg, I  should  have  won  that  battle.' 
*  Such  an  executive  officer  the  sun  never 
shone  on.  I  have  but  to  show  him  my 
design,  and  I  know  that  if  it  can  be 
done  it  will  be  done.'  The  messages 
sent  to  the  dying  general  are  as  appre- 
ciative as  they  are  tender.  'You  are 
better  off  than  I  am,  for  while  you  have 
only  lost  your  left,  I  have  lost  my  right 
arm.'  'Tell  him  that  I  am  praying  for 
him,  as  I  believe  I  have  never  prayed 
for  myself.'  (Yet  if  the  words  are  cor- 
rectly reported,  note  even  here  the 
most  characteristic  Lee-like  modifica- 
tion, 'I believe.')  And  only  those  who  are 
familiar  with  Lee  can  appreciate  the 
agony  of  the  parting  outcry:  '"Jack- 
son will  not — he  cannot  die!"  Gen- 
eral Lee  exclaimed,  in  a  broken  voice, 
and  waving  every  one  from  him  with 
his  hand,  "he  cannot  die." 

The  study  of  the  practical  military 
relations  of  the  two  great  commanders 
is  of  extreme  interest.  Lee  does  not 
hesitate  to  advise  Jackson  as  freely  as 
he  would  any  other  subordinate.  'It 
was  to  save  you  the  abundance  of  hard 
fighting  that  I  ventured  to  suggest  for 
your  consideration  not  to  attack  the 
enemy's  strong  points,  but  to  turn  his 
positions  at  Warren  ton,  etc.,  so  as  to 
draw  him  out  of  them;  I  would  rather 
you  should  have  easy  fighting  and 
heavy  victories.  I  must  leave  the  mat- 
ter to  your  reflection  and  cool  judg- 
ment.' He  even  frequently  gives  a 
sharp  order  which  approaches  stern- 
ness: 'You  must  use  your  discretion 
and  judgment  in  these  matters,  and  be 
careful  to  husband  the  strength  of  your 
command  as  much  as  possible.'  And 
again:  'Do  not  let  your  troops  run 
down,  if  it  can  possibly  be  avoided  by 
attention  to  their  wants,  comforts,  etc., 
by  their  respective  commanders.  This 
will  require  your  personal  attention.' 

Jackson  seems  usually  to  have  ac- 
cepted all  this  with  unquestioning  sub- 
mission. It  is  true  that  Longstreet  is 


784 


LEE  AND  JACKSON 


said  once  to  have  accused  him  of  dis- 
respect because  he  groaned  audibly  at 
one  of  Lee's  decisions.  But  Longstreet 
was  a  little  too  watchful  for  those 
groans.  Also,  on  one  occasion,  when 
Lee  proposed  some  redistribution  of 
artillery,  Jackson  protested,  rather  for 
his  soldiers  than  for  himself:  'General 
D.  H.  Hill's  artillery  wants  existed  at 
the  time  he  was  assigned  to  my  com- 
mand, and  it  is  hoped  that  artillery 
which  belonged  to  the  Army  of  the 
Valley  will  not  be  taken  to  supply  his 
wants.'  But,  for  the  most  part,  the 
lieutenant  writes  in  the  respectful,  af- 
fectionate, and  trustful  tone  which  he 
adopted  at  the  very  beginning  of  the 
war  and  maintained  until  the  end.  'I 
would  be  more  than  grateful,  could 
you  spare  the  time  for  a  short  visit  here 
to  give  me  the  benefit  of  your  wisdom 
and  experience  in  laying  out  the  works, 
especially  those  on  the  heights.' 

Jackson's  complete  submission  to 
Lee  is  the  more  striking  because,  al- 
though a  theoretical  believer  in  sub- 
ordination, he  was  not  by  nature  pe- 
culiarly adapted  to  working  under  the 
orders  of  others.  Some,  who  knew  him 
well,  have  gone  so  far  as  to  say  that 
'his  genius  never  shone  under  com- 
mand of  another.'  This  is  absurd 
enough  considering  his  later  battles ;  but 
it  seems  to  me  that  some  such  explan- 
ation may  be  sought  for  his  compar- 
ative inefficiency  on  the  Peninsula,  as 
to  which  almost  all  critics  are  agreed. 
'  It  was  physical  exhaustion,'  says 
Dabney.  'It  was  poor  staff  service,' 
says  Henderson.  Is  it  not  possible  that, 
accustomed  hitherto  to  working  with 
an  absolutely  free  hand,  his  very  desire 
to  be  only  an  executive  and  carry  out 
Lee's  orders  may  for  the  time,  to  some 
extent,  have  paralyzed  his  own  initiat- 
ive? 

However  that  may  be,  there  is  no 
doubt  that  Jackson  did  not  take  kindly 
to  dictation  from  Richmond.  It  is  said 


that  on  one  occasion  he  wrote  to  the 
War  Office  requesting  that  he  might 
have  fewer  orders  and  more  men.  It 
is  certain  that  he  complained  bitterly 
to  Lee  of  the  custom  of  sending  him 
officers  without  consulting  him.  'I 
have  had  much  trouble  resulting  from 
incompetent  officers  being  assigned  to 
duty  with  me,  regardless  of  my  wishes. 
Those  who  have  assigned  them  have 
never  taken  the  responsibility  of  in- 
curring the  odium  which  results  from 
such  incompetence.'  And  very  early 
in  his  career  he  had  a  sharp  clash  with 
Secretary  Benjamin  who  had  attempt- 
ed to  interfere  in  the  detail  of  military 
arrangements.  Jackson  sent  in  his  re- 
signation at  once,  explaining  that  his 
services  could  be  of  no  use,  if  he  was 
to  be  hampered  by  remote  and  ill- 
informed  control.  The  fact  of  the  resig- 
nation, which  was  withdrawn  by  the 
kindly  offices  of  Johnston  and  Govern- 
or Letcher,  is  of  less  interest  than 
the  spirit  in  which  Jackson  offered  it. 
When  it  was  represented  to  him  that 
the  Government  had  proceeded  with- 
out understanding  the  circumstances, 
he  replied,  'Certainly  they  have;  but 
they  must  be  taught  not  to  act  so 
hastily  without  a  full  knowledge  of  the 
facts.  I  ca*n  teach  them  this  lesson  now 
by  my  resignation,  and  the  country  will 
be  no  loser  by  it.'  Was  I  wrong  in  say- 
ing that  this  man  would  have  ridden 
over  anything  and  anybody,  if  he  had 
thought  it  his  duty?  Such  summary 
methods  may  have  been  wise,  they  may 
have  been  effective :  they  were  certain- 
ly very  unlike  Lee's. 

Now  let  us  turn  from  Jackson's  su- 
periors to  his  inferiors.  The  common 
soldier  loved  him,  —  not  for  any  jolly 
comradeship,  not  for  any  fascinating 
magnetism  of  personal  charm  or  heroic 
enthusiasm.  He  was  a  hard  taskmas- 
ter, exacting  and  severe.  '  Whatever  of 
personal  magnetism  existed  in  Stone- 
wall Jackson,'  says  his  partial  bio- 


LEE  AND  JACKSON 


785 


grapher, '  found  no  utterance  in  words. 
Whilst  his  soldiers  struggled  painfully 
toward  Romney  in  the  teeth  of  the 
winter  storm,  his  lips  were  never  open- 
ed save  for  sharp  rebuke  or  peremptory 
order.'  But  the  men  had  confidence 
in  him.  He  had  got  them  out  of  many 
a  difficulty,  and  something  in  his  man- 
ner told  them  that  he  would  get  them 
out  of  any  difficulty.  The  sight  of  his 
old  uniform  and  scrawny  sorrel  horse 
stirred  all  their  nerves  and  made  them 
march  and  fight  as  they  could  not  have 
done  for  another  man. 

And  then  they  knew  that  though  he 
was  harsh,  he  was  just.  He  expected 
great  things  of  them,  but  he  would  do 
great  things  for  them.  He  would  slaugh- 
ter them  mercilessly  to  win  a  victory; 
but  when  it  was  won,  he  would  give 
them  the  glory,  under  God,  and  would 
cherish  the  survivors  with  a  parent's 
tenderness.  '  We  do  not  regard  him  as 
a  severe  disciplinarian,'  writes  one  of 
them, '  as  a  politician,  as  a  man  seeking 
popularity  —  but  as  a  Christian,  a 
brave  man  who  appreciates  the  condi- 
tion of  a  common  soldier,  as  a  fatherly 
protector,  as  one  who  endures  all  hard- 
ship in  common  with  his  followers,  who 
never  commands  others  to  face  danger 
without  putting  himself  in  the  van.' 

But  with  his  officers  it  was  somewhat 
different.  They  did  indeed  trust  his 
leadership  and  admire  his  genius.  How 
could  they  help  it?  It  is  said  that  all 
the  staff  officers  of  the  army  liked  him. 
And  Mrs.  Jackson  declares  that  his  own 
staff  were  devoted  to  him,  as  they 
doubtless  were.  Yet  even  she  admits 
that  they  resented  his  rigid  punctuality 
and  early  hours.  And  there  is  no  doubt 
that  in  these  particulars,  and  in  many 
others,  he  asked  all  that  men  were  cap- 
able of  and  sometimes  a  little  more. 
'General  Jackson,'  says  one  of  his 
staff,  'demanded  of  his  subordinates 
implicit  obedience.  He  gave  orders  in 
his  own  peculiar,  terse,  rapid  fashion, 

VOL.  107 -NO.  6 


and  he  did  not  permit  them  to  be  ques- 
tioned.' 

General  Ewell  is  said  to  have  re- 
marked that  he  never  'saw  one  of 
Jackson's  couriers  approach  him  with- 
out expecting  an  order  to  assault  the 
North  Pole.'  On  one  occasion  he  had 
given  his  staff  directions  to  breakfast 
at  dawn,  and  to  be  in  the  saddle  imme- 
diately after.  The  general  appeared  at 
daybreak  —  and  one  officer.  Jackson 
lost  his  temper.  'Major,  how  is  it 
that  this  staff  never  will  be  punctual?' 
When  the  major  attempted  some  apo- 
logy for  the  others,  his  chief  turned  to 
the  servant  in  a  rage:  'Put  back  that 
food  into  the  chest,  have  that  chest  in 
the  wagon,  and  that  wagon  moving  in 
two  minutes.' 

Also  Jackson  had  a  habit  of  keeping 
everything  to  himself.  This  was  doubt- 
less a  great  military  advantage.  It  was 
a  source  of  constant  amusement  to  the 
soldiers,  who  even  joked  their  general 
about  it.  Jackson  met  one  of  them  one 
day  in  some  place  where  he  should  not 
have  been.  '  What  are  you  doing  here? ' 
'I  don't  know.'  —  'Where  do  you  come 
from?'  'I  don't  know.'  —  'What  com- 
mand do  you  belong  to?'  'Idon'tknow.' 
When  asked  the  meaning  of  this  extra- 
ordinary ignorance,  the  man  explained. 
'Orders  were  that  we  should  n't  know 
anything  till  after  the  next  fight.'  Jack- 
son laughed  and  passed  on. 

But  the  officers  did  not  like  it.  Jack- 
son made  his  own  plans,  and  took  care 
of  his  own  responsibilities.  Even  his 
most  trusted  subordinates  were  often 
told  to  go  to  this  or  that  place  with  no 
explanation  of  the  object  of  their  going. 
They  went,  but  they  sometimes  went 
without  enthusiasm.  And  Jackson  was 
no  man  for  councils  of  war.  Others' 
judgment  might  be  as  good  as  his,  but 
only  one  judgment  must  settle  matters, 
and  his  was,  for  the  time,  to  be  that 
one. 

Hence  his  best  officers  fretted,  and  he 


786 


LEE  AND  JACKSON 


quarreled  with  nearly  all  of  them.  And 
when  things  did  not  go  right,  with  him 
it  was  the  guard-house  instantly.  All 
five  regimental  commanders  of  the 
Stonewall  Brigade  were  once  under 
arrest  at  the  same  time.  The  gallant 
Ashby,  just  before  his  last  charge  and 
death,  had  a  sharp  bit  of  friction  with 
his  commander.  When  Gregg  lay  dy- 
ing, he  sent  to  the  general  to  apologize 
for  a  letter  recently  written  'in  which 
he  used  words  that  he  is  now  sorry  for. 
.  .  .  He  hopes  you  will  forgive  him.' 
Jackson  forgave  him  heartily;  but  he 
could  not  have  death-bed  reconcilia- 
tions with  all  of  them. 

In  some  of  these  cases  Lee  was  obliged 
to  interfere,  notably  in  that  of  A.  P. 
Hill.  Hill  was  a  splendid  soldier.  Lee 
loved  him.  By  a  strange  coincidence 
his  name  was  on  the  dying  lips  of  Lee 
and  Jackson  both.  But  he  was  fiery 
and  impetuous,  and  did  not  hesitate  to 
criticize  even  the  commander-in-chief 
with  hearty  freedom.  He  chafed  sore- 
ly under  Jackson's  arbitrary  methods. 
Lee,  in  recommending  him,  foresaw  this 
and  tried  to  insinuate  a  little  caution. 
4  A.  P.  Hill  you  will,  I  think,  find  a 
good  officer,  with  whom  you  can  con- 
sult; and,  by  advising  with  your  divi- 
sion commanders  as  to  your  move- 
ments, much  trouble  will  be  saved  you 
in  arranging  details,  and  they  can  aid 
more  intelligently.' 

It  was  quite  useless.  The  two  fiery 
tempers  clashed  till  the  sparks  flew. 
Jackson  put  his  subordinate  under  ar- 
rest more  than  once.  In  the  Official  Re- 
cord we  may  read  the  painful  but  very 
curious  correspondence  in  which  the  two 
men  laid  their  grievances  before  Lee, 
and  Lee  with  patient  tact  tried  to  do 
justice  to  both.  '  If,'  says  Hill,  '  the 
charges  preferred  against  me  by  Gen- 
eral Jackson  are  true,  I  do  not  deserve 
to  command  a  division  in  this  army;  if 
they  are  untrue,  then  General  Jackson 
deserves  a  rebuke  as  notorious  as  the 


arrest.'  It  is  said  that  Lee  at  last 
brought  the  two  together,  and  'after 
hearing  their  several  statements,  walk- 
ing gravely  to  and  fro,  said,  "He  who 
has  been  the  most  aggrieved  can  be 
the  most  magnanimous  and  make  the 
first  overture  of  peace."  This  wise 
verdict  forever  settled  their  differ- 
ences.' Forever  is  a  long  word,  but 
surely  no  verdict  of  Solomon  or  Sancho 
Panza  could  be  neater. 

Lee's  relations  with  Jackson  as  to 
Strategy  and  tactics  are  no  less  inter- 
esting than  the  disciplinary.  Some  of 
Jackson's  admirers  seem  inclined  to 
credit  him  with  Lee's  best  generalship, 
especially  with  the  brilliant  and  suc- 
cessful movements  which  resulted  in 
the  victories  of  the  second  Bull  Run 
and  of  Chancellorsville.  Just  how  far 
each  general  was  responsible  for  those 
movements  can  never  be  exactly  deter- 
mined. The  conception  of  flank  attacks 
would  appear  to  be  an  elementary  de- 
vice to  any  military  mind.  Lee  certain- 
ly was  sufficiently  prone  to  them,  and 
urged  them  upon  Jackson  at  an  early 
stage.  It  is  in  nice  and  perfect  execu- 
tion that  the  difficulty  lies,  and  in  the 
delicate  adjustment  of  that  execution 
to  the  handling  of  the  army  as  a  whole; 
and  in  this  Lee  and  Jackson  probably 
formed  as  wonderful  a  pair  of  military 
geniuses  as  ever  existed. 

As  to  Lee's  initiative,  it  can  be  eas- 
ily shown  that  even  in  the  first  Valley 
campaign  he  had,  to  say  the  least,  a 
most  sympathetic  and  prophetic  com- 
prehension of  Jackson 's  action .  If  Jack- 
son may  possibly  have  conceived  the 
plan  of  operations  which  led  to  the 
second  Bull  Run,  it  was  Lee  who  de- 
signed the  movements  of  Gaines's  Mill, 
which  Jackson  failed  to  carry  out.  At 
a  later  date,  just  before  Fredericks- 
burg,  when  Jackson  was  again  oper- 
ating in  the  Valley,  his  biographer, 
Henderson,  in  the  absence  of  authentic 
data,  assumes  that  the  lieutenant  was 


LEE  AND  JACKSON 


787 


anxious  to  carry  out  some  flanking 
conception  of  his  own,  and  that  Lee 
assented  to  it.  This  may  be  so,  but  a 
few  weeks  later  still,  when  the  battle 
was  imminent,  Lee  expresses  himself 
to  a  very  different  effect:  'In  previous 
letters  I  suggested  the  advantage  that 
might  be  derived  by  your  taking  posi- 
tion at  Warrenton  or  Culpeper,  with 
a  view  to  threaten  the  rear  of  the 
enemy  at  Fredericksburg.  ...  As  my 
previous  suggestions  to  you  were  left 
to  be  executed  or  not  at  your  discre- 
tion, you  are  jstill  at  liberty  to  follow 
or  reject  them.' 

The  case  that  has  aroused  most  con- 
troversy, one  of  those  problems  that 
can  be  always  discussed  and  never  set- 
tled, is  that  of  Chancellorsville.  The 
facts,  so  far  as  they  can  be  gathered 
from  conflicting  accounts,  seem  to  be 
as  follows.  On  the  night  of  May  1, 
Hooker  had  withdrawn  to  Chancellors- 
ville. Lee  and  Jackson  met  and  talked 
over  the  state  of  things.  Examination 
had  shown  that  to  attack  Hooker's  left 
and  centre  was  out  of  the  question. 
On  the  other  hand,  reports  received 
from  the  cavalry  made  it  appear  that 
the  right  might  be  assailed  with  ad- 
vantage. Lee  therefore  decided  on  this, 
and  ordered  Jackson  to  make  the  move- 
ment. Jackson  then  secured  further  in- 
formation, elaborated  his  plans  accord- 
ingly, and  acted  on  them  with  Lee's 
approval. 

Evidently  this  statement  leaves 
many  loopholes,  but  it  is  impossible  to 
be  more  definite,  or  to  say  just  where 
Lee's  conception  ended  and  Jackson's 
began.  If  we  turn  for  information  to 
the  two  principal  actors,  we  shall  not 
progress  much.  'I  congratulate  you 
upon  the  victory  which  is  due  to  your 
skill  and  energy,'  says  Lee;  but  this 
passing  of  compliments  means  no  more 
than  Jackson's  general  acknowledg- 
ment: 'All  the  credit  of  my  successes 
belongs  to  General  Lee;  they  were  his 


plans,  and  I  only  executed  his  orders.' 
Jackson's  special  comment  on  Chan- 
cellorsville is  not  more  helpful:  'Our 
movement  was  a  great  success;  I  think 
the  most  successful  military  movement 
of  my  life.  But  I  expect  to  receive  more 
credit  for  it  than  I  deserve.  Most  men 
will  think  that  I  planned  it  all  from  the 
first;  but  it  was  not  so.'  —  'Ah,'  we 
interrupt,  'this  is  magnanimous.  He 
is  going  to  give  the  credit  to  Lee.'  — 
Not  at  all;  he  is  only  going  to  give  it 
to  God.  Nor  does  Lee's  letter  to  Mrs. 
Jackson  make  matters  much  clearer: 
4 1  decided  against  it  [front  attack]  and 
stated  to  General  Jackson  we  must 
move  on  our  left  as  soon  as  practicable; 
and  the  necessary  movement  of  troops 
began  immediately.  In  consequence  of 
a  report  received  about  this  time  from 
General  Fitzhugh  Lee  .  .  .  General 
Jackson,  after  some  inquiry,  undertook 
to  throw  his  command  entirely  in 
Hooker's  rear.' 

What  interests  me  in  the  controversy 
is  not  the  debated  question,  which 
cannot  seriously  affect  the  greatness  of 
either  party  concerned,  but  the  char- 
acteristic reserve  of  Lee,  as  shown  in 
the  last  sentence  above  quoted,  and  far 
more  in  the  letter  to  Dr.  Bledsoe,  writ- 
ten, says  Jones,  in  answer  to  'a  direct 
question  whether  the  flank  movement 
at  Chancellorsville  originated  with 
Jackson  or  with  himself.'  Lee's  reply 
is  so  curious  that  I  quote  the  import- 
ant part  of  it  entire. 

'  I  have  however  learned  from  others 
that  the  various  authors  of  the  life  of 
Jackson  award  to  him  the  credit  of  the 
success  gained  by  the  Army  of  North- 
ern Virginia  where  he  was  present,  and 
describe  the  movements  of  his  corps  or 
command  as  independent  of  the  gen- 
eral plan  of  operations  and  undertaken 
at  his  own  suggestion,  and  upon  his  own 
responsibility.  I  have  the  greatest  re- 
luctance to  say  anything  that  might  be 
considered  as  detracting  from  his  well- 


788 


LEE  AND  JACKSON 


deserved  fame,  for  I  believe  no  one  was 
more  convinced  of  his  worth  or  appre- 
ciated him  more  highly  than  myself; 
yet  your  knowledge  of  military  affairs, 
if  you  have  none  of  the  events  them- 
selves, will  teach  you  that  this  could 
not  have  been  so.  Every  movement  of 
an  army  must  be  well  considered  and 
properly  ordered,  and  every  one  who 
knew  General  Jackson  must  know  that 
he  was  too  good  a  soldier  to  violate  this 
fundamental  principle.  In  the  opera- 
tions around  Chancellorsville,  I  over- 
took General  Jackson,  who  had  been 
placed  in  command  of  the  advance,  as 
the  skirmishers  of  the  approaching 
armies  met,  advanced  with  the  troops 
to  the  Federal  line  of  defenses,  and  was 
on  the  field  until  their  whole  army  re- 
crossed  the  Rappahannock.  There  is 
no  question  as  to  who  was  responsible 
for  the  operations  of  the  Confederates, 
or  to  whom  any  failure  would  have 
been  charged.' 

The  more  I  read  this  letter,  the  less 
I  understand  it.  It  does  not  answer 
Bledsoe's  question  at  all,  makes  no  at- 
tempt to  answer  it.  Instead,  it  tells  us 
that  Jackson  did  not  rob  Lee  of  the 
command  or  the  responsibility  or  the 
glory.  Whoever  supposed  he  did?  And 
why  did  Lee  write  so?  Did  he  wish  to 
leave  Jackson  the  credit  of  initiative  in 
the  matter?  It  sounds  as  if  he  wished 
the  precise  contrary,  which  is  quite  in- 
credible. Or  did  he  miss  the  whole 
point,  which  seems  equally  incredible? 
This  letter,  like  some  others,  goes  far  to 
reconcile  me  to  the  loss  of  the  memoirs 
that  Lee  did  not  write.  I  feel  sure  that, 
with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world, 
he  would  have  told  us  very  little  that 
we  desire  to  know. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  in 
a  comparison  of  Lee  and  Jackson,  the 
question  of  just  how  far  either  one 
originated  the  military  designs  which 


covered  both  with  glory,  is  not  really 
very  essential.  I  hope  that  I  have  al- 
ready indicated  the  difference  between 
them.  Perhaps  in  their  religion  it  is  as 
significant  as  in  anything.  To  both 
religion  was  the  cardinal  fact  of  life; 
but  in  Lee  religion  never  tyrannized,  in 
Jackson  I  think  it  did.  Lee  said  that 
'Duty  was  the  sublimest  word  in  the 
language.'  Nevertheless,  if  he  had 
heard  Mrs.  Jackson's  remark  that  her 
husband  'ate,  as  he  did  everything  else, 
from  a  sense  of  duty,'  I  think  he  would 
have  smiled,  and  observed  that  it  might 
be  well  occasionally  to  eat  for  pure 
pleasure.  It  would  be  most  unjust  to 
say  that  Jackson's  was  a  religion  of 
hell ;  but  it  would  be  nobly  true  to  say 
that  Lee's  was  a  religion  of  heaven. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  fairer  to  both  to 
speak  of  Jackson's  as  a  devouring  fire, 
of  Lee's  as  a  pure  and  vivifying  light. 
Indeed,  especially  in  comparison  with 
Jackson,  this  idea  of  light  satisfies  me 
better  for  Lee  than  anything  else.  His 
soul  was  tranquil  and  serene  and 
broadly  luminous,  with  no  dark  corner 
in  it  for  violence  or  hate. 

And,  although  I  speak  with  humil- 
ity in  such  a  matter,  may  we  not  say 
that  the  military  difference  between 
the  two  was  something  the  same?  It 
is  possible  that  Jackson  could  strike 
harder,  possible  even  that  he  could  see 
as  deeply  and  as  justly  as  his  great 
commander.  I  think  that  Lee  had  the 
advantage  in  breadth,  in  just  that  one 
quality  of  sweet  luminousness.  He 
could  draw  all  men  unto  him.  What  a 
splendid  mastery  it  must  have  been 
that  kept  on  the  one  hand  the  perfect 
friendship  and  confidence  of  the  high- 
strung,  sensitive,  and  jealous  Davis, 
and  on  the  other  the  unquestioning 
loyalty,  affection,  and  admiration  of  a 
soul  so  swift  and  haughty  and  violent 
as  that  of  Jackson ! 


WHAT  IS  WRONG  WITH  OUR  BOYS? 


BY   WILLIAM   T.    MILLER 


THE  Boy,  like  the  Tariff,  the  Foot- 
ball Rules,  and  the  Suffragette,  is  an 
eternal  problem.  He  is  a  never-ending 
source  of  discussion  at  teachers'  con- 
ventions, family  councils,  and  socio- 
logical conferences.  He  is  blamed  for 
many  things  which  he  has  nothing  to 
do  with;  and  is  sometimes,  though  rare- 
ly, given  credit  for  things  he  does  not 
do.  Usually,  however,  the  criticism  of 
the  Boy  is  adverse.  Where  there  is  one 
optimist  to  see  his  good  points,  there  are 
ten  pessimists  to  bewail  his  faults. 

Perhaps  the  strongest  and  most  un- 
prejudiced adverse  criticism  at  the 
present  time  comes  from  the  field  of 
business  life.  It  is  very  common  for  a 
business  man  to  complain  about  the 
boys  that  come  into  his  employment. 
They  can  neither  write  neatly,  spell 
correctly,  nor  cipher  accurately;  their 
personal  habits  are  none  too  admirable, 
and  they  have  little  politeness  or  re- 
spect for  superiors.  So  say  many  large 
employers  of  boy-labor.  If  these  state- 
ments are  all  true,  surely  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  with  our  boys. 

Now,  with  remarkable  unanimity  of 
opinion,  the  critics  lay  the  blame  for 
this  assumed  deterioration  of  the  boy 
at  the  door  of  the  school.  Magazines 
and  newspapers  seeking  information 
on  this  vital  subject  from  business  men 
find  almost  universal  dissatisfaction 
with  present-day  boys,  and  an  equally 
universal  belief  that  the  trouble  is  not 
so  much  with  the  boy  himself  as  it  is 
with  the  system  under  which  he  is  edu- 
cated. If  these  beliefs  are  correct  diag- 
noses of  conditions,  then  it  behooves 


educators    to    do    some    pedagogical 
house-cleaning. 

But  there  are  several  things  to  be 
said  in  explanation  and  extenuation. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  a  mistake  to  as- 
sume that  the  inefficiency  of  boys  in 
the  lower  levels  of  business  life  means 
a  general  deterioration  of  the  boy  in 
general.  Comparisons,  especially  of  per- 
sons, are  dangerous  arguments.  When 
we  compare,  for  instance,  the  business 
efficiency  of  present-day  boys  with  that 
of  the  boys  of  thirty  years  ago,  we 
should  take  into  account  that  the  av- 
erage store-  or  office-boy  of  to-day  is 
decidedly  lower  in  natural  ability  and 
mental  calibre,  regardless  of  his  school 
training,  than  the  boy  hi  a  similar  posi- 
tion thirty  years  ago.  The  'reason  for 
this  is  that  undoubtedly  these  boys 
come  to-day  from  a  lower  level  of  boy 
life.  Business  has  broadened  and  ex- 
panded tremendously,  making  neces- 
sary a  vast  army  of  boy -workers  where 
before  but  few  were  required.  This 
creates  the  demand;  now  for  the  supply. 
There  are  wide  individual  differences 
in  boys.  Those  of  a  high  order  of  natu- 
ral ability  usually  wish  to  gain  as  much 
education  as  possible.  Each  year  the 
opportunities  for  cheap  and  convenient 
higher  education  increase;  each  year 
more  and  more  boys  who  are  mentally 
and  morally  strong  go  into  the  higher 
schools  (both  secondary  and  collegiate), 
and  are  thereby  withdrawn  from  the 
supply  needed  to  fill  the  places  created 
by  the  commercial  demand.  Hence 
these  places  must  be  filled  by  a  lower 
type  of  boy.  In  other  words,  the  boy 

789 


790 


WHAT  IS  WRONG  WITH  OUR  BOYS? 


who  would  formerly  have  been  in  the 
store  and  the  office  is  now  in  the  high 
school.  Figures  alone  do  not  prove 
much,  but  it  is  interesting  to  note  that 
as  late  as  1889  only  fifty  per  cent  of 
the  grammar-school  graduates  entered 
high  school  in  Boston,  while  in  1908 
sixty-eight  per  cent  entered.  Obvious- 
ly it  is  not  logical  to  make  a  general 
deduction  in  regard  to  the  character  of 
the  boy  by  comparing  the  lowest  type 
of  to-day  with  the  high  or  middle  type 
of  the  past. 

Another  reason  why  the  boy  of  the 
business  world  to-day  is  of  a  lower  type 
than  his  predecessor  of  the  sixties  is 
found  in  the  glamour  of  commercial  em- 
ployment as  contrasted  with  the  un- 
desirable features  of  industrial  or  trade 
work.  In  a  store  or  office  the  boy  can 
wear  good  clothes,  keep  in  touch  with 
the  outside  world,  and  usually  manage 
to  get  along  without  working  very  hard. 
Therefore  a  great  many  who,  on  ac- 
count of  their  peculiar  traits  and  apti- 
tudes, should  be  engaged  in  manual 
work,  struggle  up,  above  their  level, 
into  business  life.  An  interesting  proof 
of  this  statement  is  the  present  lack  of 
skilled  artisans  in  many  trades.  When 
business  was  less  extensive,  and  the 
demand  for  boys  was  correspondingly 
slight,  only  the  higher  type  as  a  rule 
secured  these  business  places,  while  the 
lower  types  filled  the  industrial  posi- 
tions which  are  now  considered  unde- 
sirable, and  in  some  of  which  there  is 
an  actual  scarcity  of  supply. 

The  proper  adjustment  of  talents 
and  abilities  to  social  and  economic 
needs  is  one  of  the  great  problems  of 
to-day.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  pre- 
sent agitation  in  favor  of  vocation- 
al guidance  will  encourage  boys  and 
young  men  to  look  into  conditions  of 
supply  and  demand  in  prospective  oc- 
cupations before  they  decide  on  a  life- 
work.  Careful  and  scientific  selection 
of  vocations  would  bring  about  a  better 


equalization  of  workers  between  pro- 
fessional and  commercial  fields;  and  a 
large  percentage  of  the  inefficient  boys 
now  in  business  would  find  their  pro- 
per place  in  the  ranks  of  industrial  and 
skilled  labor. 

The  school,  which  is  compelled  by 
popular  opinion  to  shoulder  the  entire 
blame  for  many  of  the  deficiencies  of 
youth,  for  which  the  home  is  equally 
responsible,  is  already  at  work  on  this 
vocational  problem.  In  Germany,  in- 
deed, the  solution  has  been  almost 
worked  out,  but  in  America  we  are  only 
just  beginning  to  see  that  the  efficiency 
of  our  social  machine  depends  upon 
the  proper  balancing  of  the  various 
forces  entering  into  its  complex  action. 
This  means  that  if  we  see  to  it  that 
boys  get  into  that  class  of  work  for 
which  they  are  best  fitted,  both  by  in- 
clination and  personal  aptitude,  they 
will  do  better  work,  and  the  whole  com- 
munity will  benefit.  There  is,  it  is  true, 
much  room  for  argument  regarding 
many  details  and  phases  of  the  voca- 
tional movement.  Especially  should  its 
advocates  guard  against  any  action 
which  would  hamper  the  individual 
initiative  of  the  boy.  One  prominent 
schoolman  has  gone  so  far  as  to  state 
that,  in  his  opinion,  'vocational  guid- 
ance is  another  nail  in  the  coffin  of 
initiative.'  This  is  rather  strong  lan- 
guage, and  probably  the  opinion  grew 
out  of  a  misconception  of  the  real  mean- 
ing and  scope  of  vocational  guidance. 
In  its  true  and  only  defensible  sense, 
this  means  the  investigation  by  boys 
and  girls,  under  suitable  direction  and 
wise  guidance,  of  the  various  kinds  of 
employment  open  to  them,  with  the 
requirements,  possible  rewards,  and  re- 
lative chances  for  steady  work,  so  that 
they  may  be  able  themselves  to  choose 
that  line  of  work  in  which  they  will  be 
most  likely  to  succeed. 

The  great  development  of  city  life 
has  helped  to  accentuate  the  need  for 


WHAT  IS  WRONG  WITH  OUR  BOYS? 


791 


this  vocational  direction.  Usually, 
when  the  city  boy  has  the  choice  of 
several  positions,  he  takes  the  one 
which  pays  the  best,  entirely  regardless 
of  his  own  fitness  or  even  his  liking  for 
that  particular  line  of  work.  This  hap- 
hazard procedure  results  in  constant 
dissatisfaction  on  the  part  of  both  the 
employer  and  the  employee.  The  for- 
mer is  not  getting  the  kind  of  work 
he  wants,  and  the  latter  is  not  doing 
the  kind  he  likes.  The  large  city,  by 
the  great  development  of  its  agencies 
for  distribution,  such  as  retail  depart- 
ment stores  and  wholesale  jobbing- 
houses,  narrows  rather  than  broadens 
the  vocational  horizon  of  a  boy.  In 
many  large  cities  there  are,  it  is  true, 
great  factories  producing  a  multitude 
of  articles;  but  boys,  as  a  rule,  know 
next  to  nothing  of  the  manufacturing 
industries  of  their  own  city.  The  story 
is  a  familiar  one  of  Benjamin  Franklin's 
being  taken  by  his  father  to  visit  all 
the  different  shops  in  Boston,  so  that 
the  future  philosopher  might  see  all  the 
trades  then  practiced  there,  with  a 
view  to  selecting  a  suitable  one  for  his 
own  attention.  It  illustrates  a  real  need 
of  our  boys  at  the  present  day.  They 
lack  experience;  they  do  not  know  the 
opportunities  and  requirements  of  the 
various  occupations  carried  on  in  their 
own  cities.  Their  horizon  is  very  nar- 
row, and  must  remain  so  until  intel- 
ligent and  sustained  effort  is  made  to 
acquaint  them  with  vocational  facts. 
This  effort  the  school  must  make. 

It  is  the  verdict  of  many  close  ob- 
servers that  our  boys  do  not  work  hard 
enough.  This  does  not  mean-  necessar- 
ily that  they  are  lazy,  but  rather  that 
they  have  not  acquired  what  may  be 
called  the  habit  of  work.  In  this  respect 
the  city  boy  is  at  a  disadvantage,  for 
there  is  nothing  to  equal  the  farm 
chores  as  a  means  of  developing  habits 
of  hard  work.  Of  course  there  are  city 
boys  who  do  chores  and  are  encouraged 


by  their  parents  to  form  habits  of  in- 
dustry; but  for  the  most  part,  especi- 
ally in  the  so-called  well-to-do  classes, 
the  boy's  chief  aim  in  life  is  the  pursuit 
of  pleasure,  with  useful  work  and  study 
tolerated  by  him  as  unimportant  side- 
issues. 

It  is  a  great  pity  that  so  many  things 
which  used  to  be  looked  upon  as  the  pro- 
per work  of  the  boy  are  now  thought 
to  be  beneath  his  dignity,  and  are  per- 
formed by  servants  or  left  undone. 
Again,  the  development  of  flat-life,  the 
janitor  system,  and  kindred  metropol- 
itan 'improvements,'  have  all  helped  in 
the  emancipation  of  the  boy  from  use- 
ful labor.  The  result  is  that  most  of 
our  boys  lack  that  habit  of  industry 
which  makes  it  easy  to  work,  whether 
it  be  at  manual  labor  or  in  the  culture 
of  the  mind. 

Practical  teachers  often  deplore  the 
lack  of  care  and  effort  bestowed  upon 
lessons  assigned  in  school  to  be  studied 
at  home.  The  trouble  usually  arises 
from  the  fact  that  the  careless  pupils 
do  not  know  what  hard,  sustained,  and 
careful  work  means.  This  is  as  much 
the  fault  of  the  home  as  it  is  of  the 
school.  It  is  often  forgotten  that  the 
school  has  the  boy  only  about  five 
hours  out  of  every  twenty-four,  and 
that  habits  developed  in  so  short  a 
period  will  be  lost  unless  the  home 
cooperate  with  the  school.  We  are  very 
familiar  with  the  adage  about  all  work 
and  no  play,  and  its  dire  effect  on  Jack's 
character;  but  nowadays  there  is  more 
danger  that  'all  play  and  no  work  may 
make  Jack  a  lazy  boy,'  as  well  as  a 
dull  one.  The  habit  of  work  makes  a 
boy  more  thorough  in  his  lessons,  and 
the  result  is  better  spelling,  writing, 
ciphering,  etc.,  when  he  goes  into  the 
world.  The  accuracy  and  care  which 
the  business  man  so  longingly  seeks 
can  only  come  from  a  solid  foundation 
of  continuous  hard  work.  The  boy  who 
has  been  trained  to  work  at  home  and 


792 


WHAT  IS  WRONG  WITH  OUR  BOYS? 


at  school  will  naturally  be  an  active 
and  ambitious  clerk  or  artisan;  for  in- 
dustry becomes  a  habit. 

The  power  to  think  independently, 
and  to  make  decisions  unaided  by  a 
superior,  is  a  very  valuable  possession, 
and  it  must  be  begun  and  developed  in 
school,  otherwise  the  boy  will  be  under 
a  heavy  handicap.  The  boy  who  can- 
not think  or  decide  crumples  up  under 
responsibility  of  any  kind.  It  is  largely 
responsibility  and  experience  which  de- 
velop this  power  of  judgment.  Here 
again,  the  country  boy,  with  his  ani- 
mals to  care  for  and  his  tasks  to  man- 
age, has  an  advantage,  for  he  simply 
must  learn  to  plan  and  to  think.  In  the 
city  practically  everything  is  taken  for 
granted,  and  unless  he  learn  to  think 
in  the  school,  the  city  boy  is  helpless. 
Whether  he  learns  hi  school  or  not,  de- 
pends chiefly  on  the  individual  teach- 
ers. The  best  course  of  studies  in  the 
world  can  be  so  stupidly  administered 
that  the  mental  activity  and  free 
thought  of  the  child  are  effectually 
and  utterly  throttled.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  very  dead,  uninteresting  course 
may,  in  the  hands  of  a  good  teacher, 
result  in  lively,  spontaneous,  thought- 
ful work. 

But,  regardless  of  where  the  fault 
lies,  many  observers  agree  that  this 
lack  of  ability  to  think  is  one  of  the 
great  deficiencies  of  our  boys  of  to-day. 
It  is  to  be  feared  that  certain  sub- 
jects which  have  been  pressed  recently 
into  the  curriculum  of  our  elementary 
schools  have  served  to  deaden  thought 
somewhat.  We  do  not  say  this  in  dis- 
paragement of  the  subjects  themselves, 
but  rather  of  the  methods  by  which 
they  are  commonly  taught.  Let  us 
take,  for  example,  Painting  (not  draw- 
ing, but  water-color  work),  Weaving, 
Clay-Modeling,  and  Nature-Study,  va- 
riously known  (according  to  the  point 
of  view)  as  'fads,'  'frills,'  'fillers,'  or 
'  culture '  studies.  We  do  not  wish  to 


take  the  utilitarian  point  of  view  that 
no  study  is  of  any  value  unless  it  can 
be  coined  into  wages  —  or  'salary';  we 
believe  that  the  end  of  education  is  not 
merely  to  earn  'a  living,'  but  to  gain 
more  abundant  life,  which  implies  some 
ability  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  beauty 
in  art  and  nature.  Besides,  even  these 
so-called  'culture'  studies  have  a  dis- 
ciplinary value  if  properly  taught. 

If  Painting  is  a  mere  imitation,  it  be- 
comes valueless  daubing,  but  the  true 
teacher  will  make  the  blending  and  har- 
mony of  colors  an  exercise  of  the  judg- 
ment, developing  powers  of  perception, 
comparison,  and  expression.  In  Weav- 
ing, if  designs  are  simply  wrought  out 
blindly,  the  task  is  a  waste  of  time  edu- 
cationally, however  useful  the  finish- 
ed product  may  be.  But  if  the  design 
is  carefully  planned  by  the  individual 
child,  and  if  difficulties  are  met  and 
decisions  made  by  him  on  his  own  re- 
sponsibility, such  work  is  undeniably 
stimulating  to  mental  alertness.  Na- 
ture-Study has  been  the  butt  of  much 
ridicule,  and  it  does  seem  a  waste  of 
time  to  look  at  pictures  of  birds,  tear 
flowers  apart,  or  play  with  chips  of 
stone.  The  net  result  of  much  of  this 
work  in  our  schools  is  the  learning  of 
the  names  of  a  few  specimens,  promptly 
forgotten.  And  yet,  properly  taught, 
elementary  science  (for  that  is  what  true 
Nature-Study  really  is)  offers  an  ideal 
opportunity  for  the  cultivation  of  care- 
ful observation,  accurate  description, 
and  systematic  arrangement, — all  de- 
manding strictly  original  thought.  The 
fallacy  of  jumping  at  conclusions,  or 
arguing  from  defective  induction,  is 
not  indulged  in  by  the  boy  who  has 
enjoyed  some  real  objective  teaching 
in  elementary  science. 

It  is  unfortunate,  however,  that  this 
same  subject  is  at  present  taught,  for 
the  most  part,  in  a  very  humdrum,  life- 
less, second-hand  manner.  When  speci- 
mens are  inadequate  or  entirely  ab- 


WHAT  IS  WRONG  WITH  OUR  BOYS? 


793 


sent;  when  facts  are  pointed  out  by  the 
teacher,  instead  of  being  discovered  by 
the  pupil  through  independent  invest- 
igation; when  conclusions  are  derived 
from  the  teacher  or  text-book,  in- 
stead of  being  arrived  at  by  the  pu- 
pil's reasoning  power,  the  study  of  ele- 
mentary science  is  a  waste  of  golden 
minutes. 

But  it  is  not  only  in  these  culture 
studies  that  poor  teaching  retards 
mental  development;  even  in  such  ac- 
curate and  exact  studies  as  arithmetic 
and  grammar,  slipshod  or  dictatorial 
methods  often  result  in  blind,  halting 
work,  with  no  real  independent  power 
underlying  the  operations. 

Beyond  a  doubt,  education  is  far 
more  widely  diffused  now  than  it  was 
thirty  years  ago;  and  for  that  reason 
our  boys  ought  to  be  better  educated 
now  than  ever  before.  Probably  they 
are;  but  that  should  not  blind  us  to  the 
deficiencies  of  our  school-training  which 
lessen  the  ability  of  the  boy  to  do  the 
work  of  the  world.  Education  is  not  to 
be  appraised  by  quantity;  its  value  de- 
pends on  the  power  it  develops.  If  our 
boys  lack  the  habit  of  work,  the  schools 
should  see  to  it  that,  in  school  at  least, 
they  shall  do  more  work,  and  do  it  more 


carefully  and  continuously.  The  home 
must  help,  of  course;  but  the  school, 
and  above  all  the  individual  teacher, 
must  see  to  it  that  the  boy  does  not  sit 
back  and  absorb  an  education,  but  that 
he  makes  a  vigorous  personal  effort 
to  secure  it.  Teachers  must  work  hard 
themselves,  for  the  spirit  of  work  is 
contagious;  but  they  must  not  do  the 
pupil's  work  for  him. 

By  expert  vocational  guidance  the 
school  must  broaden  the  experience  of 
the  boy,  in  order  to  remedy  the  present 
random  method  of  doing  the  world's 
work.  By  revision  of  courses,  and  by 
careful  training  and  supervision  of 
teachers,  the  schools  must  do  more  for 
the  development  of  the  power  of  in- 
dependent thought  and  self-reliant  ini- 
tiative. There  is  nothing  very  seriously 
wrong  with  our  boys,  nor  with  our 
schools  either;  but  the  three  defects 
noted  above  must  be  met  at  once  by 
corrective  policies,  both  in  the  school 
and  the  home;  or  we  shall  soon  find  our 
boys  at  a  standstill.  When  our  boys 
are  at  a  standstill,  our  outlook  will  be  a 
dark  one;  for  the  only  safe  foundation 
for  a  strong  and  prosperous  national 
future  is  the  progressive  education  of 
the  youth  of  the  present. 


THE   COUNTRY  MINISTER 


BY  CHARLES  MOREAU  HARGER 


To  business  men  of  a  country  town 
the  minister  appears  to  lead  an  easy  life. 
'Just  think  of  it,'  they  say,  'nothing 
to  do  but  prepare  two  sermons  a 
week  —  and  all  the  remainder  of  the 
time  to  enjoy  himself! '  The  merchant 
who  spends  ten  hours  a  day,  six  days 
of  the  week,  at  desk  or  counter;  the 
professional  man  with  his  long  hours 
of  study  and  anxiety;  the  laborer  with 
weary  home-comings  —  all  think  such 
duties  much  less  than  their  own.  Not 
until  the  preacher  is  followed  from 
Sunday  to  Sunday  is  it  realized  how  far 
from  complete  is  the  showing. 

To-day  religious  effort  is  systema- 
tized through  church  organization,  and 
its  leaders  take  on  responsibilities  com- 
mensurate with  the  larger  field.  As  he 
comes  down  town  Monday  morning, 
stopping  at  the  postoffice  for  a  chat,  at 
the  corner  for  a  greeting,  or  dropping 
into  the  newspaper  office  to  look  at 
the  exchanges,  the  minister  knows  no 
moment  when  he  does  not  feel  himself 
a  link  in  his  church's  onward  move- 
ment. 

He  may  be  called  to  defend  his  pro- 
fession in  most  unexpected  places.  The 
other  day,  on  a  slow-moving  freight 
train,  hours  behind  time,  dragging  its 
rumbling  length  over  a  branch  railway, 
the  passengers  gathered  at  the  end  of 
the  ill-smelling  coach  and  talked  as 
friends  in  discomfort.  Somehow,  the 
conversation  turned  to  religious  affairs, 
and  a  cattleman  delivered  some  pon- 
derous remarks  concerning  Bible  his- 
tory, highly  colored  with  disbelief. 
After  he  had  held  the  floor  for  some 

794 


time  a  quiet  young  man  came  forward 
and  asked,  as  if  for  information,  '  My 
friend,  can  you  read  Hebrew?' 

'No,  I  never  studied  things  like  that,' 
admitted  the  cattleman. 

'How  about  Latin  and  Greek?' 

'Never  went  to  college,'  was  the 
grudging  answer. 

'  Have  you  read  Plutarch  or  Herodo- 
tus in  translation?' 

'N-no.' 

'Well,  I  have  studied  the  Scriptures 
in  three  languages  and  have  spent  years 
on  ancient  history.  It  seems  to  me  that 
you  ought  to  learn  something  before 
you  presume  to  criticize.'  Then  he 
gave  the  little  audience  a  straightfor- 
ward talk  on  the  Word,  taking  up 
every  assertion  of  the  unbeliever's 
argument  and  disposing  of  it.  At  the 
end  the  passengers  applauded,  and 
the  cattleman  was  heard  no  more.  The 
quiet  young  man  was  pastor  of  a  little 
church  in  a  prairie  village,  but  he  dwelt 
in  an  atmosphere  of  study  and  militant 
religious  effort. 

Doubtless  the  pastor  of  a  country 
church  to-day  does  escape  some  of  the 
hardships  that  attended  the  position 
a  half-century  ago.  The  work  of  the 
country-town  minister  to-day  is  greatly 
changed  from  that  of  the  old-time  itin- 
erant, seedy  of  appearance,  who  expect- 
ed to  gain  full  reward  for  faithfully 
performed  labors  in  the  next  world 
rather  than  in  this.  As  in  other  profes- 
sions, new  elements  have  entered,  and 
the  minister  has  advanced  with  the 
times.  He  fills  a  different  place  in  the 
community  life;  his  field  has  enlarged 


THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER 


795 


with  the  broader  civilization  and  the 
myriad  new  problems. 

Most  important  of  all  is  the  exten- 
sion of  organization,  for  there  has  been 
as  vast  an  increase  in  organization  in 
religious  activities  as  in  business.  Be 
it  conference,  synod,  or  association,  to 
which  he  pays  allegiance,  the  pastor 
is  no  more  an  independent  worker. 
This  does  not  mean  a  lack  of  the  mis- 
sionary spirit  that  has  animated  men 
since  the  beginning  of  time.  For  in- 
stance :  a  young  man  and  a  young  wo- 
man graduated  together  from  a  small 
college,  married,  and  went  out  to  their 
chosen  work.  In  a  two-room  sod  house, 
eight  miles  from  town,  on  a  homestead, 
with  their  three  small  children,  they 
live  close  to  Nature.  The  husband  has 
charge  of  four  widely  separated  con- 
gregations, driving  his  circuit  with  a 
sturdy  pony  and  a  cart.  How  they 
exist  is  a  wonder,  yet  he  gave  cheerful 
testimony:  'There  is  so  much  good  to 
do  for  these  people  —  it  is  a  blessed 
work  for  them  and  my  church/  With 
him  always  is  the  zeal  for  the  larger 
association  and  the  thought  of  its  ad- 
vancement. 

But  his  hardship  is  exceptional.  In 
older-settled  communities  the  country 
minister  may  live  among  his  people, 
but  there  is  no  isolation,  for  farms  are 
small  and  neighbors  near.  In  newer 
states  the  ministers,  for  the  most  part, 
live  in  town;  congregations  in  rural  dis- 
tricts are  served  by  going  to  them, 
rather  than  by  locating  with  them.  It 
is  the  opinion  of  many  that  there  are 
too  many  church  organizations  repre- 
sented in  the  American  village.  The 
directory  of  one  typical  western  city 
shows  a  population  of  forty-four  hun- 
dred. In  it  are  fourteen  church  or- 
ganizations, all  but  one  having  church 
buildings  and  maintaining  paid  pas- 
tors. With  the  attendance  from  the 
surrounding  country  districts,  less  than 
a  thousand  families  are  served,  includ- 


ing those  with  no  church  affiliations. 
Outside  three  leading  denominations, 
the  pastors  have  small  salaries  and 
speak  to  small  congregations.  Yet  none 
would  for  a  moment  consider  consol- 
idation, whatever  might  be  the  argu- 
ment for  greater  efficiency  and  power. 
The  missionary  spirit  must  abide  with 
the  larger  part  of  these  workers,  else 
there  could  not  be  sustained  effort. 
Occasionally  a  preacher  grows  weary  of 
the  struggle  to  make  grocery  bills  and 
salary  checks  meet,  resigns  and  moves 
away  —  but  there  is  always  another 
to  carry  on  the  task. 

If  the  country  minister  remains  a 
few  years  in  a  community  he  becomes 
a  father-confessor  to  many  families.  In 
this  age  of  unrest,  of  varying  fortunes 
and  of  soaring  ambition,  two  individ- 
uals especially  are  sources  of  advice  to 
the  family  —  the  banker  and  the  pas- 
tor. The  one  is  consulted  from  neces- 
sity, the  other  from  choice.  Through 
the  week  the  burdens  of  the  heart- 
broken, of  the  desolate,  of  the  discour- 
aged, of  the  perplexed,  come  to  the  ears 
of  the  pastor.  His  sympathies  are 
drawn  upon  and  his  assistance  is  asked 
in  the  most  momentous  affairs  of  life. 
He  may  wreck  a  promising  career,  he 
may  lift  a  fainting  soul  to  heights  of 
usefulness.  If  he  be  a  man  of  judgment 
and  courage,  he  exerts  an  influence  that 
cannot  be  measured,  and  leaves  an  im- 
press that  witnesses  to  his  own  useful- 
ness. He  carries  with  him  a  sense  of 
accountability  of  which  the  business 
man  in  his  narrow  channel  of  daily  in- 
terests knows  nothing,  and  of  which 
none  but  himself  can  have  full  under- 
standing. His  is  a  life  of  consecration 
to  community-interests.  The  minister 
who  loses  ground  does  so  because  he 
fails  to  view  his  calling  from  this  plane 
of  everyday  relations  to  his  people  and 
confines  himself  to  his  appearance  in 
the  pulpit,  often  the  least  of  his  oppor- 
tunities for  helpfulness. 


796 


THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER 


Not  every  man  is  qualified  to  be  a 
community-adviser,  and  fortunate  is 
the  congregation  that  possesses  a  pas- 
tor gifted  with  honesty  of  purpose  and 
great  common  sense.  He  will  be  called 
on  to  settle  many  things  —  most  of 
them  affairs  of  which  the  outside  world 
never  hears.  There  are  the  father  and 
mother,  with  a  daughter  for  whose  fu- 
ture they  are  anxious.  Shall  she  be 
sent  to  college  at  the  sacrifice  of  family 
funds,  or  shall  she  seek  employment  in 
store  or  office?  Shall  the  son  go  to  the 
city  to  make  his  own  way,  or  shall  he  be 
kept  at  home?  The  pastor  listens  to  all 
the  arguments,  reads  in  the  parents' 
words  the  longing  of  their  hearts,  but 
knows  the  children,  too.  He  is  certain 
that  the  daughter  will  not  use  the  col- 
lege education  wisely,  that  the  son 
needs  the  utmost  guardianship  of  the 
home  —  but  what  shall  he  say?  The 
widow  who  needs  advice  is  less  of  a 
problem  than  the  unhappy  wife  who 
asks  for  guidance  in  her  marital  affairs. 
Perhaps  a  family  can  be  saved  by  the 
right  word  at  this  time.  It  requires 
much  knowledge  of  the  heart  to  say 
it. 

The  stranger  within  the  town's  gates 
goes  first  to  the  parsonage.  He  is  pen- 
niless, has  rich  relations  or  money  com- 
ing to  him;  can  he  be  helped?  The  city 
preacher  is  not  the  only  one  who  is 
misled  by  tales  of  hard  luck.  Frequent- 
ly his  country  brother  yields  to  persua- 
sion and  contributes  money  which  he 
sorely  needs  himself  and  which,  when 
he  finds  he  has  been  duped,  he  deeply 
regrets  —  for  there  is  small  recompense 
for  misplaced  charity  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  attempted  Christian  service. 
The  agent  who  desires  his  approval  of 
a  set  of  books  is  a  caller.  On  the  pas- 
tor's recommendation  perhaps  many 
families  will  buy.  Shall  he  be  encour- 
aged out  of  good-nature?  These  and 
other  problems  come  before  him,  and 
he  has  no  position  isolated  by  formality 


into  which  he  may  retire;  he  must  meet 
all  his  parish  face  to  face  to-day  and 
to-morrow,  must  receive  the  criticism 
and  take  the  blame  if  he  follows  the 
wrong  course.  Little  wonder  that  his 
daily  walk  is  far  from  the  popular  idea 
of  a  flower-strewn  way,  'with  nothing 
to  do  but  prepare  two  sermons  a 
week.' 

If  the  country  minister  is  burdened 
with  the  trials  of  families  already 
formed,  he  is  made  a  part  of  the  joy 
attending  the  starting  of  a  new  house- 
hold. The  bashful  couple  that  knocks 
at  the  parsonage  door  on  a  summer 
evening,  and  in  the  little  parlor,  with 
the  minister's  wife  as  witness,  enters 
the  married  life,  is  but  one  and  perhaps 
the  least  interesting  phase  of  this  pleas- 
ant part  of  the  pastor's  work.  Nor  does 
the  town  wedding,  with  its  pomp,  its 
bridesmaids  and  groomsmen,  its  deco- 
rations and  its  formalities,  furnish  the 
only  cheer. 

One  day  the  telephone  calls  and  a 
voice  comes  from  the  farmer's  line,  ten 
miles  away:  'Will  you  marry  me  the 
fifteenth  of  next  month?'  The  name 
and  place  follow.  Smilingly  he  replaces 
the  receiver.  On  the  appointed  date 
a  buggy  drives  to  the  parsonage.  A 
farmer  boy,  uncomfortable  in  unaccus- 
tomed 'store  clothes,'  is  ready  to  'take 
out  the  preacher,'  a  distinguished  hon- 
or. The  affair  is  an  important  event  — 
all  weddings  are  important,  but  none 
more  so  than  the  one  in  the  coun- 
try. The  family  of  the  bride  has  lived 
long  in  the  community;  every  neigh- 
bor for  miles  around  is  invited.  The 
furniture  has  been  set  out  of  doors  to 
make  room  for  the  guests.  The  crowd 
fills  every  available  spot  from  kitchen 
to  parlor.  The  bride's  mother  is  nerv- 
ously effusive,  the  father  is  doing  his 
best  to  make  himself  useful.  A  score  of 
questions  await  the  minister's  decision: 
Where  shall  the  bridal  couple  stand? 
What  shall  be  the  order  of  precedence? 


THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER 


A  hurried  rehearsal  is  held  in  the  up- 
stairs bedroom,  the  bashful  groom 
stumbling  over  every  possible  obstacle, 
the  bride  answering  at  the  wrong  place 
in  the  service.  In  the  bay  window  of 
the  parlor  a  bower  of  lace,  vines,  and 
rugs  has  been  arranged.  The  organist 
of  the  neighborhood  is  playing  a  soul- 
ful love-ballad.  Deftly,  from  much  ex- 
perience, the  minister  guides  the  palpi- 
tating bridal  party  from  stairway  to 
window-nook  and  performs  the  cere- 
mony. 

The  gowns  are  unostentatious,  there 
are  no  trains,  no  dress-suits  —  but  there 
is  a  sweet  simplicity  sometimes  lack- 
ing on  more  elaborate  occasions.  Then 
come  congratulations.  The  pretty 
bride  is  kissed  by  every  young  man  of 
the  neighborhood,  despite  her  frantic 
efforts  to  avoid  it.  There  is  laughter 
and  hearty  good-will.  The  minister 
sits  at  the  head  of  a  long  table;  supper 
is  served  —  a  bounteous,  over-whelm- 
ing supper,  with  all  the  skill  of  an  ex- 
pert housewife's  effort  expended  on  its 
preparation.  It  is  rich  with  the  pro- 
duct of  farm,  garden,  and  dairy,  satisfy- 
ing in  every  feature.  It  may  lack  cut 
glass  and  solid  silver,  it  is  not  served 
by  trained  waiters,  but  it  has  a  home- 
likeness  that  appeals  to  every  guest. 
Following  may  come  songs  and  a  good 
old-fashioned  visit,  for  the  neighbors 
do  not  often  come  together  on  social 
occasions. 

Suddenly  breaks  out  the  inevitable 
charivari — what  would  a  country  wed- 
ding be  without  it!  Tin  pans,  shot- 
guns, yells,  and  every  noise  that  healthy 
country  boys  can  devise,  make  the 
night  hideous.  The  groom  pretends  to 
be  much  vexed,  the  bride  appears 
frightened  —  but  at  heart  they  feel 
that  it  is  in  a  way  a  tribute  to  their 
popularity.  They  know  how  to  stop  it 
—  the  serenaders  are  taken  to  the 
kitchen  and  given  the  '  treat '  they  had 
expected. 


By  and  by  the  bride  and  groom  drive 
away.  They  have  gone,  as  the  local 
paper  will  say  in  its  report  next  week, 
'to  the  groom's  fine  farm,  where  has 
been  fitted  up  for  them  a  commodious 
residence.' 

The  preacher  and  his  wife  are  taken 
back  to  town  by  their  former  driver, 
and  as  they  jog  over  the  country  roads 
the  sound  of  the  company's  parting  dies ; 
they  talk  of  the  hospitality  enjoyed, 
of  the  fine  young  couple  launched  on 
wedded  life,  and  of  the  good  people 
they  have  met.  At  home  the  preacher 
takes  from  his  pocket  a  ten-dollar  bill, 
lays  it  on  the  dresser  and  considers  the 
evening  well  spent. 

Other  duties  come  that  have  a  more 
sombre  side.  Sorrow  as  well  as  joy  is 
shared  with  the  minister.  When  death 
comes  to  the  farm  home  it  means  ex- 
periences not  met  when  there  is  death 
on  the  avenue.  The  little  dwelling  is 
far  from  town,  the  family  is  perhaps 
crowded  for  room.  The  roads  are  rough 
and  the  storms  severe.  Again  the 
neighbor-boy  drives  to  town  for  the 
minister  to  conduct  the  service.  If  it 
be  held  at  the  house  there  is  no  possi- 
bility for  the  flower-laden,  softening 
atmosphere  of  the  city  parlor.  Family 
and  friends  are  gathered  around  the 
coffin.  The  singers  are  beside  the  min- 
ister. Or  there  is  service  in  the  little 
country  church,  and  the  friends  and 
neighbors  sit  on  wooden  benches,  listen- 
ing to  words  of  sympathy  and  con- 
solation. It  is  expected  that  there  will 
be  a  sermon  —  it  would  seem  out  of 
place  to  have  a  short  and  formal  serv- 
ice. So  the  minister  fulfills  that  duty 
fully.  Then  he  waits  until  all  have  filed 
in  single  row  past  the  coffin,  each  at- 
tendant stopping  for  a  long  look  at  the 
form  lying  silent. 

It  is  a  slow  ride  to  the  last  resting- 
place.  No  matter  what  the  weather, 
no  matter  how  unaccustomed  to  biting 
winds  the  preacher  may  be,  he  heads 


798 


THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER 


the  procession  that  travels,  perhaps  for 
miles,  to  the  graveyard.  Desolate  is 
the  country  cemetery!  Often  it  is  bare 
of  trees,  and  seems  a  neglected  spot 
whose  space  the  farms  begrudge.  If 
out  on  the  plains,  its  boundary  is  a 
barbed-wire  fence,  its  sod  the  original 
prairie  grass  that  once  knew  the  foot- 
print of  the  buffalo.  The  care  and 
adornment  that  mark  the  town  ceme- 
tery are  seldom  found  in  it — yet  around 
it  centres  the  same  love  and  tender- 
ness. The  minister  is  conscious  of  all 
this  as  he  stands  with  bared  head  per- 
forming the  final  rites.  He  knows  that 
there  is  left  a  family  that  must  go  back 
to  a  farmhouse  to  face  a  keen  intensity 
of  loneliness.  Then  comes  the  long  ride 
back  to  town,  and  he  reaches  home 
chilled  and  weary. 

If  he  be  popular  and  has  been  long 
a  resident  of  the  place,  he  pays  the 
price  in  scores  of  such  trips  during  the 
year.  Sometimes  they  come  in  such 
frequency  that  he  has  scarcely  time  in 
which  to  prepare  his  pulpit  addresses. 
He  exhausts  his  supply  of  nervous  en- 
ergy as  well  as  his  reserve  of  consoling 
words.  Seldom  is  there  financial  recom- 
pense. The  newer  sections  of  the  coun- 
try have  not  yet  reached  the  point  in 
their  development  when  their  people 
expect  to  remunerate  a  minister  for  a 
funeral  service.  Of  course  he  does  not 
make  a  charge;  he  is  willing  to  do  his 
best  to  fulfill  his  priestly  office  in  time 
of  grief;  but  he  sees  the  undertaker 
paid,  the  other  expenses  of  the  occa- 
sion met,  and  sometimes  as  he  rests 
from  a  long,  soul-disturbing  afternoon 
he  wonders  if  he  also  ought  not  to  have 
some  other  recognition  than  thanks. 
When  it  does  come  he  appreciates  it, 
not  for  the  money  itself,  but  because  it 
expresses  in  a  concrete  way  the  senti- 
ment of  those  he  has  served.  Some  day 
there  will  be  recognized  the  same  ob- 
ligation to  the  minister  who  officiates 
at  a  funeral  as  is  unquestioningly  felt 


toward  him  who  is  the  representative 
of  church  or  state  at  a  wedding  —  and 
the  country  minister  is  willing  that  that 
day  shall  arrive. 

Even  with  the  service  his  task  is  not 
always  ended.  There  may  be  a  request 
that  he  write  a  lengthy  obituary  for  the 
local  paper,  and  that  he  have  published 
a  card  of  thanks  'to  all  the  kind  friends 
and  neighbors  who  assisted  us  in  our 
late  bereavement.'  When  he  has  ful- 
filled these  requests  he  may  be  excused 
for  feeling  his  responsibilities  exceed- 
ingly well  performed  and  for  hoping 
that  he  may  receive  therefor  a  heavenly 
reward. 

The  necessity  of  calling  on  the  mem- 
bers of  his  church  occupies  a  vast  por- 
tion of  his  time,  and  robs  him  of  many 
hours  needed  for  study.  The  city  pas- 
tor, with  his  card-case,  a  carriage  and 
driver,  may  make  twenty  calls  in  the 
afternoon.  His  country  brother  cannot 
so  simply  do  his  duty.  Every  family 
must  have  at  least  one  visit  during  the 
year,  not  to  mention  one  or  two  formal 
calls,  if  possible.  The  preacher  and  his 
wife  must  spend  the  evening  or  a  part 
of  the  afternoon  in  a  formal  stay  when 
the  men  are  at  home.  The  history  and 
experiences  of  every  member  of  the 
family  are  rehearsed  —  the  time  when 
Willie  had  the  measles,  the  pain  grand- 
pa endured  when  his  team  ran  away 
and  broke  his  shoulder,  and  the  adven- 
tures of  Uncle  Jim  in  the  army.  '  I  have 
one  hundred  and  forty  families  in  my 
church,'  said  a  conscientious  pastor.  'I 
take  out  of  the  year  one  hundred  and 
forty  evenings  for  visits,  which  means 
about  every  available  night  when 
weather  is  suitable.  Did  I  not  do  it,  my 
people  would  fail  to  keep  up  their  in- 
terest in  the  work  and  my  board  would 
ask  an  accounting.' 

Owing  to  the  complexity  of  church 
organization,  the  minister  is  of  neces- 
sity the  vehicle  through  which  every 
order  from  higher  authorities  is  trans- 


THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER 


799 


mitted  to  his  congregation;  likewise  he 
carries  the  message  from  his  subor- 
dinate laborer  to  the  people.  He  must 
meet  with  the  committees  on  prayer 
meeting,  Sunday  school,  missions,  and 
various  other  activities,  present  their 
plans  and  put  them  into  operation.  He 
is  almost  certain  to  be  afflicted  with  a 
stubborn  deacon  who  can  always  find 
excuse  to  start  trouble,  who  'allows' 
that '  th'  sermon  was  n't  quite  up  to  the 
mark  to-day,'  or  bemoans  the  fact  that 
somebody  was  offended  by  plain  speak- 
ing. However,  the  deacon  is  more  eas- 
ily borne  than  the  over-officious  sister 
who  feels  called  upon  to  report  to  the 
aid  society  all  the  shortcomings  of  the 
pastor's  wife  and  household,  and  whose 
visits  partake  of  the  nature  of  licensed 
inspection.  Years  of  service  may  ac- 
custom the  minister  to  these  visita- 
tions, but  he  never  learns  to  welcome 
them. 

Along  with  other  duties  the  country- 
town  minister  must  do  his  share  in  the 
general  social  activity  of  the  commun- 
ity. Should  he  refuse,  it  means  that  he 
loses  much  in  standing  and  usefulness. 
Does  the  Ancient  Order  of  Trustful 
Knights  have  a  banquet,  who  but  the 
preacher  is  so  fitted  to  deliver  the  prin- 
cipal address  on  the  good  of  the  order? 
Does  the  Ladies'  Literary  Club  have 
an  open  meeting,  who  else  can  so  well 
occupy  the  evening  with  an  address  on 
'The  Renaissance  of  Greek  Poetry'? 
Is  there  a  mass  meeting  for  a  charitable 
object,  who  but  the  preachers  are  to 
make  the  appeal  from  the  stage  of  the 
opera  house?  Who  else  is  to  conduct 
the  lecture  course,  see  that  the  Car- 
negie library  is  managed  satisfactorily, 
and  take  part  in  the  exercises  of  flag- 
raisings  and  public  holidays?  To  ac- 
complish all  this  calls  for  a  large  fund 
of  information  and  familiarity  with 
the  world's  doings.  The  minister  can- 
not be  a  mere  bookworm,  buried  in 
his  study  of  Biblical  literature  —  he 


must  be  an  active  force  among  men. 
He  fills  a  place  that  the  old-time  coun- 
try preacher  knew  not  in  so  large 
degree. 

Out  of  all  this  activity  he  gains 
greater  hold  on  the  community,  en- 
hances the  work  of  his  church,  and  in- 
creases his  own  power.  He  realizes  this, 
but  sometimes  wonders  if  the  diversion 
of  his  talents  in  many  directions  is  best 
after  all.  When  he  has  spent  a  particu- 
larly wearing  week  in  multifarious  calls, 
he  comes  to  the  pulpit  with  some  mis- 
givings. He  is  thankful  that  he  does 
not  have  to  face  a  critical  audience.  To 
be  sure,  there  are  probably  several  col- 
lege graduates  before  him,  but  they,  too, 
have  been  busy  and  are  sympathetic- 
ally inclined.  It  is  one  of  the  solaces 
of  the  cultured  minister  that  wherever 
he  goes  he  finds  men  and  women  who 
have  reached  high  planes  of  thought. 
In  the  unpretentious  farmhouse  may 
be  found  on  the  parlor  wall  a  univer- 
sity diploma,  instead  of  a  steel  engrav- 
ing of  Washington  Crossing  the  Dele- 
ware,  or  a  view  of  Napoleon's  Tomb. 
He  meets  in  his  rounds  earnest  students 
who  have  not  forgotten  their  Latin  and 
psychology,  who  read  the  best  books 
and  periodicals.  'They  must  be  nice 
people  —  they  take  such  good  maga- 
zines,' was  the  report  of  a  rural  carrier 
when  asked  regarding  a  new  family 
just  moved  to  a  western  farm.  So  the 
minister  is  inspired  to  live  up  to  the 
best  that  is  in  him;  whether  speaking 
in  a  country  schoolhouse  or  in  his  com- 
fortable church,  he  is  ever  cognizant 
of  unceasing  appeal  to  the  best  that  is 
in  him. 

Whether  or  not  he  have  strong  po- 
litical opinions,  it  is  necessary  that 
there  be  some  attention  given  to  affairs 
of  state;  but  the  wise  minister  refrains 
from  expressing  extreme  sentiments. 
Should  he  forget  himself  and  go  deeply 
into  a  campaign,  he  is  likely  to  regret  it 
after  election.  This  does  not,  however, 


800 


THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER 


prevent  him  from  belonging  to  one 
of  the  national  parties,  and  he  holds 
the  respect  of  the  men  of  his  church 
when  he  frankly  takes  his  position.  En- 
deavoring to  conceal  political  preference 
for  fear  of  giving  offense,  is  poor  pol- 
icy, and  few  ministers  adopt  it.  With 
the  matter  of  secret  societies  and  lodges 
it  is  different.  'I  have  allowed  my 
membership  in  several  lodges  to  lapse,' 
said  one  country  minister, '  not  because 
of  any  fault  with  the  organization,  but 
because  I  found  that  to  be  an  active 
member  meant  the  withdrawal  of  a 
certain  amount  of  energy  from  my 
church  work  in  which  it  is  needed.'  On 
the  other  hand,  many  ministers  say 
their  lodge  associations  help  them  in 
church  work  by  bringing  them  in  touch 
with  the  men  of  the  community  in  a 
place  where  all  meet  as  equals.  The 
idea  of  rivalry  between  lodge  and  church 
has  largely  passed  away,  and  the  two 
are  understood  as  supplementing  each 
other  in  the  accomplishment  of  good 
things  for  the  community-life. 

So  with  the  Sunday  school,  which  is 
depended  upon  to  recruit  the  church 
membership,  and  in  the  country  town 
outstrips  the  maturer  congregation  in 
members.  It  holds  forth  in  the  country 
schoolhouse  during  a  part  of  the  year, 
then  rests  until  there  comes  another 
season  of  interest.  The  farmer  and  his 
family  may  maintain  this  school,  but 
the  minister  must  be  there  sometimes 
if  it  is  to  be  established  with  any  cer- 
tainty of  good.  So  on  Sunday  after- 
noon he  drives  out  and  gives  a  talk  to 
the  children.  In  his  home  church  he  is 
expected  to  take  an  active  interest  in 
this  part  of  the  work  —  and  if  his  wife 
does  not  teach  a  class  she  is  by  some 
considered  as  falling  below  the  proper 
measure  of  a  helpmate.  At  every  re- 
ligious festival  the  minister  must  as- 
sist in  the  Sunday-school  celebration, 
and  always  he  must  advise  and  counsel 
with  the  superintendent.  The  school's 


progress  depends,  in  the  last  analy- 
sis, on  the  pastor's  tact  and  his  abil- 
ity to  set  strong  men  and  women  to 
work. 

In  this  age  of  varied  directness  of 
religious  effort,  the  minister  is  likely  to 
seek  methods  of  adding  to  the  uplift 
of  his  parishioners  through  the  intro- 
duction of  semi- worldly  enterprises. 
The  organization  of  brotherhoods,  with 
their  impetus  toward  good  citizenship, 
social  betterment,  and  the  physical  de- 
velopment of  their  members,  is  but  one 
of  the  more  popular  of  these  methods. 
They  are  aimed  at  securing  the  atten- 
tion of  the  men  —  the  women  will  come 
of  their  own  accord. 

'The  hardest  problem  of  the  coun- 
try minister,'  said  one  who  is  an  en- 
thusiast in  such  matters,  'is  to  secure 
the  presence  and  cooperation  of  the 
men.  Out  of  the  large  number  who 
nominally  belong  to  the  congregation, 
comparatively  few  can  be  reached  and 
held.  It  is  not  that,  as  in  the  city, 
there  are  many  counter-attractions,  — 
for  these  are  less  numerous  in  a  coun- 
try community,  —  but  because  of  an 
indifference  that  is  difficult  to  analyze 
and  to  overcome.  The  demand  for  the 
church's  assistance  in  a  prosperous 
country  town,  with  no  vicious  criminal 
classes,  no  slums,  no  tenement  districts, 
no  great  crying  field  for  charity, — sim- 
ply the  exposition  of  every-day  Chris- 
tianity, —  does  not  make  to  many 
men  a  strong  appeal.  It  lacks  the  spec- 
tacular, and  perhaps  that  accounts  in 
some  degree  for  the  inertia.  It  is  not 
hostility;  it  is  merely  unwillingness  to 
act;  but  it  can  be  aroused  when  needed 
to  carry  on  any  good  work.' 

So  the  minister,  with  his  desire  to 
build  up  the  congregation  and  to  meet 
the  competition  that  exists  because  of 
the  many  others  working  to  the  same 
end,  strives  to  interest  the  men.  He 
dislikes  to  feel  that  any  of  his  members 
are,  as  one  expressed  it,  '  loafing  on  the 


THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER 


801 


job.'  He  knows  that  the  end  of  the 
year  will  bring  a  necessity  for  meeting 
obligations  —  not  alone  his  own  salary, 
which  is  none  too  munificent,  but  the 
benevolences  of  the  church.  When  he 
packs  his  suit-case  and  starts  for  the 
annual  convocation  of  his  synod  or 
conference,  he  is  conscious  of  a  justifi- 
able satisfaction  if  he  can  report  that 
every  fund  has  been  filled. 

The  itinerant  evangelist  is  one  of  the 
agents  used  to  bring  new  activity  into 
the  religious  life  of  the  town.  He  is 
usually  accompanied  by  a  singer,  and 
for  a  week  or  a  month  exhorts  and  calls 
to  repentance.  When  he  comes  with 
a  wholesome  message,  with  enthusiasm 
and  the  ability  to  present  his  cause  in  a 
winning  way,  he  does  much  good.  He 
puts  new  life  into  the  work,  starts  the 
town  to  talking  about  religious  things, 
and  brings  many  to  a  sense  of  respon- 
sibility toward  the  church  and  its  mis- 
sion. But  he  may  be  of  the  sensational 
variety,  seeking  self-glorification  as 
well  as  the  accomplishment  of  reform. 
Then  he  writes  for  the  local  papers 
glowing  reports  of  his  own  sermons  and 
takes  delight  in  a  wholesale  denuncia- 
tion of  whatever  he  considers  the 
town's  chief  faults.  This  makes  leading 
citizens  angry,  but  he  cares  not.  He 
preaches  one  sizzling  sermon  on  danc- 
ing and  another  on  card-playing,  and  he 
is  the  topic  of  conversation  during  his 
stay.  A  census  of  conversions  is  pub- 
lished daily,  and  at  the  end  a  handsome 
contribution,  nearly  equal  to  the  pas- 
tor's salary  for  a  year,  is  presented  to 
him.  . 

Thereupon  the  professional  revivalist 
moves  on,  and  the  hard-working  min- 
ister resumes  his  task.  After  a  few 
weeks  comes  relaxation.  One  sister 
gives  a  bridge-whist  party,  and  some 
of  the  young  folks  indulge  in  a  ball.  So 
the  burden  is  back  on  his  own  shoul- 
ders; he  it  is  who  must  hold  the  church 
to  its  accustomed  standard,  and  be  re- 

VOL.  107  -  NO.  6 


sponsible  for  its  ultimate  success  —  a 
duty  far  different  from  that  of  the 
evangelist,  calling  for  more  sustained 
power  and  for  established  consistency 
in  word  and  act. 

Every  minister  has  an  ambition  to 
leave  his  church  better  than  he  found 
it.  If  the  building  be  scant  in  propor- 
tions, he  strives  to  inspire  his  congre- 
gation to  build  a  new  one  or  to  enlarge 
the  present  structure.  That  means  a 
great  deal  of  money.  It  must  come 
usually  not  from  the  congregation 
alone,  but  from  many  outside  contri- 
butions. The  business  men,  feeling  that 
it  is  a  good  thing  to  strengthen  relig- 
ious work,  are  liberal  givers.  So  the 
contract  is  let  when  a  part  of  the  money 
is  raised,  and  when  the  work  is  com- 
pleted, the  minister  and  his  helpers 
struggle  to  complete  the  payment. 
Sometimes  it  is  easy  —  sometimes  not. 
When  one  denomination  takes  this 
course,  others  are  convinced  that  it  is 
their  duty  to  do  likewise.  One  church 
after  another  is  reconstructed,  and  only 
those  immediately  concerned  with  the 
finances  realize  just  how  difficult  is 
the  task. 

Of  late  years,  with  greater  prosperity 
among  the  members,  church  contribu- 
tions have  increased.  The  minister  is 
better  paid;  he  depends  less  on  dona- 
tion parties,  with  their  heterogeneous 
collection  of  undesirable  provender, 
and  receives  his  salary  with  greater 
regularity.  He  shares  in  the  prosperity 
of  his  parishioners,  and  is  able  to  con- 
duct the  business  end  of  his  profession 
with  more  system.  This  enhances  his 
self-respect,  makes  his  service  more 
efficient,  and  gives  him  a  position  in  the 
community  that  enables  him  to  accom- 
plish larger  things.  Needless  to  say  he 
does  not  lay  up  riches  in  this  world. 
With  a  yearly  stipend  that  may  reach 
$1200,  and  a  parsonage,  he  manages  to 
pay  the  family  bills  —  and  little  more. 
This  is  not  the  usual  figure,  however; 


802 


THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER 


or 


when  the  wage  falls  to 
the  struggle  with  his  bank-account  is 
perpetual.  The  minister  and  his  wife 
must  dress  well  enough  to  be  present- 
able in  any  company;  their  home  must 
be  fit  for  the  visit  of  any  parishioner; 
indeed,  it  is  a  stopping-place  for  many 
a  wanderer  who  ought  to  have  tact 
enough  to  go  to  a  hotel. 

The  attitude  of  the  business  men  to- 
ward the  ministers,  even  though  there 
be  more  churches  than  are  really  needed 
for  the  size  of  the  town,  is  one  of  en- 
couragement. To  all  the  multifarious 
calls  they  are  found  willing  givers  with- 
in their  ability.  If  detailed  to  a  special 
work,  they  do  it  gladly  so  far  as  their 
power  extends.  Occasionally  in  the 
membership  are  one  or  two  families  of 
wealth  that  unquestioningly  make  good 
all  deficits,  but  generally  the  popula- 
tion of  the  country  town  is  pretty  much 
on  a  level.  Good  times  are  diffused 
over  all;  business  depression  is  felt  uni- 
formly. 

Because  of  this  common  level  the 
minister  is  called  on  to  lead  few  cru- 
sades. He  has  no  benighted  districts 
into  which  he  must  carry  personal  war- 
fare against  bitter  opposition.  There 
may  be,  and  frequently  are,  times  when 
he  joins  with  the  good  citizen  in  curb- 
ing an  evil  tendency,  and  often  he  is 
met  by  unforeseen  outbreaks  of  law- 
lessness that  call  for  quick  action,  level- 
headed judgment,  and  courage.  If  he 
be  not  content  to  take  a  moderate  view 
and  be  inclined  to  force  special  ideas, 
it  is  likely  that  he  will  not  remain  a 
country  minister,  but  will  find  his  field 
in  the  service  of  some  reform  work  of 
different  scope.  The  pastor's  work  does 
not  call  for  perpetual  display  of  fire- 
works; it  requires  rather  sympathetic 
helpfulness  for  men  and  women  who 
are  doing  their  daily  task  with  anxiety 
for  material  success,  often  against  odds, 
and  who  are  willing  to  be  assisted  but 
cannot  be  coerced. 


The  country  press  gives  to  the  min- 
ister and  to  the  church  ungrudging  aid. 
The  minister  seldom  finds  in  the  local 
paper  the  embarrassment  met  by  his 
fellow  worker  in  the  city,  where  sensa- 
tional reports  and  more  sensational 
headlines  may  exploit  some  trivial 
statement  or  unimportant  action  into 
undesired  prominence.  His  publicity 
department  is  his  own,  and  with  it  he 
can  accomplish  much.  He  may  be  the 
author  of  the  reports  of  his  weddings, 
his  funerals,  his  special  services  —  the 
editor  asking  only  that  he  furnish  leg- 
ible copy. 

Occasionally  a  country  minister, 
nervous  and  high-strung,  feels  ham- 
pered for  a  time  by  this  yearly  round. 
He  wonders  why  he  cannot  arouse  in 
the  community  the  enthusiasm  he 
imagines  follows  the  efforts  of  city 
preachers  whose  portraits  and  inter- 
views occupy  liberal  space  in  city  pa- 
pers. He  longs  for  more  action,  more 
excitement,  and  rebels  at  the  weight 
of  his  burden.  After  he  has  become 
acquainted  with  his  people,  after  he 
knows  intimately  their  daily  life  and 
learns  their  merit  and  limitations,  his 
view  changes.  He  knows  then  that  the 
country  neighborhood,  or  the  country 
town,  has  a  high  level  of  morality;  that 
if  it  does  not  glow  with  exaltation, 
neither  does  it  descend  to  depths  of 
degradation ;  that  instances  of  marked 
wickedness  are  isolated,  that  the  men 
and  women  as  a  whole  are  well-be- 
haved, trying  to  be  good  citizens  and 
to  bring  up  their  families  in  honor  and 
good- will.  Because  he  can  assist  them 
in  this,  and  can  fill  so  large  a  place  in 
their  daily  life,  the  man  with  consecra- 
tion in  his  heart  and  good  sense  in  his 
head,  has  a  rare  opportunity.  It  de- 
pends entirely  upon  himself  how  much 
he  shall  accomplish.  He  may  remain  in 
his  study;  he  may  polish  his  sermons 
in  preference  to  improving  his  acquaint- 
ance with  the  everyday  folk  of  congre- 


THE  COUNTRY  MINISTER 


803 


gallon  and  neighborhood;  he  may  as- 
sume extreme  dignity  and  dwell  aloof; 
but  if  he  does  so  he  is  the  exception, 
for  the  country  minister  of  to-day  is  a 
man  among  men,  filling  a  man's  place 
in  the  civic  life  while  occupying  the 
position  of  a  representative  of  a  higher 
calling. 

As  his  children  grow  up,  the  minister 
seeks  a  change  to  a  college  town  where 
they  can  obtain  an  education  while 
living  at  home.  He  is  thankful  for  the 
abundance  of  small  colleges;  it  gives 
him  better  opportunity  to  secure  this 
boon.  Sometimes  he  leaves  the  minis- 
try at  this  period  and  goes  into  busi- 
ness to  secure  a  competence  for  the 
possible  rainy  day.  Not  always  does 
he  succeed;  the  profession  he  has  fol- 
lowed so  many  years  has  given  little 
training  for  money-making,  and  he  is 
exceptional  if  he  be  a  success  in  his  new 
field.  Perhaps  gifted  with  his  pen,  he 
manages  to  earn  extra  money  by  con- 
tributing to  church  papers  or  to  the 
magazines.  His  success  here  depends 
largely  on  his  ability  to  group  helpful 
suggestions  and  timely  topics  in  at- 
tractive prose.  Usually  he  looks  for- 
ward to  the  fund  for  the  superan- 
nuated as  a  pension  in  his  old  age. 
Finally  he  gives  up  caring  for  a  reg- 


ular charge,  and  'supplies'  a  pulpit 
now  and  then,  enjoying  a  well-earned 
rest. 

The  demand  is  always  for  a  higher 
class  of  men  in  the  country  ministry. 
The  graduates  of  theological  schools 
get  in  the  country  their  training  for 
larger  fields.  They  learn  what  it  means 
to  care  for  the  spiritual  welfare  of  a 
people  while  filling  a  large  place  in  the 
social  and  civic  life.  The  rewards  are 
not  liberal,  expressed  in  dollars  and 
cents,  but  measured  by  the  chances  for 
usefulness  and  for  development  of  char- 
acter they  are  limitless.  It  is  a  prepara- 
tion for  the  fulfillment  of  hopes,  the 
accomplishment  of  ambitions.  Even 
if  the  call  does  not  come  to  a  higher 
position,  the  field  offers  its  own  recom- 
pense. It  is  something  for  the  minister 
to  know  that  careers  of  usefulness  have 
been  begun  because  of  his  unselfish  ad- 
vice; that  his  counsel  is  cherished  by 
successful  men  and  women  filling  their 
own  place  in  the  world;  that  laid  away 
in  bureau  drawers  are  scores  of  cher- 
ished newspaper  clippings,  reports  of 
weddings  and  funerals  at  which  he 
officiated,  obituaries  he  penned.  Look- 
ing back  on  such  years  of  service,  the 
country  pastor  has  ample  reason  to 
rejoice. 


DO  YOU  REMEMBER? 


BY   MARGARET   PRESCOTT   MONTAGUE 


Do  you  remember,  from  the  dim  delight 

Of  long  ago,  the  dreamy  summer  night, 

So  full,  so  soft,  when  you,  a  sleepy  child, 

Lay  in  your  faintly  star-light  room,  and  smiled 

Responsive  to  the  laughter  of  the  folk 

Who  sat  upon  the  porch  below  and  spoke 

From  time  to  time,  or  sang  a  snatch  of  song? 

Do  you  remember  still  across  the  long 

Years'  way  the  perfume  from  the  flower  beds 

Wafted  in  gusts  of  sweetness,  as  the  heads 

Of  drowsy  blooms  were  shaken  by  the  wind? 

And  wistful,  do  you  still  hold  in  your  mind 

The  myriad  doings  of  the  summer  night? 

The  tree-toads,  and  the  cricket's  chirp,  the  flight 

Of  fireflies,  those  burglars  of  the  dark, 

Who  flash  their  lantern  light,  then  veil  its  spark; 

The  breathless  calling  of  the  whip-poor-wills, 

A  sobbing  screech-owl  off  among  the  hills  ? 

Then  —  cobweb  visions  over  dreamy  eyes  — 
Do  you  remember  how  in  mystic  guise 
Sleep  'gan  to  wave  her  mantle  o'er  your  head? 
Now  far,  now  near,  the  shadowy  folds  she  spread, 
Slow,  and  more  slow,  until  at  last  they  fell 
And  wrapt  you  in  their  slumb'rous  heavy  swell  - 
And  so,  close  gathered  into  happy  rest, 
Sleep  caught  you  fast  against  her  fragrant  breast, 
Then  set  her  velvet  pinions  wide  in  flight 
And  bore  you  through  the  wonder  of  the  night. 


THE   PORTRAIT  INCUBUS 


BY   HELEN    NICOLAY 


THERE  is  a  book  yet  to  be  written  — 
an  intimate  sort  of  book,  not  for  the 
drawing-room,  but  for  the  closet.  It 
will  seem  a  little  like  a  book  of  devo- 
tions, but  much  more  like  a  Housekeep- 
ers' Manual.  Purely  scientific  in  spirit, 
it  will  be  wholly  reverent,  even  a  bit 
ceremonial  in  expression;  and  its  title 
will  be  A  Guide  to  the  Decorous  De- 
struction of  Ancestors. 

We  may  hesitate  to  admit  it,  but 
can  we  truthfully  deny  that  at  some 
time  each  one  of  us,  deep  down  in  his 
or  her  heart,  —  particularly  her  heart 
at  house-cleaning  time,  —  has  longed 
for  such  a  volume?  We  may  even  have 
been  unconscious  of  the  longing;  or, 
acutely  conscious,  have  smothered  the 
thought  in  horrified  haste,  crushing  it 
madly  back  into  the  Pandora's  box  of 
evil  suggestions  that  each  is  fated  to 
carry  about  with  him  through  life,  but 
must  strive  to  keep  shut,  with  what 
success  he  can,  for  the  good  of  Society. 
I  confess  the  thought  was  no  stranger 
to  me  when  I  suddenly  came  face  to 
face  with  it  the  other  day  in  a  Boylston 
Street  curio-shop. 

It  was  a  dismal  place,  that  shop,  full 
of  the  odds  and  ends  that  congregate 
in  every  such  eddy  of  trade,  —  lame 
highboys,  frivolous  Empire  tables, 
pieces  of  Sheffield  plate,  Mayflower 
chairs  of  doubtful  parentage,  and  all 
the  dusty,  pitiful  riff-raff  of  smaller 
objects  that  have  once  been  precious, 
but  are  now  discarded  and  utterly  for- 
lorn. Huddled  together  awaiting  pur- 
chasers, jostled  about  the  shop  by  a 
great  demon  of  a  porter,  black  as  the 


pit  from  whence  he  was  digged,  and 
presided  over  by  a  callous  young  clerk, 
insensible  alike  to  their  pathos  or  their 
artistic  "merit,  it  was  —  if  inanimate 
things  have  feelings  of  their  own  — 
a  very  inferno. 

Hanging  on  the  wall,  in  one  corner 
overlooking  the  clutter,  was  a  portrait. 
Not  a  very  good  portrait,  even  as  por- 
traits go  (and,  goodness  knows,  por- 
traits  go  rapidly  from  bad  to  worse!) 
but  a  portrait  with  compelling  gaze  that 
caught  the  eye  and  would  not  be  de- 
nied. Technically,  it  was  a  marvel  of 
simplicity,  a  thing  of  flat  tints  and  few 
colors,  points  connoisseurs  rave  over. 
But  unfortunately  these  flat  tints  were 
laid  on  with  the  flat  finality  of  the  sign- 
painter,  instead  of  palpitating  with 
hidden  form  as  do  the  flat  tints  of  a 
master.  Presumably  the  picture  was 
painted  by  some  village  artisan,  some 
untaught  genius  whose  days  were  spent 
in  manual  toil,  but  whose  dreams  and 
scanty  holidays  were  held  sacred  to 
the  goddess  he  could  not  openly  woo. 
Of  its  two  colors,  one  was  a  dull  and 
faded  blackish  gray,  resembling  stove- 
polish,  which  once  stood  for  dark  blue. 
The  other,  a  leathery  yellow,  was  used 
impartially  for  the  complexion  and  for 
touches  of  gold  that  enlivened  the  som- 
bre material  of  the  sitter's  uniform. 

For  this  was  a  military  portrait, 
showing  a  man  not  quite  young,  but 
very  far  from  old.  A  man  with  thought- 
ful face,  clean-shaven  save  for  a  slight 
moustache,  thin  cheeks,  arched  brows, 
rather  long  black  hair  sweeping  away 
from  a  high  forehead,  and  eyes  that 

805 


806 


THE  PORTRAIT  INCUBUS 


gazed  out  over  a  lapse  of  fifty  years. 
The  costume,  that  of  a  major  in  the 
early  days  of  our  Civil  War,  would  have 
supplied  the  date  had  that  been  neces- 
sary, but  the  date  was  cut  deep  in  every 
line  of  the  sensitive  face,  carved  there 
by  the  tools  Nature  reserves  for  her 
greatest  triumph  of  mind  over  matter 
—  when  she  moulds  features  and  ex- 
pression in  whole  generations  of  force- 
ful men  into  consonance  with  some  gov- 
erning idea. 

This  was  the  student,  the  dreamer, 
of  1861,  a  face  that  the  next  four  years 
were  to  change  utterly;  either  blotting 
it  from  the  earth,  to  halo  its  place  with 
a  martyr's  crown,  or  infusing  it  with 
an  energy  that  removed  it  forever  from 
s  the  ranks  of  those  who  dream. 

Meanwhile  it  was  typical:  a  man 
American  to  the  core,  nervous,  spare, 
highly  strung,  a  trifle  romantic,  wholly 
earnest;  the  kind  to  respond  to  a  great 
duty  or  a  magnificent  idea,  no  matter 
how  repugnant  it  might  be  to  the  fibre 
of  his  being,  and  once  enlisted  in  a 
cause,  to  follow  it,  even  to  the  grave. 
Therefore,  though  he  deprecated  war, 
he  wore  a  uniform,  this  saddest  of  all 
types  of  soldier  —  an  officer  without 
the  lust  of  battle,  who  could  lead  his 
command  unfalteringly  to  honorable 
death,  but  never,  unaided,  inspire  it  to 
headlong  victory.  Fortunately,  other 
types  marched  with  him  in  that  hour, 
shoulder  to  shoulder;  men  in  whose 
veins  the  red  blood  of  magnetic  leader- 
ship ran  riot,  whose  courage  fused  with 
his  own  in  the  heat  of  combat  to  make 
the  annals  of  those  dark  days  glow  like 
an  epic  from  the  Homeric  past. 

But  what  of  the  portrait's  history? 
How  came  it  to  be  looking  down  on  the 
dreary  remains  in  this  Boylston  Street 
furniture-morgue?  It  is  easy  to  divine 
the  first  chapters  of  its  story.  The 
small  persistent  daily  self-denials  that 
built  up  the  sum  required  for  this  can  - 
vas,  painted  from  a  carte-de-visite  after 


its  original  rode  away  and  was  swal- 
lowed up  by  that  insatiable,  all-con- 
suming monster  called  the  Army  of 
the  Potomac.  Further  weeks  of  econo- 
mies went  into  the  tarnished  bit  of  gilt 
magnificence  in  which  it  was  framed. 
One  can  see  the  shaded  parlor  where  it 
hung;  and  if  one  is  quite  shameless, 
linger  there  to  spy  on  the  adoring,  anx- 
ious, suffering  eyes  that  gazed  at  it  daily 
from  the  threshold,  gathering  courage 
from  this  sweet  torture,  to  endure  and 
hope  on  to  the  end. 

What  was  the  end?  Was  his  one  of 
the  lives  snuffed  out,  or  did  he  come 
home  broken  in  health  but  superb  in 
spirit,  his  eagle's  glance  not  to  be 
dimmed  by  age  or  pain?  In  either  case 
the  picture  was  no  longer  true.  It 
lacked  the  nimbus,  or  the  eagle's  eye. 
And  forty-odd  years  have  passed  since 
that  time.  After  the  gentle  soul  to 
whom  it  was  both  torment  and  solace 
looked  her  last  upon  it,  what  happened  ? 
The  frame  seems  to  tell  a  tale  of  pov- 
erty and  decay.  Did  the  family  slide 
down  and  down  through  grades  of 
want  until  a  last  great  sacrifice  was 
demanded,  and  a  pitiful  procession  of 
household  gods  passed  under  the  ham- 
mer? Or  did  the  family  fortunes  rise 
instead  by  leaps  and  bounds,  soaring 
on  inflated  stocks  until  its  younger 
members  were  wafted  into  a  region 
where  only  '  true '  art  can  be  endured  ? 
Did  they  shudder  at  this  sallow  un- 
varnished old  kinsman  of  theirs,  and 
finally  cast  him  out  on  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  ragman?  Does  a  ques- 
tionable Sir  Joshua,  or  a  blatantly 
prismatic  Sorolla,  hang  in  the  white- 
and-yellow  drawing-room  that  long  ago 
superseded  that  shadowy  best  parlor, 
with  its  mid- Victorian  walnut  and  dark 
green  window-shades? 

And  if  —  Oh,  there  are  so  many 
ifs! 

First  of  them  all  is  this :  If  we  keep 
abreast  of  the  times,  accept  modern 


THE  PORTRAIT  INCUBUS 


807 


notions  about  matter  and  develop- 
ment and  all  that  (and  nobody  in  this 
day  questions  the  industry  of  germs, 
whatever  secret  animosity  he  may 
cherish  toward  Higher  Criticism),  are 
we  not  galloping  on  two  horses  at  once, 
precariously  near  a  fall,  if  we  still  cling 
blindly  to  worn-out  conventions  re- 
garding our  ancestors?  After  all,  why 
should  we  be  specially  polite  to  those 
old  worthies,  we,  who  never  saw  them, 
never  asked  to  be  born,  had  no  part  in 
the  passions  that  created  us,  and  owned 
not  a  single  share,  either  for  gain  or  loss, 
in  their  great  joint-stock  company  call- 
ed the  Past? 

We  should  'honor  our  fathers  and 
mothers'?  Certainly;  and  love  our 
brothers  and  sisters  and,  if  we  can, 
our  uncles  and  aunts  and  cousins,  and 
sundry  isolated  individuals  in  the  third 
and  fourth  generations  back  of  us  — 
all  of  our  ancestors  in  fact  that  we  have 
known  in  the  flesh.  But  behind  them 
stretch  indefinite  lines  and  files  and 
platoons  of  forebears,  growing  hazy  in 
mortal  outline,  until  they  drop  human 
semblance  altogether,  to  take  on  gro- 
tesque forms  of  beasts  and  birds  and 
prehistoric  monsters,  and  finally  sink 
to  the  less  terrifying  though  equally 
potent  protoplasm.  What  a  collection 
of  gargoyles  our  family  portrait-gal- 
lery really  contains! 

No.  Our  obligations  lie  not  so  much 
in  the  dim  past  as  in  the  vague  and 
quite  as  indefinite  future.  And,  grant- 
ed that  as  a  race  we  have  outgrown 
some  ancestors,  does  n't  it  follow  that 
we  may  as  individuals  outgrow  others? 
And  if  this  is  so,  is  n't  it  manifestly 
unfair  to  those  who  come  after  us,  to 
saddle  them  with  a  lot  of  antiquated 
lumber  for  no  better  reason  than  that  it 
bodies  forth,  more  or  less  inaccurately, 
the  mortal  shapes  of  some  dead  and 
gone  kinsmen? 

Doubtless  in  the  beginning  there 
was  excellent  reason  for  treasuring  and 


venerating  family  portraits;  just  as 
there  was  good  solid  reason  for  most  of 
the  customs  that  have  hardened  and 
caked  into  illogical  conventions  of 
twentieth-century  life.  Very  likely 
self-preservation  lay  at  the  bottom  of 
this  one;  since  there  was  a  time  when 
right  made  might,  and  family  glorifica- 
tion was  part  of  the  game.  No,  not  of 
the  game, — part  of  the  grimly  desperate 
struggle  away  from  the  beast  toward 
higher  things.  Family  arrogance  made 
for  supremacy.  Family  portraits  were 
convenient,  portable  family  history, 
evidence  in  tangible  shape  of  family 
pride  and  power. 

We  have  inherited  the  convention, 
and  the  arrogance.  We  have  also  in- 
vented the  camera.  And  who  can  look 
upon  a  collection  of  family  blue-prints 
as  tangible  evidence  of  anything  ex- 
cept fatuous  imbecility.  Think  of  the 
tons  of  paper,  blue,  black,  and  brown, 
under  which  our  family  archives  groan. 
And  of  their  effect  on  the  minds  of  an 
unprejudiced  posterity!  Uncle  Lionel, 
at  the  age  of  seven  weeks,  clutching  his 
nursing-bottle,  is  not  calculated  to  in- 
spire sentiments  of  valor,  though  Uncle 
Lionel  grown  to  manhood,  wielding  a 
pen  or  a  scalpel,  or  with  his  hand  on 
the  lever  of  a  sky-soaring  machine,  may 
prove  braver  than  all  the  heroes  of 
antiquity  rolled  into  one. 

After  all,  however,  it  is  not  fair  to 
hold  the  camera  responsible.  The  mere 
march  of  years  did  it,  and  the  coup  de 
grace  really  fell  when  portraits,  like 
ancestors,  became  too  numerous. 

Take  for  instance,  the  Six  gallery  at 
Amsterdam.  Its  chief  treasure,  Rem- 
brandt's portrait  of  Burgomaster  Six, 
with  his  reddish  hair  and  glorious  red 
cloak,  is  a  priceless  family  monument, 
but  infinitely  more  interesting  as  a 
record  of  the  friendship  of  a  great 
artist  for  a  sturdy  man.  In  the  same 
gallery  hangs  the  portrait  of  the  Burgo- 
master's mother,  a  dear  fat  old  dame, 


808 


THE  PORTRAIT  INCUBUS 


on  whose  broad  bosom  one  could  will- 
ingly lay  one's  head  to  rest,  or  weep. 
Then,  scattered  through  the  different 
rooms  are  half  a  dozen  pictures  of  Dr. 
Tulp,  the  Burgomaster's  son-in-law, 
chiefly  remarkable  for  their  unlikeness 
to  Rembrandt's  famous  portrait  of  him 
in  the  Anatomy  Lesson,  and  for  the 
side-light  they  throw  on  his  popularity, 
and  his  willingness  to  be  'done  in  oil.' 
In  the  hallway,  where,  fortunately,  it  is 
difficult  to  see  it,  hangs  a  likeness  of 
the  girl  he  married,  painted  when  she 
was  a  very  little  maid.  Let  us  hope  it 
does  her  injustice.  A  modest  portrait 
of  the  present  Baroness  is  also  in  the 
collection.  But  if  every  Six,  from  the 
old  Burgomaster  down  to  his  latest 
daughter-in-law,  were  represented,  it 
would  long  ago  have  ceased  to  be  a 
picture  gallery  and  have  become  a 
multiplication-table ! 

This  is  not  an  argument  against  the 
manufacture  of  portraits.  Let  every- 
body be  painted.  The  more  the  mer- 
rier! Artists  must  live.  Family  affec- 
tion must  find  expression ;  private  grief, 
if  possible,  be  assuaged.  Let  every  one 
who  longs  for  a  portrait  of  'dear  An- 
nie,' or  'dear  Mother,'  or  'cute  little 
Joe,'  have  the  desire  of  his  heart  satis- 
fied. Though  many  are  painted,  few 
are  saved  —  from  final  destruction. 
But,  when  the  choice  comes,  let  it,  in 
Heaven's  name,  be  made  on  some  more 
rational  ground  than  the  fetich  of 
ancestor-worship.  On  what  ground? 
Ah,  that  is  another  story.  Our  present 
concern  is  with  the  portraits  that  do 
not  endure. 

After  the  last  person  who  personally 
cares  for  them  is  gone,  —  mind  you, 
not  until  then,  —  and  when  they  have 
become  a  burden  to  the  artistic  con- 
science, or  a  dead  weight  on  the  house- 
keeping instinct  of  those  whose  duty  is 
to  make  homes  for  the  living,  it  is  time, 
high  time,  to  get  rid  of  these  atrophied 
remains  of  a  dead  past.  The  question 


is,  how  to  do  it.  We  should  go  about 
it  decently  and  quietly,  even  as  Na- 
ture does  when  she  undertakes  a  like 
ta*sk. 

Shall  the  pictures  be  burned?  I  knew 
a  family  of  girls,  children  of  a  dark- 
eyed,  energetic  western  father,  who 
was  something  of  a  political  force  in 
his  state  and  day.  A  man  he  once 
befriended  showed  his  gratitude  by 
painting  a  life-sized  portrait  of  his 
benefactor,  and  presenting  it  to  the 
family.  It  had  blue  eyes,  and  was 
putty-faced,  and  about  as  unlike  him 
as  could  well  be  imagined,  but  it  was 
a  gift,  and  a  'portrait,'  and  the  family 
suffered  under  the  incubus  for  several 
years,  moving  it  from  place  to  place 
about  the  house,  to  ease  the  pain.  Fin- 
ally the  politician  received  his  reward, 
and  was  translated  to  Washington,  as 
good  politicians  sometimes  are.  Pre- 
liminary to  the  family  flitting,  there 
was  a  grand  clearing-out  of  household 
rubbish.  A  great  bonfire  heap  was 
made  in  the  side-yard,  and  when  the 
eldest  daughter  came  upon  her  mother 
hesitating  before  this  picture,  she  seized 
it  firmly  by  the  frame,  a  younger  sister 
lent  a  willing  hand,  and  the  two  bore  it 
joyously  forth  and  laid  it  on  top  of  the 
pile. 

Then  the  torch  was  applied,  and  the 
family  of  girls  joined  hands  and  cir- 
cled slowly  about  it,  singing  a  dirge, 
and  waiting  for  the  picture  to  burn. 
But  it  would  n't  ignite,  and  would  n't, 
although  the  flames  crackled  merrily 
underneath.  One  of  the  girls,  almost 
hysterical,  got  a  long  pole,  and  poked 
it  viciously  in  the  ribs.  Then  it  caught, 
and  they  circled  faster  and  faster  about 
the  pile,  watching  it  writhe  and  twist 
in  the  blaze  like  a  tortured  thing.  The 
blue  eyes  rolled  up  and  glared  at  them. 
A  sudden  draft  took  one  slowly-con- 
suming fist  and  shook  it  in  their  faces; 
and  at  that  moment  one  of  them  raised 
her  head  and  saw  the  donor  coming  up 


THE  PORTRAIT  INCUBUS 


809 


the  driveway.  With  a  shriek  she  fled, 
and  the  others  vanished  after  her;  all 
but  the  eldest,  who  stood  her  ground 
with  very  red  cheeks,  and  the  long 
pole-  clasped  in  a  plucky  if  trembling 
hand. 

There  must  be  better  ways  than 
burning  old  pictures. 

Another  friend  endured  in  silence  as 
long  as  she  could.  Her  incubus  was  a 
group  portrait  with  spacious  botanical 
background,  showing  two  dropsical  dar- 
lings of  a  great-aunt-by-marriage.  The 
children  died  in  infancy  three  quarters 
of  a  century  ago.  Their  mother,  in 
the  last  years  of  her  pathetic  boarding- 
house  existence,  begged,  as  a  special  fa- 
vor, to  have  the  precious  canvas  stored 
in  her  nephew's  attic.  And  although 
she  herself  had  long  passed  away,  her 
niece-by-marriage  continued  to  dust 
and  care  for  the  picture  with  New 
England  thoroughness.  At  last  one 
day  when  things  were  very  still,  and 
her  heart  very  rebellious,  she  armed 
herself  with  a  pair  of  huge  shears,  and 
mounting  to  the  top  of  the  house,  cut 
that  canvas  into  inch  bits,  feeling  the 
while  more  criminal  than  Herod.  And 
even  after  the  deed  was  done,  there 
were  the  fragments,  hundreds  of  them, 
to  be  disposed  of. 

Clearly,  cutting  is  not  the  way. 

Nature  has  kindly  moth,  soft  velvet 
rust,  and  silent  caressing  corruption  in 
endless  forms,  to  aid  her  in  such  under- 


takings. Human  methods  seem  so  crude 
in  comparison. 

Shall  the  pictures  be  sold?  Strange, 
is  n't  it,  what  effects  certain  combina- 
tions of  words  have  on  the  adult  mind  ? 
For  example,  those  five  short  mono- 
syllables, 'His  own  flesh  and  blood.' 
A  sense  of  warmth,  of  possession,  of 
protecting  care,  flows  through  one  at 
the  very  sound  of  them.  Prefix  three 
other  monosyllables,  equally  short  and 
harmless — make  it,  instead,  'He  would 
sell  his  own  flesh  and  blood,'  and  out- 
raged nature  responds  with  a  thrill  of 
horror — possibly  also  of  secret  admira- 
tion for  such  thorough-paced  villainy 
—  comparable  to  nothing  short  of  the 
tingle  that  goes  through  infant  veins  at 
the  incantation,  'Fee,  fi,fo,fum.' 

Shall  cast-off  family  portraits  be 
sold?  No;  a  thousand  times  no!  That 
was  what  happened  to  the  Boylston 
Street  soldier. 

Then  what  can  be  done?  They  ought 
to  be  destroyed,  irrevocably,  utterly; 
but  there  must  be  reverence  and  dig- 
nity in  the  act.  Fire  is  too  savage;  cut- 
ting too  brutal;  selling  is  not  to  be 
thought  of,  and  Nature's  kindly  moth 
and  corruption  are  agencies  too  slow 
and  too  subtle  for  our  needs. 

Surely  there  is  a  place  in  the  world 
for  that  book  I  long  to  see,  —  that  thin, 
prim  little  volume  on  whose  title-page 
those  who  seek  it  may  read:  A  Guide 
to  the  Decorous  Destruction  of  Ancestors. 


THE  ABOLITION  OF  THE  QUEUE 


BY    CHING-CHUN    WANG 


THAT  a  new  style  in  the  cut  of  the 
hair  may  mean,  on  the  one  hand,  a 
saving  of  millions  of  dollars  a  year  to  a 
whole  people,  involving  the  destiny  of 
a  nation,  and  on  the  other  hand,  the 
most  disastrous  derangement  of  eco- 
nomic conditions,  even  to  the  extent 
of  dislocating  great  industries  of  a 
whole  nation,  may  not  have  occurred 
to  those  who  have  noted  recently  that 
the  Chinese  are  cutting  off  their  queues. 
The  queue  itself  is  insignificant;  but 
its  abolition  means  incomparably  more 
than  the  mere  removal  of  a  few  feet  of 
hair.  The  significance  of  the  economic 
as  well  as  moral  meaning  behind  this 
reform  can  hardly  be  overestimated. 

The  queue  and  the  Chinese  have  be- 
come synonymous.  To  mention  the  Chi- 
nese immediately  suggests  the  queue, 
and  to  mention  the  queue  at  once  re- 
minds one  of  the  Chinese.  Indeed,  the 
Chinese  without  the  queue  are  incon- 
ceivable! It  is  no  wonder,  then,  that 
the  recent  Imperial  Edict  of  the  Chinese 
Emperor  ordering  all  the  Chinese  dip- 
lomatic officers  to  cut  off  their  queues, 
has  at  once  aroused  world-wide  inter- 
est. The  far-reaching  effect  and  signi- 
ficance of  this  reform,  however,  cannot 
be  estimated  aright  without  some  know- 
ledge of  the  origin  and  singular  mean- 
ing of  this  peculiar  form  of  wearing 
the  hair,  which  has  been  the  mark  of 
ridicule  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  sign 
of  refinement  on  the  other. 

After  noting  the  great  fondness 
which  the  Chinese  in  the  United  States 
have  for  their  queues  in  the  face  of 
much  inconvenience  and  embarrass- 

810 


ment,  one  can  hardly  believe  that  this 
style  of  tonsure  was  once  forced  upon 
them,  with  the  sword,  as  a  mark  of 
subjection.  Nevertheless  this  was  the 
case.  Before  the  advent  of  the  present 
Dynasty  in  1644,  the  Chinese  wore 
their  hair  long,  usually  tied  up  in  a 
knot  on  the  top  of  their  heads.  The 
present  Dynasty,  on  conquering  the 
previous  ruling  house,  imposed  by  mar- 
tial law  upon  every  male  in  the  coun- 
try the  Manchu  style  of  the  queue. 
Official  barbers,  with  full  power  either 
to  shave  the  hair  of  every  one  whom 
they  could  catch,  or,  on  his  refusal,  to 
cut  off  his  head,  were  said  to  have  been 
stationed  in  many  parts  of  the  country. 
It  was  inevitable  that  such  a  conspicu- 
ous and  tangible  mark  of  subjection 
should  have  been  bitterly  resisted  even 
to  the  death  by  large  numbers  of  the 
Chinese.  Stories  abound  to  the  effect 
that  many  people  during  those  years 
preferred  to  lose  their  heads  rather 
than  to  shave  their  hair.  But,  as  Dr. 
Arthur  H.  Smith  remarked,  the  rulers 
'showed  how  well  they  were  fitted  for 
the  high  task  they  had  undertaken,  by 
their  persistent  adherence  to  the  re- 
quirement, compliance  with  which  was 
made  at  once  a  test  of  loyalty.' 

Time  and  dexterous  policy  have 
worked  a  complete  change.  Not  only 
have  the  Chinese  people  long  forgot- 
ten the  rancorous  hostility  of  their  fore- 
fathers toward  the  queue,  but  they 
have  become  more  proud  of  it,  per- 
haps, than  of  any  other  characteristic 
of  their  dress.  To  an  average  Chinese 
young  man,  a  fine  long  queue  is  of 


THE  ABOLITION  OF  THE  QUEUE 


811 


more  importance  for  his  social  promin- 
ence than  the  choice  neck-tie,  the 
smart  cut  of  the  coat,  the  crease  of  the 
trousers,  and  all  other  similar  points  of 
style  combined,  of  his  American  bro- 
ther. Indeed,  to  be  born  a  Chinese  boy 
without  a  wealth  of  hair  for  a  good 
queue  sometimes  is  regarded  as  more 
unfortunate  than  to  be  born  an  Amer- 
ican girl  prone  to  many  freckles  on  the 
face,  and  hair  of  an  unbecoming  shade. 
Thus  what  was  originally  a  badge  of 
servitude  has  ended  by  becoming  an 
object  of  pride  and  solicitude. 

Such  has  been,  and  to  a  large  extent 
is,  the  affection  of  the  Chinese  for  the 
queue.  During  the  last  two  centuries, 
scarcely  any  one  ever  thought  of  chang- 
ing the  queue,  much  less  of  abolishing 
it.  Indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  the  queue 
were  to  remain  a  part  of  the  Chinese 
people  as  long  as  China  should  remain 
a  nation. 

With  the  beginning  of  intimate  inter- 
course with  the  West,  however,,  there 
gradually  sprang  up  a  feeling  against  the 
queue,  which  has  grown,  not  because  of 
any  lack  of  loyalty  to  the  Dynasty,  but 
because  of  the  conviction  of  the  incon- 
venience of  the  queue  itself.  But  no- 
thing appreciable  had  been  done  toward 
its  removal  until  after  the  Chino- Japan- 
ese war,  when  the  Emperor  Kwanghsu, 
along  with  the  other  reforms  which  he 
was  about  to  introduce,  was  reported 
to  have  favored  the  removal  of  the 
queue.  But  the  ambition  of  that  en- 
lightened Emperor  was  cut  short  by  the 
coup  d'6tat  of  1898,  after  which  every- 
thing returned  to  its  former  course, 
and  no  further  talk  of  this  reform 
was  heard  until  1900.  In  that  year 
it  was  reported  in  some  quarters  that 
the  advance  of  the  allied  forces  into 
Peking  meant  the  end  of  the  queue. 
This,  however,  did  not  prove  to  be  the 
case;  and  the  queue  prospered  as  ever, 
hi  spite  of  all  the  violent  changes  in 
China. 


In  the  mean  time,  the  popular  feel- 
ing against  the  queue  has  grown  in  pro- 
portion to  the  increase  of  foreigners 
coming  into  China,  as  well  as  to  the  un- 
precedented exodus  of  Chinese  travel- 
ers and  students  into  other  countries. 
The  law  requiring  the  wearing  of  the 
queue  also  gradually  relaxed  in  sever- 
ity. Not  many  years  ago,  the  cutting 
off  of  the  queue  would  have  been  dealt 
with  as  a  criminal  act,  while  to-day 
members  of  the  Imperial  Household  go 
without  it.  Before  1900  a  Chinese  in 
the  United  States  without  a  queue  was 
a  rare  exception,  but  now  the  reverse 
is  the  case.  Not  long  ago  the  queue, 
if  considered  at  all,  would  have  been 
cited  as  an  essential  badge  of  civiliza- 
tion, 'a.  sine  qua  non  of  even  a  mod- 
erately intellectual  ascendency';  while 
to-day,  in  the  Chinese  capital  itself, 
the  queue  is  condemned  as  a  nuis- 
ance. The  fact  that  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  Chinese  young  men  have 
cut  off  their  queues,  without  any  per- 
mission from  the  Government,  clearly 
shows  that  the  once  severe  law  govern-, 
ing  the  wearing  of  the  queue  has  virtu- 
ally become  a  dead  letter. 

In  spite  of  the  silent  change  of  pub- 
lic opinion  in  regard  to  the  queue, 
the  Government,  being  too  deeply  ab- 
sorbed hi  other  reforms,  did  not  pay 
much  attention  to  the  queue  until  His 
Excellency  Wu  Ting-fang,  the  late 
Chinese  Minister  to  the  United  States, 
presented  his  memorial.  Minister  Wu's 
experience  in  foreign  countries  and  his 
keen  observation  of  the  conditions  of 
the  Chinese  people,  especially  those  in 
America,  convinced  him  of  the  useless- 
ness  of  the  queue.  So,  in  spite  of  the 
warning  of  his  staff  that  his  agitation 
for  the  abolition  of  the  queue  might 
prove  disastrous  to  his  official  career, 
he  did  not  hesitate  to  present  to  the 
Throne,  at  the  beginning  of  1910,  his 
memorial  setting  forth  his  convictions. 
He  fearlessly  stated  that  he  found  that 


812 


THE  ABOLITION  OF  THE  QUEUE 


eight  or  nine  tenths  of  the  Chinese  in 
America  had  removed  their  queues, 
and  that  the  remainder,  while  retaining 
them,  were  at  pains  to  conceal  this 
appendage,  which  they  found  at  once 
inconvenient  and  derogatory.  He  went 
still  further.  He  even  urged  the  aboli- 
tion of  the  queue  on  general  principles, 
and  boldly  pointed  out  to  the  Throne 
that  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  loyalty, 
and  was  entirely  unsuited  to  modern 
conditions. 

To  the  surprise  of  many,  the  memo- 
rial actually  received  considerable  fav- 
orable discussion  in  Peking.  But,  on 
the  clever  plea  of  the  conservatives 
that  the  removal  or  retention  of  the 
queue  did  not  belong  to  the  realities  of 
reform  and  had  no  bearing  on  the 
strength  or  weakness  of  the  country, 
Minister  Wu's  memorial  was  'shelved.' 

The  abolition  of  the  queue,  however, 
had  become  too  burning  a  question  to 
be  stopped  by  this  adverse  attitude  of 
the  Peking  authorities.  No  sooner  was 
Minister  Wu's  memorial  made  known 
than  the  Chinese  ministers  to  Italy 
and  Holland  presented  similar  memo- 
rials pleading  for  the  abolition  of  the 
queue,  only  with  more  emphasis.  In 
fact,  the  latter  was  so  opposed  to  the 
wearing  of  the  queue  that  he  had  cut 
off  his  own,  without  waiting  for  any 
instruction  or  even  permission  from 
the  Throne,  which  act  fifteen  years  ago 
would  have  cost  him  his  life. 

Just  about  this  time  Prince  Tsai  Tao, 
uncle  of  the  Emperor  and  brother  of 
the  Prince  Regent,  returned  from  his 
world  tour.  This  young,  energetic  prince 
was  so  convinced  of  the  uselessness  of 
the  queue,  that  he  personally  urged  the 
Prince  Regent  again  and  again  to  abol- 
ish it.  He  even  made  compliance  with 
his  request  a  condition  of  his  remain- 
ing in  office.  The  strenuous  advocacy 
of  this  prince  supplied  the  strength 
that  had  been  lacking  in  the  proposals 
of  China's  diplomatic  officers.  Follow- 


ing his  lead,  other  princes  and  members 
of  the  Imperial  Family  and  anti-queue 
officials  took  new  courage,  and  for  a 
while  flooded  the  Throne  with  pleas 
and  memorials  advocating  the  change. 
In  fact,  all  other  reforms  which  rightly 
came  up  for  discussion  in  government 
circles  were  for  the  time  being  held  in 
abeyance,  owing  to  the  absorbing  in- 
terest attached  to  this  problem. 

Moreover,  the  question  had  also  be- 
come the  general  topic  of  conversation 
throughout  the  whole  empire.  All 
classes  of  people  seemed  to  take  a  per- 
sonal interest  in  the  matter.  The  con- 
servatives exerted  their  best  efforts  to 
maintain  their  last  stand,  while  the 
progressives  seized  every  opportunity 
to  carry  out  their  policy. 

To  the  outsider,  it  appears  mysteri- 
ous, if  not  ridiculous,  that  there  should 
be  so  much  opposition  and  higgling 
against  the  removal  of  an  appendage 
which  has  been  universally  recognized 
as  inconvenient  and  derogatory.  To 
understand  this,  one  should  first  of  all 
bear  in  mind  that  the  queue  has  grown 
up  with  the  people  for  over  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years,  and  has  become 
a  universal  custom  or  fashion.  'Cus- 
tom, like  human  speech,  once  estab- 
lished resists  change,'  and  fashion  de- 
fies reason.  This  is  especially  true  in 
China,  where  the  people  have  the  great- 
est respect  for  the  past,  and  where  a 
proverb  says,/ Old  customs  may  not  be 
broken.'  If  one  recalls  the  complete 
failure  of  the  'bloomers'  in  spite  of 
their  undeniable  and  unmistakable 
convenience  and  practical  superiority 
over  the  skirt,  he  will  readily  under- 
stand why  the  Chinese  cling  so  fondly 
to  the  queue.  The  memory  of  the  feel- 
ing which  the  writer  experienced  in 
cutting  off  his  queue  is  still  fresh.  The 
sound  of  the  scissors  sent  a  peculiar 
thrill  through  his  system  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  describe.  He  knew  the 
queue  was  useless  and  must  be  cut  off, 


THE  ABOLITION  OF  THE  QUEUE 


813 


he  wanted  to  have  it  cut  off,  but,  never- 
theless, he  hated  to  see  it  go! 

Aside  from  the  intense  dislike  of  the 
Chinese  for  changing  the  'established 
customs  of  our  ancestors,'  which  alone 
has  defeated  many  reforms,  there  still 
remain  numerous  practical  and  tangi- 
ble difficulties  to  be  overcome.  In  the 
first  place,  it  was  taken  for  granted 
that  with  the  removal  of  the  queue  the 
present  national  costume  must  dis- 
appear, and  that  the  change  of  costume 
would  necessitate  the  abolition  of  the 
Kowtow  —  the  most  sacred  form  of 
worship  in  China.  This  change  will  dis- 
locate all  China's  ancient  traditions 
and  established  principles  of  propriety, 
as  well  as  the  teachings  of  her  sages. 
Not  long  ago,  this  difficulty  would  have 
proved  insurmountable.  To-day,  how- 
ever, it  has  proved  comparatively  harm- 
less. In  fact,  many  did  not  hesitate  to 
say  that,  after  the  adoption  of  the  west- 
ern costume,  it  might  be  just  as  well  to 
substitute  the  shaking  of  each  other's 
hands  in  greeting  for  the  shaking  of 
one's  own,  or  the  polite  bow  for  the 
Kowtow. 

But  the  strongest  obstacle  was  the 
fear  of  the  inevitable  economic  de- 
rangement. It  is  recognized  that  as 
Chinese  goods  are  not  suitable  for  the 
European  style  of  dress,  any  sweeping 
change  of  costume  would  consequently 
necessitate  the  importation  of  enor- 
mous quantities  of  foreign  goods.  This 
would  at  once  throw  thousands  of  Chi- 
nese weavers  and  other  laborers  out 
of  work,  to  say  nothing  of  the  waste  of 
the  stock  of  goods  on  hand.  Thus  it  is 
admitted  that  such  an  important  and 
sweeping  change  in  Chinese  economics 
as  would  be  involved  by  the  change  of 
costume  would  necessitate  a  great  loss 
of  money  to,  and  probably  ruin  of,  the 
innumerable  silk-merchants  and  cloth- 
iers of  the  country.  In  fact,  the  Hang- 
chow  hatters,  who,  'like  Demetrius  of 
Ephesus,'  feared  their  craft  'in  danger 


to  be  set  at  nought,'  have  already  pro- 
tested strongly  against  any  change  of 
the  sort.  The  Chekiang  silk-manufac- 
turers have  also  raised  a  loud  cry.  That 
a  sweeping  change  of  costume  will  re- 
sult in  much  loss  and  misery  hardly 
admits  of  any  doubt.  For  these  and 
other  reasons  the  simultaneous  change 
of  the  costume  and  the  queue  was 
thought  impracticable. 

Under  such  circumstances,  it  was 
suggested  that  China  should  adopt  a 
partial  change :  that  she  should  remove 
the  queue  and  retain  her  costume.  The 
argument  was  that  the  removal  of  the 
queue  and  the  change  of  costume  are 
two  entirely  different  things,  and 
should  not  be  confused  in  the  solution 
of  the  problem.  Since  the  two  reforms 
cannot  be  carried  out  at  the  same  time, 
it  is  but  appropriate  to  remove  the 
queue  only,  without  adopting  any  new 
costume.  By  taking  this  middle  course 
the  Kowtow  and  other  sacred  forms  of 
worship  may  be  continued,  and  the 
danger  of  economic  derangement  may 
also  be  avoided. 

This  at  once  appeared  a  logical  solu- 
tion of  the  problem.  Moreover,  the  best 
opinion  concurs  that  there  is  no  need 
of  discarding  the  Chinese  costume.  On 
the  contrary,  it  would  be  a  mistake 
if  China  should  adopt,  wholesale,  the 
European  dress  in  place  of  her  own. 
The  senseless  adoption  of  the  dress  of 
another  people  is  likely  not  only  to 
introduce  all  the  bad  points  of  the  new, 
but  to  banish  all  the  good  points  of 
one's  own.  Moreover,  the  erroneous 
idea  that  the  removal  of  the  queue 
must  necessarily  imply  a  similar  change 
of  costume  cannot  be  demonstrated 
more  clearly  than  by  the  fact  that  the 
Japanese,  as  well  as  other  peoples,  ex- 
cept a  small  minority  among  them,  still 
retain  their  national  garb,  notwith- 
standing their  cropped  hair;  and  they 
certainly  do  not  appear  the  worse  for 
the  change. 


814 


THE  ABOLITION  OF  THE  QUEUE 


Some  people,  especially  foreign  resid- 
ents in  China,  also  advance  a  plea  for 
the  retaining  of  the  Chinese  costume 
for  aesthetic  reasons.  They  say  the 
Chinese  look  '  elegant  and  picturesque ' 
in  their  present  costume.  The  Chinese, 
however,  although  called  a  'nation  of 
aesthetes,'  find  no  time  to  take  aesthetics 
into  consideration  in  their  reforms.  The 
pendulum  of  public  opinion  against  the 
former  attention  to  sestheticism  is  now 
swinging  to  such  an  extreme  that  there 
is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the.  ele- 
gance of  the  Chinese  dress  will  hasten 
its  abolition  rather  than  retard  it. 

The  real  objection  to  the  partial 
change  of  cutting  off  the  queue  and 
retaining  the  costume,  however,  lies  in 
the  fear  that  it  will  give  an  appearance 
of  half-heartedness,  which  might  prove 
disastrous  to  the  whole  programme. 
The  past  teaches  that  such  signs  of 
half-heartedness  on  the  part  of  the 
government  have  been  repeatedly  the 
principal  cause  of  failure  of  reforms, 
and  should,  therefore,  be  avoided  at 
all  events.  Moreover,  such  a  partial 
change  would  not  help  much  in  bring- 
ing about  conformity  to  the  present 
universal  fashion,  which  was  the  prin- 
cipal purpose  of  the  change.  Therefore 
it  was  urged  that  the  removal  of  the 
queue  and  the  change  of  costume  must 
come  together. 

To  meet  all  these  objections,  an- 
other proposal  was  made,  to  the  effect 
that  the  removal  of  the  queue  and  the 
change  of  costume  should  be  made 
simultaneously;  but  should  be  confined 
only  to  those  classes  of  people  who 
come  into  contact  with  foreigners  and 
those  whose  occupations  require  such 
change.  The  diplomatic  officers,  for 
instance,  must  first  of  all  be  compelled 
to  make  the  change.  Then  the  police, 
the  soldiers,  and  the  students,  must  fol- 
low in  their  order.  As  the  number  of 
men  in  these  classes  is  comparatively 
small,  the  danger  of  economic  disturb- 


ance may  be  avoided  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  real  purpose  of  a  genuine,  com- 
plete change,  so  as  to  conform  with 
other  peoples,  may  be  achieved  on  the 
other. 

This  at  first  appeared  logical.  But 
those  who  made  the  proposal  over- 
looked the  fact  that  the  soldiers  serve 
only  a  limited  number  of  years  in  the 
army,  and  that  the  policemen  do  not 
remain  policemen  all  their  lives.  ^The 
same  is  true  about  the  students  and 
the  diplomatic  officers.  If  the  great 
majority  of  the  people  were  permitted 
to  wear  queues  and  Chinese  dress,  while 
only  those  few  who  happened  to  be  po- 
lice or  soldiers  were  compelled  to  adopt 
the  western  fashion,  then  the  latter 
few,  upon  their  change  of  occupation, 
would  be  subjected  to  much  embar- 
rassment, and  at  once  become  objects 
of  curiosity.  Therefore,  the  proposal, 
perfect  as  it  appeared,  has  already 
proved  impracticable,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  Imperial  Body  Guard,  where,  on 
the  application  of  this  theory,  deser- 
tions actually  took  place. 

Thus,  it  appears  that  there  was  ob- 
jection from  every  direction.  To  re- 
move the  queue  without  changing  the 
costume  is  regarded  as  half-hearted 
and  hence  dangerous;  to  change  the 
dress  and  queue  of  certain  classes  of 
people  is  impracticable;  and  to  com- 
pel all  classes  to  adopt  the  changes  is 
perilous.  For  a  while  it  seemed  as  if 
there  were  no  hope  of  accomplishing 
anything. 

China,  however,  always  seems  able  to 
find  a  way  of  doing  things  slowly,  and 
this  case  was  no  exception.  She  recog- 
nized that  her  subjects  may  be  divided 
into  four  categories :  namely,  those  who 
are  enthusiastic  for  the  change,  those 
who  are  in  need  of  it,  those  who  are 
opposed  to  it,  and  those  who  are  in- 
different. Therefore,  she  thought  fit  to 
conduct  the  reform  systematically, 
first  by  ordering  those  in  need  of  the 


THE  ABOLITION  OF  THE  QUEUE 


815 


change  to  adopt  the  reform,  as  has 
already  been  done  in  the  case  of  the 
diplomatic  officers,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  encourage  those  who  are  will- 
ing. In  addition  the  members  of  the 
Imperial  Family  must  also  set  the  exam- 
ple, by  adopting  the  change  themselves. 
By  so  doing,  within  a  few  years  the 
European  costume  may  be  adopted 
without  any  disturbance  by  those  only 
who  are  willing  or  in  need  of  the  change, 
and  the  queue  may  disappear  as  magic- 
ally as  it  came  into  existence. 

This  is  evidently  what  China  has  be- 
gun to  do.  Reports  say  that  after  the 
experiment  with  the  diplomatic  officers 
the  government  will  soon  impose  the 
reform  upon  the  army,  the  navy,  and 
the  students,  and  finally  will  proclaim 
the  complete  abolition  of  the  queue 
throughout  the  country,  and  will  leave 
the  question  of  costume  to  each  in- 
dividual. The  general  attitude  of  the 
masses,  the  strong  conviction  of  the 
leading  classes,-and  the  sincerity  shown 
by  the  government  in  carrying  out  the 
reform,  make  it  apparent  that  those 
who  want  to  see  the  Chinese  queues  will 
have  to  go  to  China  within  the  next 
five  years. 

The  significance  of  this  change  can 
hardly  be  overestimated.  When  the 
whole  country  is  taken  into  considera- 
tion, the  benefits  and  saving  from  do- 
ing away  with  the  queue  are  enormous. 
For  instance,  the  combing  and  braid- 
ing of  the  queue  takes  every  day  at 
least  fifteen  minutes  of  the  best  hours 
of  every  man  in  China,  and  perhaps 
twice  that  much  of  the  barbers'  time, 
which  could  be  applied  to  productive 
purposes.  Although  time  is  cheap  in 
China,  it  is  worth  at  least  ten  cents  a 
day  on  the  average.  According  to  this 
rate,  each  queue  costs  about  one  cent 
every  day  for  combing.  Multiply  this 
by  the  number  of  males  above  fifteen 
in  the  country,  which  is  placed  at  about 
100,000,000  and  then  by  the  number 


of  days  in  a  year,  one  will  see  that  the 
annual  saving  from  this  source  alone 
will  mean  about  $365,000,000.  This, 
however,  is  only  the  cash  value  of  time 
saved.  But  the  actual  saving  in  useful 
material  is  also  considerable.  A  con- 
servative estimate  of  what  ah  average 
man  or  boy  spends  for  queue-cords, 
etc.,  will  be  about  twenty  cents  a  year, 
which  means  $20,000,000  for  the  coun- 
try. It  is  also  recognized  that  the  queue 
shortens  the  life  of  one's  coat  or  gown 
by  at  least  10  per  cent.  The  removal  of 
the  queue  will,  therefore,  mean  a  saving 
of  about  twenty  cents  a  year  for  every 
man,  or  about  $20,000,000  annually 
for  the  country.  There  are  many  other 
savings  from  the  removal  of  the  queue, 
concerning  which  we  need  not  go  into 
detail;  but  these  three  sources  alone 
will  mean  an  actual  saving  of  material 
valued  at  $40,000,000  per  year,  or 
$405,000,000  in  cash  value  of  time  and 
material.  These  figures  should  not  be 
taken  too  seriously;  but  they  are  signi- 
ficant, nevertheless. 

If  the  question  is  considered  from  a 
hygienic  point  of  view,  none  will  hesi- 
tate to  say  that  the  queue  should  be 
removed.  Few  can  realize  how  much 
trouble  it  means  to  keep  clean  a  headful 
of  long  hair,  especially  when  it  is  gen- 
uine. The  ease  and  comfort  which  one 
with  cropped  hair  feels  in  washing  and 
scrubbing  his  head  are  unknown  to  the 
man  who  wears  the  queue!  The  gen- 
eral inconvenience  of  the  queue  can  be 
properly  realized  only  after  one  has 
once  worn  it. 

These  economic  and  hygienic  bene- 
fits, great  as  they  are,  dwindle  to  in- 
significance, when  compared  with  the 
moral  effect  of  the  reform.  In  intro- 
ducing the  western  institutions  upon 
which  China's  destiny  largely  depends, 
China  must  change  the  attitude  and 
feeling  of  her  masses.  She  cannot  do 
this  unless  she  can  make  these  masses 
feel  some  changes  in  themselves.  To 


816 


TWO  DOCTORS  AT  AKRAGAS 


accomplish  this,  nothing  seems  more 
effective  than  to  do  away  with  the 
queue.  Once  an  average  'Chinaman' 
finds  his  head  minus  the  queue,  he  will 
at  once  take  it  for  granted  that  he  has 
also  become  one  of  those  'foreign 
devils,'  and  hence  regard  it  as  his  lot 
to  adopt  things  foreign.  Instead  of 
being  opposed  to  western  innovations, 
he  will  become  eager  to  adopt  them. 
Indeed,  it  seems  safe  to  prophesy  that 
the  removal  of  the  queue  will  bring 
about  more  changes  in  the  attitude  of 
the  masses  toward  the  introduction 
of  modern  institutions  than  any  other 
reform.  It  will  probably  mean  the  com- 
plete revolution  of  the  thoughts  of  four 
hundred  millions  of  people! 

Again,  it  must  not  be  overlooked  that 
the  abolition  of  the  queue  will  do  much 
toward  that  complete  removal  of  the 
ancient  differences  between  the  Chinese 
and  the  Manchu,  which  the  govern- 


ment has  been  endeavoring  to  accom- 
plish. It  will  lead  even  those  who  are 
most  hostile  to  the  ruling  Dynasty  to 
feel  that  the  government  is  really 
doing  its  best  to  harmonize  the  old 
discord,  and  that  after  all  the  two  peo- 
ples are  but  one. 

Thus  it  seems  that  the  abolition  of 
the  queue,  insignificant  as  the  queue 
itself  is,  is  destined  to  be  an  epoch- 
making  reform,  which  will  clear  the 
way  for  numerous  other  practicable 
changes.  It  will  create  unity  among 
the  people  and  give  new  strength  to 
the  nation.  There  are  numerous  strong 
and  apparently  insurmountable  ob- 
stacles; but  if  China  can  compel  her 
people  to  give  up  such  a  deadly  and 
tenacious  habit  as  opium-smoking,  and 
can  impel  her  women  to  change  the 
fashion  of  their  feet,  there  is  little  rea- 
son why  she  cannot  compel  her  men  to 
change  the  fashion  of  their  hair. 


TWO  DOCTORS  AT  AKRAGAS 


BY   FREDERICK    PETERSON 


•Akron.  —  She  has  been  dead  these 
thirty  days. 

Empedocles.  —  How  say  you,  thirty 
days!  and  there  is  no  feature  of  corrup- 
tion? 

Akron.  —  None.  She  has  the  marble 
signature  of  death  writ  in  her  whole 
fair  frame.  She  lies  upon  her  ivory 
bed,  robed  in  the  soft  stuffs  of  Tyre,  as 
if  new-cut  from  Pentelikon  by  Phidias, 
or  spread  upon  the  wood  by  the  magic 
brush  of  Zeuxis,  seeming  as  much  alive 
as  this,  no  more,  no  less.  There  is  no 


beat  of  heart  nor  slightest  heave  of 
breast. 

Empedocles.  —  And  have  you  made 
the  tests  of  death? 

Akron.  —  There  is  no  bleeding  to  the 
prick,  nor  film  of  breath  upon  the 
bronze  mirror.  They  have  had  the  best 
of  the  faculty  in  Akragas,  Gela,  and 
Syracuse,  all  save  you;  and  I  am  sent 
by  the  dazed  parents  to  beseech  you  to 
leave  for  a  time  affairs  of  state  and  the 
great  problems  of  philosophy,  to  essay 
your  ancient  skill  in  this  strange  mys- 


TWO  DOCTORS  AT  AKRAGAS 


817 


tery  of  life  in  death  and  death  hi  life. 

Empedocles.  —  I  will  go  with  you. 
Where  lies  the  house? 

Akron.  —  Down  yonder  street  of 
statues,  past  the  Agora,  and  hard  by 
the  new  temple  that  is  building  to 
Olympian  Zeus.  It  is  the  new  house 
of  yellow  sandstone,  three  stories  in 
height,  with  the  carved  balconies  and 
wrought  brazen  doors.  Pantheia  is  her 
name.  I  lead  the  way. 

Empedocles.  —  The  streets  are  full 
to-day  and  dazzling  with  color.  So 
many  carpets  hang  from  the  windows, 
and  so  many  banners  are  flying!  So 
many  white-horsed  chariots,  and  such 
concourses  of  dark  slaves  from  every 
land  in  the  long  African  crescent  of  the 
midland  sea,  from  the  Pillars  of  Her- 
cules to  ferocious  Carthage  and  beyond 
to  the  confines  of  Egypt  and  Phoenicia ! 
Ah,  I  remember  now !  It  is  a  gala  day 
—  the  expected  visit  of  Pindar.  I  am 
to  dine  with  him  to-morrow  at  the 
Trireme.  We  moderns  are  doing  more 
to  celebrate  his  coming  than  our  fathers 
did  for  ^Eschylus  when  he  was  here.  I 
was  very  young  then,  but  I  remember 
running  with  the  other  boys  after  him 
just  to  touch  his  soft  gown  and  look  into 
his  noble  face. 

Akron.  —  I  have  several  rolls  of  his 
plays,  that  I  keep  with  some  new  papyri 
of  Pindar  arrived  by  the  last  galley 
from  Corinth,  hi  the  iron  chest  inside 
my  office  door,  along  with  some  less 
worthy  bags  of  gold  of  Tarshish  and 
coinage  of  Athens,  Sybaris,  Panormos 
and  Syracuse.  Ah,  here  is  the  door! 
It  is  ajar,  and  if  you  will  go  into  the 
courtyard  by  the  fountain  and  seat 
yourself  under  the  palm-trees  and 
azaleas  on  yon  bench,  by  the  statue  of 
the  nymph,  I  will  go  up  to  announce 
your  coming. 

Empedocles.  — All  is  still  save  for  the 
far,  faint  step  of  Akron  on  the  stair, 
and  the  still  fainter  murmur  from  the 
streets.  The  very  goldfish  in  the  foun- 

VOL.  107 -NO.  6 


tain  do  not  stir,  and  the  long  line  of 
slaves  against  the  marble  wall,  save 
for  their  branded  foreheads,  might  be 
gaunt  caryatides  hewn  in  Egyptian 
wood  or  carved  hi  ebony  and  amber. 
That  gaudy  tropic  bird  scarce  ruffles  a 
feather.  What  is  the  difference  between 
life  and  death?  A  voice,  a  call,  some 
sudden  strange  or  familiar  message  on 
old  paths,  to  the  consciousness  that  lies 
under  that  apparent  unconsciousness, 
will  waken  all  these  semblances  of  in- 
animation into  new  life  of  arms  and 
fins  and  wings.  Let  me  try  her  thus! 
My  grandfather  was  a  pupil  of  Pytha- 
goras who  had  seen  many  such  death- 
semblances  among  the  peoples  of  the 
white  sacred  mountains  of  far  India. 
Ha!  Akron  beckons.  I  must  follow 
him. 

Akron.  —  Enter  yon  doorway  where 
the  white  figure  lies  resplendent  with 
jewels  that  gleam  in  the  morning  sun. 

Empedocles. — The  arm  drawn  down- 
ward by  the  heavy  golden  bracelet  is 
cold,  yet  soft  and  yielding  like  a  sleep. 
The  face  has  the  natural  ease  of  slum- 
ber, and  not  the  rigid  artificiality  of 
death.  'Tis  true  there  is  no  pulse,  no 
beat  of  heart  nor  stir  of  breath,  yet 
neither  is  there  the  sombre  grotesque- 
ness  of  the  last  pose.  But  the  differ- 
ence between  life  and  death  is  here  so 
small  that  it  is  incommensurable,  the 
point  of  the  mathematicians  only.  I 
shall  hold  this  little  hand  in  mine,  and, 
with  a  hand  upon  her  forehead,  call  her 
by  name;  for,  know  you,  Akron,  one's 
name  has  a  power  beyond  every  other 
word  to  reach  the  closed  ears  of  the 
imprisoned  soul. 

Pantheia!  Pantheia!  Pantheia!  It 
is  dawn.  Your  father  calls  you.  Your 
mother  calls  you.  And  I  call  you  and 
command  you.  Open  your  eyes  and 
behold  the  sun! 

Akron.  —  A  miracle,  O  Zeus!  The 
eyelids  tremble  like  flower-petals  under 
the  wind  of  heaven.  Was  that  a  sigh 


818 


TWO  DOCTORS  AT  AKRAGAS 


or  the  swish  of  wings?  O  wonder  of 
wonders!  she  breathes  —  she  whispers! 

Pantheia.  —  Where  am  I?  Is  this 
death?  Some  one  called  my  name.  That 
is  the  pictured  ceiling  of  my  own  room. 
Surely  that  is  Zaldu,  my  pet  slave,  with 
big  drops  on  her  black  face.  .  .  .  And 
father,  mother,  kneeling  either  side. 
And  who  are  you  with  rapt  face  and 
star-deep  eyes,  thick  hair  with  Delphic 
wreaths,  and  in  purple  gown  and  gold- 
en girdle?  Are  you  a  god? 

Empedocles.  —  Be  tranquil,  child,  I 
am  no  god,  only  a  physician  come  to 
heal  you.  You  have  been  ill  and  sleep- 
ing a  long  time. 

Pantheia. — Yes,  I  feel  weakness,  hun- 
ger and  thirst.  I  remember  now  that 
I  was  well,  when  suddenly  a  strange 
thought  came  to  me  on  my  pillow.  I 
thought  that  I  was  d^ad.  This  took 
such  possession  of  me  that  it  shut  out 
every  other  thought,  and  being  able 
to  think  only  that  one  thought,  I  must 
have  been  dead.  It  seemed  but  a 
moment's  time  when  the  spell  of  the 
thought  was  broken  by  an  alien  deep 
voice  from  the  void  of  nothing  about 
me,  calling  me  by  name,  calling  me  to 
wake  and  see  the  day.  With  that  came 
floods  of  my  own  old  thoughts,  like 
molten  streams  from  ^Etna,  that  were 
rigid  as  granite  before  the  word  was 
given  that  loosed  them. 

Empedocles.  —  Did  you  not  see  new 
things  or  new  lands  or  old  dead  faces, 
for  you  have  been  gone  a  month?  I  am 
curious  to  know. 

Pantheia.  —  How  passing  strange! 
No,  I  saw  neither  darkness  nor  light. 
I  heard  no  sounds,  nor  was  conscious 
of  any  silence.  I  must  have  had  just 
the  one  thought  that  I  was  dead,  but  I 
lost  consciousness  of  that  thought.  I 
remember  saying  good-night  to  Zaldu, 
and  I  handed  her  the  quaint  doll  from 
Egypt  and  bade  her  care  for  it.  Then 
the  thought  seized  me,  and  I  knew  no 
more.  My  thoughts  which  had  always 


run  so  freely  before,  like  a  plashing 
brook,  must  have  suddenly  frozen,  as 
the  amber-trader  from  the  Baltic  told 
me  one  day  the  rivers  do  in  his  far 
northern  home.  Oh,  sir,  are  you  going 
so  soon? 

Empedocles.  —  Yes,  child.  You  must 
take  nourishment  now,  and  talk  no 
more.  But  I  am  coming  again  to  see 
you,  for  I  have  many  earnest  questions 
still  to  put  regarding  this  singular  ad- 
venture. 

Akron.  —  Let  me  walk  with  you.  I 
will  close  the  great  door.  Already  the 
gay  streets  are  silent,  and  the  people 
crowd  this  way,  whispering  awe-struck 
together  of  the  deed  of  wonder  you 
have  done  this  day.  You  have  called 
back  the  dead  to  life,  and  they  make 
obeisance  to  you  as  you  pass,  as  if  you 
were  in  truth  a  son  of  the  immortals. 
Your  name  will  go  down  the  ages  linked 
with  the  miracle  of  Pantheia.  You  are 
immortal. 

Empedocles.  —  Nay,  't  is  not  so  strange 
as  that,  and  yet  't  is  stranger. 

Akron.  —  I  would  know  your  mean- 
ing better. 

Empedocles.  —  The  power  of  a 
thought,  that  is  the  real  wonder!  We 
just  begin  to  have  glimpses  of  the  effects 
of  the  mind  upon  the  body.  To  me, 
Akron,  the  faculty  has  set  too  great 
store  upon  herbs  and  bitter  drafts,  and 
cupping  and  the  knife.  I  would  fain 
have  the  soul  acknowledged  more,  our 
therapy  built  on  the  dual  mechanism 
of  mind  and  substance.  For  if  an  idea 
can  lead  to  the  apparent  death  of  the 
whole  body,  so  might  other  ideas  bring 
about  the  apparent  death  of  a  part  of 
the  body,  like,  for  example,  a  paraly- 
sis of  the  members,  or  of  the  senses  of 
sight,  feeling,  hearing;  and  in  truth  I 
have  seen  such  things.  Or  a  thought 
might  give  rise  to  a  pain,  or  to  a  feeling 
of  general  illness,  or  to  a  feeling  of  local 
disorder  in  some  internal  organ;  and  I 
feel  sure  I  have  likewise  met  with  such 


TWO  DOCTORS  AT  AKRAGAS 


819 


instances.  And  if  an  idea  may  produce 
such  ailments,  then  a  contrary  idea 
implanted  by  the  physician  may  heal 
them.  I  believe  this  to  be  the  secret  of 
many  of  the  marvels  we  see  at  the  tem- 
ples and  shrines  of  ^Esculapius,  and  of 
the  cures  made  by  the  touch  of  seers 
and  kings. 

But  this  teaching  goes  much  deeper 
and  further.  If  we  could  in  the  schools 
implant  in  our  youth  ideas  which  were 
strong  enough,  we  should  be  able  to 
make  of  them  all,  each  in  proportion 
to  his  belief  in  himself  and  his  ambi- 
tion, great  men,  great  generals,  thinkers, 
poets,  a  new  race  of  heroes  in  all  lines 
of  human  endeavor,  who  should  be 
able  by  their  united  strength  of  idea 
and  ideal  finally  to  people  the  world 
with  gods. 

I  have  among  my  slaves,  who  work 
as  vintners  and  olive-gatherers,  a  phy- 
sician of  Thrace,  as  also  a  philoso- 
pher of  the  island  of  Rhodes,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Pythagorean  League.  These 
I  bought  not  long  ago  of  the  Etruscan 
pirates.  Every  evening  I  have  them 
come  to  me  on  the  roof  after  the  even- 
ing meal,  and  there  under  the  quiet 
of  the  stars  we  discuss  life  and  death, 
the  soul  and  immortality,  and  all  the 
burning  problems  of  order,  harmony, 
and  number  in  the  universe.  What  sur- 
prises me  is  that  this  Thracian  should 
be  so  in  advance  of  the  physicians 
of  Hellas,  for  he  holds  as  I  do  that 


the  mind  should  be  first  considered  in 
the  treatment  of  most  disorders  of  the 
body,  because  of  its  tremendous  power 
to  force  the  healing  processes,  and  be- 
cause sometimes  it  actually  induces 
disease  and  death.  And  we  have  talked 
together  of  the  incalculable  value  of 
faith  and  enthusiasm  so  applied  in  the 
education  of  the  child,  this  new  kind 
of  gardening  in  the  budding  soul  of 
mankind,  and  of  what  new  and  august 
races  might  thereby  come  to  repeople 
this  rather  unsatisfactory  globe. 

I  am  minded  to  free  these  slaves,  in- 
deed all  my  slaves,  and  I  have  the  inten- 
tion of  devoting  the  most  of  a  considera- 
ble fortune,  both  inherited  and  amassed 
by  me,  to  the  spread  of  these  doctrines, 
and  to  the  public  weal,  particularly  in 
the  matter  of  planting  in  the  souls  of 
our  youth,  not  the  mere  ability  to  read 
and  write  Greek  and  do  sums  in  arith- 
metic, but  the  seeds  of  noble  ideas  that 
shall  make  this  Trinacria  of  ours  a  still 
more  wonderful  human  garden  than  it 
has  been  as  a  granary  for  the  world's 
practical  needs.  From  this  sea-centre 
we  send  our  freighted  galleys  to  Gades 
in  the  West,  Carthage  in  the  South, 
Tyre  in  the  East,  and  to  the  red- 
bearded  foresters  of  the  Far  North.  I 
would  still  send  on  these  same  routes 
this  food,  but  also  better  food  than  this, 
stuff  that  should  kindle  and  feed  intel- 
lectual fires  in  all  the  remote  places  of 
the  earth. 


AN  UNTRAINED  NURSE 


BY   LUCY   HUSTON    STURDEVANT 


'  WROP  it  up  warm,  an'  set  it  by  the 
stove,  an'  feed  it  whenever  it  cries;  an' 
ef  it's  ailin'  put  a  little  mite  of  calomel 
on  the  tip  of  its  tongue;  an'  don't  take 
hit  out.  That's  the  way  to  raise  a 
baby.'  Thus  spoke  Mrs.  Haw,  looking 
up  from  her  sewing. 

Out  on  Hominy  Creek  she  had  been 
called  Mistress  Haw,  for  some  shreds 
of  the  leisurely  parlance  of  our  fore- 
fathers may  still  be  found  among  the 
Cove  and  Creek  dwellers  of  the  South- 
ern mountains ;  but  when  she  carried  her 
husband,  her  children,  and  her  house- 
hold gods  into  Highville,  she  learned  to 
know  herself  as  Mrs.  Haw. 

She  learned  many  other  things  that 
she  had  not  dreamed  of  out  on  Hom- 
iny; became  aware  of  them  in  silence, 
for  the  most  part,  with  her  shrewd, 
kind  eyes  narrowed  to  receive  the  new 
light,  and  her  mouth  compressed  into 
a  straight  line.  The  inequalities  of  for- 
tune are  not  obvious  out  on  Hominy 
Creek,  where  there  is  not  much  fortune 
of  any  kind ;  but  in  Highville,  which  is 
a  flourishing  Health  Resort,  the  County 
Seat,  and  an  active  business  town  be- 
sides, the  good  things  of  life  are  por- 
tioned out  so  unfairly  that  Mrs.  Haw's 
heart  burned  within  her  at  the  sight. 

When  she  first  came  into  Highville, 
she  earned  her  living  as  a  sick-nurse, 
untrained,  but  strong,  sensible,  and 
kind.  Her  patients  did  well,  and  loved 
her.  They  were  chiefly  babies  and 
women;  though  to  her  the  women  were 
merely  necessary  ad  j  uncts  to  the  babies : 
she  took  good  care  of  them,  but  she 
never  allowed  them  to  think  them- 

820 


selves  .of  first  importance.  To  tell  the 
truth,  she  had  two  passions :  babies  and 
books.  Babies  were  her  business,  a  per- 
manent source  of  revenue;  books  were 
her  romance,  the  dream  by  which  she 
lived.  She  talked  much  of  babies,  and 
little  of  books.  Which  she  really  loved 
the  most,  no  one  ever  knew. 

Trained  nurses  came  along  in  time 
and  took  her  work  away  from  her,  but 
she  remained  a  tremendous  authority 
on  such  matters '  all  the  days  of  her  life,' 
as  the  Catechism  puts  it.  She  took 
to  mending  and  plain  sewing  in  place 
of  nursing,  and  turned  out  to  have  a 
natural  gift  for  making  women's  shirts; 
a  'good  cut,'  as  we  say.  Such  people 
are  born,  not  made,  like  poets;  and  their 
livelihood  is  assured. 

'Wrop  it  up  warm,  an'  set  it  by  the 
stove,  an'  feed  it  whenever  it  cries,' 
said  Mrs.  Haw.  It  was  her  battle-cry, 
her  slogan;  thus  did  she  place  herself 
with  new  customers. 

'Oh!'  said  little  Mrs.  Denis,  wide- 
eyed,  'but  I  thought  going  out  — ' 

'Ef  hit's  a  winter  baby.  That's  the 
best  kind,'  said  Mrs.  Haw,  inscrutably, 
'  but  it  don't  holp  no  baby  none  to  take 
hit  out  of  doors.' 

She  scented  her  enemy,  the  many- 
headed  demon,  Fresh  Air. 

'Oh,  yes!'  said  Mrs.  Denis,  in  ac- 
quiescence. 

She  did  not  care  much,  having  no 
babies  of  her  own,  and  she  cared  very 
much  about  pleasing  Mrs.  Haw,  hav- 
ing been  told  she  would  work  for  no 
woman  unless  she  liked  her. 

'Yes,  ma'am.    You  want  a  yoke,  ur 


AN  UNTRAINED  NURSE 


821 


plain  back?  I  reckon  you'd  better  have 
a  yoke,  with  your  shoulders.' 

'What's  wrong  with  my  shoulders?' 
said  Mrs.  Denis,  in  alarm.  In  fact  they 
had  always  been  well-spoken  of,  but 
Mrs.  Haw  had  a  disconcerting  plain- 
ness of  speech;  if  you  did  not  fit  her 
shirts,  she  was  apt  to  find  fault  with 
your  figure. 

'They  ain't  much  out,'  admitted 
Mrs.  Haw. 

Her  gray  eyes  twinkled  behind  her 
thick  glasses.  She  liked  Mrs.  Denis; 
she  was  a  pretty,  soft  little  thing,  born 
to  depend,  not  to  uphold,  but  her  face 
looked  as  if  bewildering  responsibilities 
had  suddenly  been  thrust  upon  her. 
Mrs.  Haw  knew  the  look;  new-comers 
in  Highville  were  apt  to  have  it. 

'  Mr.  Denis  looks  a  heap  better  than 
he  did  first  time  I  saw  him,'  she  said 
casually. 

Mrs.  Denis  grew  quite  pink  with 
pleasure  and  interest. 

'It  was  New  Year's  Day.  He  was 
walkin'  crost  the  Square  —  he  looked 
mighty  bad  off.  But  now  —  he's 
started  right.  Ef  he  was  a  woman  he  'd 
be  about  well,  but  a  man  — '  She 
stopped.  She  had  not  much  opinion  of 
men,  but  she  had  a  tender  respect  for 
love's  young  dream.  'Jest  you  get  a 
man  to  think  he's  well,  an'  he  is.' 

'Are  you  a  Christian  Scientist,  Mrs. 
Haw?'  ' 

'  No,  ma'am,  I  'm  a  Methodist.  That 
time  I  went  North  weth  Mrs.  Dent's 
baby,  an'  seen  the  ocean,  I  went  to  a 
'Piscopal  church  weth  Katie.  (She's 
Mrs.  Dent's  mother's  maid.  She's  a 
white  woman.)  That  church  would  n't 
never  holp  me  none.  I  've  jest  naturally 
got  to  rock  when  I  sing.  Mebbe  hit's 
'cause  I've  rocked  so  many  babies.' 

'Did  you  like  the  ocean,  Mrs.  Haw?' 

'No,  ma'am.'  Mrs.  Haw  hesitated; 
she  was  moved  to  explain.  'I  could  n't 
see  acrost  it,  no  ways,'  said  the  moun- 
tain woman,  used  to  vast  prospects; 


'an'  that  thing  they  call  the  tide  — 
hit's  a  lonesome  thing,  comin'  in,  an' 
comin'  in,  an'  goin'  back,  an'»goin' 
back.  I  used  to  say,  "  You  stop  right 
there!  Now  stop!  "  Hit  never  did. 
Katie  used  to  laugh.  An'  them  ships! 
They  say  there's  babies  born  on  'em. 
I  would  n't  want  to  nurse  none  on  a 
ship.  I'd  ruther  have  a  nice  stiddy 
mountain.'  She  rose  to  go.  'I  reckon 
I've  finished  up  fer  to-day,  ma'am. 
I  've  got  to  stop  on  my  way  home,  an' 
fit  a  lady.  Well,  I  say  a  lady;  she  ain't 
a  lady,  she's  a  friend  of  mine.' 

Mrs.  Haw  had  a  fine  sense  of  social 
distinction;  that  was  where  her  South- 
ern bringing-up  came  in. 

She  rolled  up  her  work,  put  on  a 
shabby  hat  and  coat,  and  looked  about 
her.  There  were  some  books  on  a  table; 
she  looked  at  them  hungrily,  but  she 
did  not  ask  for  one. 

'  I  '11  stop  in  an'  fit  'em  some  evenin' 
next  week,  about  five  o'clock.' 

The  front  door  slammed  behind  her; 
again  her  sense  of  social  distinction  as- 
serted itself;  the  kitchen  door  was  used 
by  the  Negro  servants,  therefore  she, 
being  white,  could  not  stoop  to  use  it. 

She  turned  from  one  street  into  an- 
other, walking  quickly;  the  streets  of 
Highville  run  up  hill  and  down;  follow 
them  far  enough  and  they  climb  moun- 
tains, or  transform  themselves  into 
woodland  trails.  She  looked  hard  at  a 
man  who  was  riding  slowly  by  on  an 
ambling  mule;  even  in  the  thickening 
dusk  could  be  discerned  the  easy  grace 
with  which  he  sat  his  mount.  Mrs.  Haw 
stopped  and  strained  her  eyes  to  see 
more  clearly. 

'That  you,  Orton  Nally?' 

The  man  did  not  look,  nor  answer, 
nor  check  his  mule. 

'What  you  doin'  in  Highville?' 

The  mule  slid  by,  shuffling  its  little 
feet  rhythmically  on  the  hard  clay 
road;  the  rider  drooped  his  head  back 
until  his  face  was  hardly  visible. 


822 


AN  UNTRAINED  NURSE 


'Keep  away  from  me  an'  mine! 
Keep  away!  Keep  away!'  shouted 
Mrs.  Haw  to  the  vanishing  figure.  She 
caught  her  breath.  The  savagery  of 
many  untamed  generations  surged  in 
her  blood;  her  eyes  saw  scarlet,  her 
hand  shut  tightly  on  her  bundle;  a 
needle  within  pierced  it  deeply,  but 
she  did  not  feel  the  pain. 

'I  reckon  I  could  shoot  straight 
enough  to  hit  him!' 

The  primeval  savage  sleeps  at  the 
bottom  of  every  heart.  In  the  moun- 
tain heart  he  sleeps  lightly,  and  rouses 
to  fury  at  a  sound. 

'Ef  he  hurts  Lilly  —  ef  he  hurts 
Lilly-!' 

She  laughed  loudly  in  the  darkness, 
a  dreary  cackle,  without  mirth.  She 
was  shivering  and  shaking  like  a  sick 
animal. 

'  A  pretty  one  I  'd  be  to  shoot  a  man ! 
Cain't  hold  my  hand  stiddy  when  I'm 
jest  studyin'  'bout  hit.  The  men's  got 
the  best  of  us.  They  don't  shake  none 
when  they,  shoot.' 

She  hurried  on. 

A  pretty,  half-grown  girl  hung  about 
the  door  of  Mrs.  Haw's  little  house, 
watching,  watching  up  the  street  and 
down. 

'Watchin'  for  me,  Lilly?'  said  Mrs. 
Haw,  appearing  suddenly  out  of  the 
darkness,  like  a  wandering  ghost. 

'Why,  grandma!  Yes,  grandma! 
You  're  all  out  of  breath ! ' 

'  I  did  n't  stop  at  Mistress  Deems.  I 
come  right  on  home.  Have  you  got 
supper  ready  fur  the  bo'ders?' 

The  girl  whimpered. 

'I'll  get  it.  Don't  cry,  Lilly.  Come 
in.  Don't  hang  'round  the  door.'  She 
drew  the  girl  forward  into  the  light  of 
the  lamp.  'Lilly!  Has  Orton  Nally 
been  here?' 

The  girl's  face  flamed  into  color. 
'No,  grandma!  No,  indeed!' 

Mrs.  Haw  did  not  press  the  question; 


she  let  the  child  draw  back  into  the 
shadow. 

'You'll  have  to  set  the  table,  Lilly. 
I  've  got  a  heap  of  work  to  do  to-night.' 

'Why,  Mrs.  Haw!'  cried  Mrs.  Denis, 
with  flattering  surprise,  'what  are  you 
doing  with  grandchildren!  You're  too 
young!' 

'I  was  married  when  I  was  fo'teen. 
I  don't  hold  weth  girls  waitin'  the  way 
they  do  now  tell  they're  seventeen  ur 
eighteen.  A  girl  that  waits  that-a-way 
's  likely  not  to  get  a  man  at  all,'  said 
Mrs.  Haw. 

Man  in  the  abstract  she  hated.  He 
was  at  the  root  of  most  of  her  troubles. 
Concrete  man  was  the  rightful  lord  of 
creation;  not  to  secure  him  would  be 
unbearable  calamity. 

'  My  daughters  all  married  when  they 
was  fifteen.  That  time  I  went  North 
weth  Mrs.  Dent's  baby,  an'  seen  the 
ocean,  Katie  told  me  girls  up  there 
did  n't  marry  tell  they  was  thirty  some- 
times. I  hed  a  grandson  when  I  was 
thirty-one.  Lilly's  fifteen.  I'd  like  to 
see  her  married  to  a  good  man,  that 
didn't  drink  none,  an'  hed  a  good  trade. 
Not  a  mountain  man.' 

'Don't  you  think  fifteen  is  rather 
young  to  marry?' 

'No,  ma'am!' 

Silence  fell. 

'You  might  rip  this  un,  Mrs.  Denis, 
ma'am.' 

Mrs.  Denis's  head  drooped  over  her 
work.  It  was  a  pretty  and  well-kept 
head  of  red  gold.  Mrs.  Haw,  looking  at 
it  over  her  spectacles,  reflected  upon 
its  silkiness,  reflected  that  Lilly's  head 
would  look  like  that  if  she  took  better 
care  of  it,  reflected,  with  a  stir  of  anger, 
that  Mrs.  Denis  was  rich  and  Lilly  was 
poor. 

'But  I  reckon  Lilly 'd  be  jest  as  no- 
account  ef  she  was  rich,'  said  Mrs. 
Haw  to  herself,  with  that  bitter  justice 
that  lived  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and 


AN  UNTRAINED  NURSE 


823 


came  down  upon  her  conclusions  like 
a  sharp  knife,  severing  false  from  true, 
whether  she  willed  it  or  not. 

'Your  hair  looks  like  it  belonged  to  a 
year-old  baby.' 

Mrs.  Denis  raised  her  silky  head 
quickly;  her  soft  round  face  was  puck- 
ered into  anxious  wrinkles;  she  looked 
like  a  child  on  the  verge  of  a  burst  of 
tears. 

'  Jack  —  Mr.  Denis  —  had  an  aw- 
fully bad  night  last  night,'  she  said, 
suddenly;  'he  —  it's  terribly  discour- 
aging.' 

'He's  obliged  to  have  bad  nights  now 
and  then,'  said  Mrs.  Haw,  'but  I  reck- 
on he  don't  have  as  many  as  he  did 
when  he  first  come  down.' 

'No,  I  don't  believe  he  does,'  said 
Mrs.  Denis,  cheering  up  immediately. 
'He  does  n't!  What  a  comfort  you  are, 
Mrs.  Haw.  How  I  wish  you  could  al- 
ways be  here.  That 's  the  way  to  look 
at  it,  isn't  it?  Look  on  the  bright 
side.' 

'Ef  there's  a  bright  side  to  look  on, 
yes,  ma'am,'  said  Mrs.  Haw,  thinking 
heavily  of  Lilly,  and  of  Orton  Nally. 

'Oh!  there's  always  a  bright  side,' 
said  the  girl.  'And  though  of  course  I 
worry  awfully  about  Mr.  Denis,  I  know 
he  is  better  really.  But  it's  hard  for 
him  to  be  down  here,  where  he  has  no 
incentive,  and  no  stimulus,  and  no  con- 
genial society.  He's  going  North  this 
spring  for  a  little  while,  just  to  get  in 
touch  —  to  see  some  people  who  write. 
He  feels  that  he  needs  it.' 

'Does  Mr.  Denis  write?' 

'Oh,  yes!'  said  little  Mrs.  Denis, 
pluming  herself  visibly,  like  a  little 
pigeon,  'he  writes.' 

'Books?' 

'Yes  —  that  is  —  he's  written  sto- 
ries. He 's  going  to  write  books  — 
splendid  ones  —  soon.' 

'Books,'  said  Mrs.  Haw,  reverently. 
'  Books ! '  She  let  her  work  lie  untouched 
in  her  lap,  she  took  off  her  spectacles, 


and  held  them  in  her  hand:  'Well'm, 
I  've  had  eight  babies,  an'  riz  six  of  'em. 
I  kin  do  any  kind  of  farm  work  —  an' 
I  have.  When  we  lived  out  on  Hom- 
iny I  wove  all  Mr.  Haw's  clo'es,  an'  all 
the  children's,  an'  all  mine,  on  grand- 
ma's old  loom.  I've  brung  a  heap  of 
babies  into  the  world  without  any 
doctor  to  holp  me  weth  'em  —  when  I 
lived  on  Hominy;  here  in  town  all  the 
women  thinks  they  has  to  have  a  doc- 
tor— an'  you  know  Mrs.  Denis,  ma'am, 
ef  I  kin  make  a  pretty  shirt  —  It 
sounded  like  an  assertion  of  merit;  it 
was  really  a  humble  offering  of  her  all 
upon  the  altar  of  literature.  Suddenly 
and  unawares  she  had  come  upon  its 
temple;  reverently  she  trod  its  shining 
floor.  'You  don't  reckon  hit '11  be  bad 
for  him,  goin'  up  into  that  cold  north 
air?  Hit's  mighty  damp  up  there,' 
she  said  with  anxiety. 

A  heavy  step  sounded  outside,  and 
she  leaned  forward  to  look  at  the  young 
man  who  passed  the  door.  She  had 
taken  no  particular  interest  in  him  be- 
fore; he  was  merely  one  of  the  many 
who  were  sent  to  Highville  in  search  of 
health,  and  who  recovered  in  its  strong, 
sweet  air,  or  did  not  recover,  as  the  case 
might  be.  She  had  even  resented  him 
a  little,  because  she  had  taken  a  fancy 
to  his  sweet-natured,  pretty  little  wife, 
and  looked  upon  him  as  an  anxiety  to 
her.  Abstract  Man,  as  Mrs.  Haw  sees 
him,  is  always  an  anxiety  to  his  wife; 
he  wishes  to  be;  if  he  can  accomplish 
his  end  in  no  other  way,  he  falls  ill. 

'Hit's  mighty  damp  up  North,'  said 
Mrs.  Haw. 

'Oh,  dear!'  sighed  Mrs.  Denis,  in- 
stantly cast  down,  'what  shall  I  do  if 
he  catches  cold!  But  he  wants  to  go.' 

'  I  reckon  he  'd  better  go  ef  he  wants 
to  go.  Hit  won't  hurt  him  none,  mos' 
likely —  ef  he  wants  to  do  it,'  said  Mrs. 
Haw,  wise  in  the  ways  of  Man.  'I'll 
fit  this  shirt  now,  Mrs.  Denis,  ma'am.' 

When  she  rose  to  go,  her  glance  fell 


AN  UNTRAINED  NURSE 


again  upon  the  table  of  books,  with 
unmistakable  longing. 

'  Are  you  fond  of  reading,  Mrs.  Haw  ? ' 

'Yes,  ma'am.' 

'Do  you  have  time — would  you  care 
to  take  one  of  these?'  said  Mrs.  Denis, 
with  a  flash  of  inspiration. 

A  gleam  of  joy  stole  into  Mrs.  Haw's 
eyes.  'Yes,  ma'am!  Thank  you,  ma'am! 
I  certainly  would.  I'll  cover  it  weth 
paper,  an'  take  good  keer  of  hit.' 

'  Which  one  will  you  take  ? '  said  Mrs. 
Denis  eagerly.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed 
with  the  pleasure  of  a  kind  action,  her 
round  face  was  puckered  with  smiles; 
she  did  so  like  to  please  people. 

'Is  this  un  a  cook-book?' 

'  Yeast?  No,  that's  an  old,  old  novel. 
You'd  like  this  better,  I  think.'  She 
held  up  a  volume  of  futile  fiction, 
modern,  and  much  praised. 

'I'll  take  this,'  said  Mrs.  Haw,  dog- 
gedly. 

She  had  opened  the  book  haphazard 
in  the  middle,  as  a  book-lover  does,  to 
taste  its  quality,  and  lo!  the  thoughts 
of  her  heart  were  there  in  print!  Her 
gray  eyes  burned,  as  she  read  one  fiery 
sentence  after  another;  her  lips  moved, 
relishing  the  words. 

'  I  reckon  the  man  that  writ  this  has 
seen  one-roomed  mountain  cabins.' 

'I  don't  —  think  —  he  ever  did,' 
hesitated  Mrs.  Denis. 

'Yes,  ma'am.  He  could  n't  say  what 
he  does  ef  he  had  n't.  I ' ve  always  been 
pore,  but  I  've  never  had  to  live  that-a- 
way,  but  I've  seen  it,  all  my  life!  An' 
I've  seen  the  harm  of  it.  Hit  ain't  their 
fault  when  they  do  wrong,  hit  ain't 
their  fault!'  The  anger  died  out  of  her 
voice;  in  its  place  was  a  deep  sadness. 
'  Nor  hit  ain't  no  use  talkin'  about  the 
injestice  of  it  —  I  cain't  change  it, 
none.  I've  thought  them  things,  but 
I  never  seen  'em  writ  in  a  book  befo'. 
I  reckon  I  can  give  you  that  time  in 
June  you  wanted,  Mrs.  Denis,'  said 
Mrs.  Haw  monotonously,  'I've  been 


studyin'  about  it,  an'  I  reckon  I  kin* 
manage  it.' 

'You've  got  nothing  again'  John 
Gower,  Lilly,  except  that  he 's  a  decent, 
respectable  man,  that  don't  drink  none 
an'  don't  tell  you  all  the  time  how 
pretty  you  are.  Orton  Nally  jest  natu- 
rally talks  that-a-way  to  every  woman 
he  sees.  He'd  tell  me  I  was  a  beauty, 
ef  I 'diet  him.' 

Lilly  giggled. 

Mrs.  Haw  smiled  too,  unresenting. 
She  did  not  wonder  that  Lilly  thought 
her  unimaginably  old  and  ugly;  she 
thought  it  of  herself,  having  begun  the 
serious  business  of  life  at  an  early  age. 

'He  hears  that  kind  of  talk  in  sa- 
loons. John  Gower '11  cross  the  street 
when  he  comes  to  a  saloon,  ruther  than 
go  near  one.' 

Lilly  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

'You  remember  Orton  Nally  cain't 
marry  nobody,  Lilly.' 

'  I  don't  want  to  marry  nobody.  You 
hear  that  kind  of  talk  in  books,  grand- 
ma, readin'  'em  like  you  do!' 

'Here  comes  John  Gower!' 

'Let  him  come!'  said  Lilly  obdur- 
ately. 

'You  kin  take  a  walk  weth  him, 
Lilly,  an'  carry  him  back  to  your  Aunt 
Amanda's  to  supper.' 

Lilly  shook  her  foolish  head;  but  a 
lover  is  a  lover,  even  though  he  be 
strictly  temperate,  and  desirable,  and 
approved  by  the  family;  and  in  a  sur- 
prisingly short  time  she  was  dressed  in 
her  Sunday  best,  and  walking  off  with 
John  Gower,  with  the  appearance,  at 
least,  of  keen  enjoyment. 

Mrs.  Haw  had  the  house  to  herself, 
and  she  sat  down  by  the  window, 
snatched  up  a  book,  and  in  a  moment 
had  forgotten  her  surroundings,  her 
troubles,  and  herself.  Highville  is  a 
ragged  town,  of  great  distances;  Mrs. 
Haw's  house  was  on  its  outskirts,  little 
pine  trees  pressed  against  her  garden 


AN  UNTRAINED  NURSE 


825 


fence,  and  wood  thrushes  sang  to  her 
in  the  early  morning,  or  late  in  the 
June  days;  they  were  singing  that  Sun- 
day afternoon,  but  Mrs.  Haw  did  not 
hear  them,  being  happily  enclosed  in 
the  four  walls  of  her  book. 

John  Denis  found  the  North  as  damp 
as  Mrs.  Haw  could  possibly  have  anti- 
cipated. He  came  home  to  fall  ill,  and 
be  nursed  back  to  health  by  an  excel- 
lent trained  nurse,  named  Worrilow; 
but  no  sooner  was  he  convalescent  than 
he  fled  her  society,  and  demanded 
Mrs.  Haw,  and  was  never  so  placid  or 
so  well-pleased  as  when  she  sat  in  his 
room,  and  told  him  stories. 

'I  wish  you'd  stop  that  infernal  sew- 
ing, and  just  talk  to  me,'  he  said  one 
day. 

'I  cain't  sit  here  weth  my  hands  in 
my  lap,'  said  Mrs.  Haw,  with  scant 
civility.  But  her  tone  was  kinder  than 
her  words,  and  her  smile  was  kinder 
than  either.  'Mrs.  Denis  is  payin'  me 
fur  makin'  her  shirts,  an'  I'm  obliged 
to  make  'em.  Hit  ain't  holpin'  you 
none  to  talk  so  much,  Mr.  Denis.  I 
reckon  I'll  have  to  tell  you  another 
story.' 

Denis  smiled  feebly.  He  took  great 
pleasure  in  Mrs.  Haw's  stories.  'That's 
just  what  I  want.' 

Mrs.  Haw  nodded  to  her  sewing, 
well-pleased;  this  was  not  the  first  con- 
valescent who  had  hung  upon  the 
words  of  her  fluent  tongue  —  not  by 
a  good  many! 

'I  don't  guess  I  ever  told  you  about 
the  time  they  hung  three  men  in  the 
field  over  'crost  Caney  Street.  I  could 
show  you  the  place  from  the  window,  ef 
you  was  up  —  there 's  housen  on  it  now. 
I  was  twelve  year  old,  an'  we  was  livin' 
out  on  the  other  side  of  Bear  Moun- 
tain, fo'teen  mile  west  of  Hominy.  We 
started  at  sundown  the  night  befo',  an' 
walked  all  night.  Pap  brung  us  all  that 
was  big  enough  to  walk  that  fur.  He 


'lowed  we  ought  to  see  hit.  He  was  a 
pore  man,  but  he  done  what  he  could 
fur  his  children.  Fore  part  of  the  night 
we  was  alone,  but  along  about  one 
o'clock  hi  the  mo'nin'  we  begun  to 
come  on  families  frum  this  side  the 
mountain.  Hit  was  mighty  dark  along 
under  the  trees,  but  we  had  a  lantern, 
an'  mos'  all  the  families  had  'em,  'count 
of  the  children  strayin'  off  an'  gettin' 
los'  in  the  woods.  The  woods  was  big- 
ger then,  an'  blacker,  an'  thicker,  than 
they  is  now.  Or  mebbe  I  was  littler. 
They  seemed  mighty  black  to  me  that 
night.  Nobody  said  much.  You  don't 
talk  much  in  the  woods  at  night.  You 
jest  naturally  cain't.  An'  we  walked 
an'  walked  an'  walked  —  an'  walked, 
weth  the  lanterns  swingin'  an'  the 
owls  hootin'  back  in  the  woods;  an' 
every  now  an'  then  we'd  hear  steps 
side  of  the  road,  an'  some  more  folks 
would  come  out  an'  follow  along.' 

As  Mrs.  Haw  talked,  she  sewed, 
snapped  her  thread,  and  knotted  it, 
but  the  thread  of  her  narrative  was 
unbroken. 

'Bear  Mountain's  an  awful  long, 
long  mountain.  I  thought  we  never 
would  get  down  an'  out  where  we  could 
see  the  stars.  A  little  brother  of  mine 
was  along  —  Roley.  He  was  ten  year 
old,  an'  a  curious  kind  of  child,  always 
tellin'  big  stories  about  what  he  'd  seen, 
an'  done,  when  he  'd  never  done  nothin' 
but  tote  water  from  the  spring  all  the 
mo'nin'.  Seemed  like  he  believed  'em, 
too.  They  was  pretty  stories:  we  child- 
ren used  to  like  to  hear  him  tell  'em. 
Pap  used  to  whup  him  fur  lyin'  some- 
times, but  hit  never  changed  him  none, 
that  I  could  see.  He  got  it  into  his 
head  that  we  was  all  goin'  down  to 
Highville  to  hang  him  fur  lyin' !  I  guess 
he  had  a  hard  walk,  pore  little  boy! 
He  didn't  ask  no  one  —  jest  set  his 
mind  that-a-way.  He  mought  have 
asked  me,  but  he  never  did.  He  died 
that  winter.  He  had  a  runnin'  in  his 


826 


AN  UNTRAINED  NURSE 


leg.  Nursin'  him  was  the  first  nursin'  I 
ever  done.  Pore  little  boy!' 

Mrs.  Haw  took  off  her  spectacles  and 
wiped  them  slowly. 

'When  we  got  down  Highville  way, 
all  the  roads  was  black  weth  people. 
Men  rid  in  clear  from  Tennessee.  An' 
we  did  n't  see  no  hangin'  after  all,'  she 
said,  with  a  cheery  cackle.  '  It  was  put 
earlier  'count  of  the  crowds,  an'  by  the 
time  we  got  into  town,  hit  was  all  over. 
I  never  did  get  to  see  one.  When  I  was 
young,  I  had  to  work  too  hard,  an' 
now  —  I  'd  ruther  not,  someway.  Seem 
like  them  Gladiator  Shows,  when  they 
killed  the  Christians.  I  read  about  one 
in  a  book.' 

'When  do  you  do  your  reading?  In 
the  evenings,  I  suppose.' 

Mrs.  Haw  laughed  genially.  'You 
reckon  I've  got  nothin'  to  do  night- 
times but  read!  I  reckon  you  mean 
night-time,  when  you  say  evenin'. 
I've  got  fo'  men  bo'ders,  Mr.  Denis; 
an'  Mr.  Haw,  an'  Lilly,  an'  Lilly's  two 
little  brothers,  to  take  keer  of.  I  have 
a  heap  of  work  to  do  night-times  —  an' 
I  gen'lly  carry  some  sewin'  home  weth 
me.' 

'  In  the  morning,  perhaps,  you  get  up 
early,  and  get  in  an  hour  or  two  at  a 
book.  Lots  of  people  work  before 
breakfast.  One's  brain  is  fresher  then.' 

Again  Mrs.  Haw  laughed,  quite  un- 
restrainedly this  time!  'My  men  gets 
their  breakfasts  at  six.  I  don't  read 
none  in  the  mo'nins.' 

'Then  when?'  Denis  persisted. 

'You  write  me  a  book,  sir,  an'  I'll 
find  time  to  read  it,  someway.' 

Her  reading  hours  were  her  secret; 
her  own  household  did  not  know  them. 

'  I  wish  I  'd  known  this  country  then,' 
Denis  grumbled,  meditating  upon  the 
triple  hanging,  and  its  effect  upon  the 
minds  of  the  populace. 

Mrs.  Haw  did  not  answer.  She  bent 
over  her  work;  her  shining  needle  flew. 
The  young  man  watched  it,  hypnotized 


into  drowsiness,  if  not  into  complete 
repose. 

'I  wish  I'd  had  the  luck  to  see  the 
mountains  before  everything  was  civil- 
ized out  of  them,'  he  muttered,  sleepily. 

Mrs.  Haw's  face  looked  gray  and 
hard;  her  lips  moved,  though  no  sound 
came  from  them.  'Vengeance  is  mine, 
I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord!'  The 
Christian  spoke,  but  the  savage  lay 
beneath.  '  Ef  he  hurts  Lilly,  I  '11  shoot 
him  down.  She's  got  no  father  nur 
mother  to  take  keer  of  her  —  I  '11  shoot 
him  down  — ' 

But  she  knew  very  well  that  she 
could  not  shoot  Orton  Nally,  no  mat- 
ter what  he  might  do;  that  he  was 
stronger  and  readier  than  she  could  pos- 
sibly be,  and  that  if  it  came  to  shoot- 
ing, he  could  take  care  of  himself,  and 
she  would  go  to  the  wall.  Subtlety  is 
woman's  best  weapon,  but  Mrs.  Haw 
was  above  all  things  direct.  The  cold 
wind  of  reason  blew  across  her  hot 
anger,  and  chilled  it  into  something 
very  like  despair. 

'  Hit 's  time  fur  your  milk,  Mr.  Denis, 
sir.  You  take  it  now,  and  you  can  get 
a  little  sleep  —  an'  then  I  '11  tell  you 
some  mo'  stories.  Jest  a  little  mite  of 
sleep!'  she  said,  with  tender  patience. 

He  turned  on  his  side,  and  fell  asleep 
presently,  and  Mrs.  Haw  rocked  and 
sewed  and  meditated,  and  set  her 
troubles  out  in  an  orderly  row,  and 
looked  them  over.  Her  chair  made  a 
little  creaking  that  would  have  roused 
the  patient  into  wakeful  wrath  if  any 
one  else  had  done  it,  but  the  rocking 
of  Mrs.  Haw  seemed  an  integral  part  of 
her,  and  as  such  was  distinctive  and 
soothing. 

'Hit  ain't  no  use  reasonin'  weth  a 
man  like  that,  no  use  at  all,  nur  cryin'; 
he'd  be  right  pleased  an'  happy  ef  he 
could  see  me  cry — '  Her  chair  creaked 
a  little  louder,  and  lost  its  regular  ca- 
dence. 'Nurcoaxin' — not  an  ugly  old 
woman,  like  I  am.  Loolian  don't  coax 


AN  UNTRAINED  NURSE 


827 


him  none;  she  scolds  him,  an'  feeds  him 
good  —  an'  she's  his  wife  —  he'd  jest 
run  away  from  me ! '  She  set  her  mouth 
firmly,  until  it  looked  like  a  thin  line. 
'  I  '11  go  up  there,  an'  do  what  I  kin  — 
some  one's  got  to  go;  an'  if  anything 
happens — hit's  obliged  to  happen!' 

The  patient  stirred  uneasily  in  his 
sleep;  all  this  suppressed  emotion  was 
disturbing  the  peaceful  atmosphere  of 
the  room. 

'I've  finished  the  shirts,  an'  I've 
brung  back  the  books,  Mrs.  Denis, 
ma'am;  an'  I'm  obliged  to  you  fur  let- 
tin'  me  have  'em.' 

'Did  n't  you  like  The  Circuit  Rider? ' 
said  Mrs.  Denis. 

'No,  ma'am.  I've  seen  a  heap  of 
Methodist  preachers  all  my  life;  had 
'em  in  the  house  when  I  lived  on  Hom- 
iny. I  don't  need  to  read  books  about 
'em.  But  that  other  was  a  pretty  book. 
I  reckon  I  could  have  made  him  more 
comfortable  than  that  Torfrida  did.' 

'Hereward?' 

'  Yes,  ma'am.  No  one 's  obliged  to  be 
as  uncomfortable  in  the  woods  as  they 
was.  She  wasn't  what  you'd  call  a 
triflin'  woman  either.  Well,  'm,  I'm 
glad  I've  read  'em.' 

'Aren't  you  coming  next  month?' 
cried  Mrs..  Denis  in  dismay. 

Mrs.  Haw's  voice  had  a  ring  of 
finality.  She  had  spoken  as  one  might 
speak  who  takes  an  eternal  farewell. 

'What  will  Mr.  Denis  do  without 
you  to  talk  to  him!' 

'He's  right  well  now.  An'  I've  got 
some  business  to  do  up  country.' 

Mrs.  Denis  looked  quickly  into  Mrs. 
Haw's  face,  and  looked  quickly  away 
again;  emotional,  unreasoning  little 
people,  who  are  eager  to  please,  and 
troubled  over  many  things,  see  some- 
times when  wiser  folk  are  blind. 

'It's  disagreeable  business!' 

'Hit  ain't  pleasant,'  Mrs.  Haw  ad- 
mitted. '  Now  don't  you  get  to  frettin' 


about  him.  He's  better  than  he  was 
befo'  he  got  sick.  Ef  he  wants  to  write 
books  you  let  him;  hit  won't  hurt  him 
none.' 

'Don't  go  up  country,'  begged  Mrs. 
Denis.  'Oh!  don't  go,  Mrs.  Haw.  Let 
the  business  go — no  matter  what  it  is! ' 

A  gleam  of  pleasure  stole  athwart 
the  gray  calm  of  Mrs.  Haw's  face,  as  a 
sun  ray  lightens  for  a  moment  the  gloom 
of  a  boding  sea. 

'Thank  you,  ma'am;  but  I  reckon 
I'll  have  to  go.' 

'It  seems  to  me  a  good  deal  of  water 
has  run  under  the  bridges  since  we've 
seen  Mrs.  Haw,'  said  Denis  to  his  wife 
one  day.  'What  has  become  of  her, 
Helen?  I  want  some  more  reminis- 
cences.' 

They  were  driving  down  the  road  that 
used  to  run  for  many  miles  along  the 
rushing  waters  of  the  French  Broad : 
a  very  old  road  that  was  once  the  stage 
road  north  and  west  into  Tennessee; 
before  that,  a  bridle  path;  before  that, 
by  the  witness  of  tradition,  an  Indian 
trail.  Trail  or  path  of  some  sort  doubt- 
less it  has  always  been,  companioning 
the  river  through  trackless  wildernesses, 
fraught  with  danger  and  death;  follow- 
ed by  fearful  women,  by  trembling  cap- 
tives, by  old  age  and  defeat;  followed, 
too,  assuredly,  by  lovers,  children,  and 
the  like,  hopeful  and  happy.  To-day  no 
one  follows  it,  for  a  big  electric  plant 
has  dammed  the  river;  the  old  road- 
houses  are  torn  down,  and  the  old  road 
is  dead  —  drowned  by  the  spreading 
flood. 

Mrs.  Denis  gave  an  exultant  chuckle. 
'She's  coming  to-morrow,'  she  said, 
like  a  child  that  joyfully  produces  a 
present  that  it  has  thought  of  all  by 
itself;  'I  wrote  her  a  post-card;  I 
thought  you'd  like  to  see  her  again; 
and  she  wrote  me  a  post-card,  and  said 
there  had  been  illness  in  her  house, 
but  that  she'd  come  to-morrow!  I'm 


828 


so  glad!  And  she'll  say  how  well  you 
look!' 

Mrs.  Haw  came  through  a  summer 
thunder-storm  the  next  morning,  and 
sat  down  to  her  work  by  the  window 
of  the  sewing-room,  to  an  accompani- 
ment of  rolling  thunder  and  lurid  light- 
ning that  would  have  sent  some  women 
to  a  feather-bed.  Mrs.  Haw  viewed  it 
unmoved. 

'That  was  a  bad  storm  we  had  early 
this  morning,'  said  Denis,  an  hour  or 
two  later,  entering  cautiously,  as  a  man 
should  enter  a  sewing-room. 

'Yes,  sir.  Don't  step  on  that  lace 
edgin',  sir!' 

'Is  the  lightning  always  bright  red 
down  here,  and  does  it  always  strike 
hi  one's  front  yard?' 

'  Hit 's  obliged  to  strike  in  somebody's 
yard,'  said  Mrs.  Haw,  aphoristically; 
'how'r  you,  sir?' 

'Fine!' 

Mrs.  Haw  continued  her  work  in 
silence. 

'How  did  you  get  on  up-country? 
Mrs.  Denis  seemed  to  think  you  were 
having  a  bad  time.  What  were  you 
doing  up  there?  Borning  some  more 
grandchildren?' 

'No,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Haw  cheerily. 
*Not  this  time.  I  did  n't  get  to  go  up 
country  after  all.  I  was  fixin'  to  go  a 
Wednesday,  but  the  night  befo'  a  man 
got  runned  over  by  one  of  them  auto- 
mobiles, an'  they  carried  him  into  my 
house.  Hit  happened  close  by.  An' 
he  stayed  there  tell  he  died.  No,  sir; 
hit  was  n't  the  fault  of  the  automobile. 
He'd  been  drinkin'  an'  he  had  n't  sense 
enough  to  get  out  of  the  way.' 

'  Why  did  n't  you  send  him  to  the 
hospital?' 

'His  wife's  kin  of  mine,'  said  Mrs. 
Haw,  simply.  '  She  come  down  to  nurse 
him,  soon  as  she  heard.  They  live  way 
over  hi  the  blue.  Hit  took  two  days  to 
get  her  here.' 

'What  do  you  mean  by  that?' 


Mrs.  Haw  looked  vexed.  She  tried 
to  purge  her  speech  of  purely  moun- 
tain idioms,  but  now  and  then  one 
slipped  in. 

'That  means  way,  way  off,  where 
the  mountains  fold  down  into  each 
other,  an'  you  cain't  see  anything  but 
the  blue,  'cept  mebbe  a  little  curl  of 
white  smoke  risin'  up.  Loolian  come 
as  soon  as  she  could,  an'  she  watched 
by  him  tell  he  died.  He 's  better  dead. 
He  was  the  han'somest  man  in  the 
mountains,  Orton  Nally  was,  an'  I  guess 
he  was  n't  fur  from  bein'  the  worst. 
Seemed  like  he  could  n't  keep  away 
from  a  pretty  girl,  an'  he  drinked!' 

'He  sounds  interesting.' 

'He  ain't  interestin'  now,'  said  Mrs. 
Haw  grimly,  like  a  voice  from  a 
Dance  of  Death;  'a  man's  got  to  stay 
'live,  ef  he  wants  to  be  interestin',  any- 
ways to  a  girl.  My  Lilly  likes  men 
mighty  well,  but  she  don't  like  'em 
none  when  they're  dead.  I'm  makin' 
Lilly  some  pretty  clothes,'  said  Mrs. 
Haw,  tentatively,  as  if  she  wished  to  be 
asked  why. 

She  would  have  liked  to  tell  Denis 
about  her  pretty  Lilly,  and  about  John 
Gower,  and  the  things  he  would  not 
do.  We  all  have  our  own  triumphs, 
and  our  own  achievements;  they  may 
be  small,  but  they  are  very  big  to  us; 
we  like  to  talk  about  them,  and  take 
our  little  wage  of  praise. 

'  I  want  her  to  have  as  much  as  other 
girls  have,'  said  Mrs.  Haw.  With  a 
very  little  encouragement  she  would 
have  unburdened  her  soul.  'Hit's,  a 
good  thing  fur  a  girl  to  get  a  good  man, 
that  don't  drink  none,  an'  don't  have 
no  foolish  talk,  a  stiddy  man.' 

'The  storm's  coming  back,  I  think,' 
said  Denis. 

Mrs.  Haw  looked  out  of  the  window; 
beneath  it  was  a  wonderful  great  pro- 
spect of  river  and  foothills,  and  range 
upon  range  of  blue  peaks.  Clouds  were 
trooping  up  the  defiles  in  long  lines,  and 


AN  UNTRAINED  NURSE 


829 


lifting  from  the  highest  summits  into 
the  sky  above. 

'No,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Haw,  setting  her 
own  affairs  aside  without  resentment, 
'  I  don't  guess  it 's  comin'  back  —  I 
reckon  you  an'  Mrs.  Denis  kin  go  fur 
your  drive,  ef  you  want.' 

She  sat  by  the  window,  sewing  stead- 
ily; beneath  she  heard  the  joyous 
voices  of  the  Denises,  making  ready 
to  start. 

'He's  well  again,' she  reflected.  She 
was  a  lonely  soul,  all  the  more  that  she 
was  not  often  alone;  and  she  held  much 
converse  with  herself,  like  all  such. 
'They'll  be  goin'  back  North  soon. 
Seems  like  nobody  ever  does  stay  here 
long.  Well,  I  'm  glad  they  kin  go  that 
way.' 

In  joy,  not  grief,  that  is;  life,  not 
death.  Mrs.  Haw  might  have  been 
used  to  seeing  people  go  by  this  time, 
people  she  had  nursed  and  worked  for, 
cheered  through  sad  hours,  and  heart- 
ened up  to  go  on;  it  was  an  old  story 
to  her.  But  she  had  a  trick  of  growing 
fond  of  them,  and  when  they  went 
away  she  missed  them;  they  forgot  her; 
she  knew  that  very  well.  It  was  her 
misfortune  that  she  was  a  clever  wo- 
man, and  saw  too  much  for  her  own 
good. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  talking 
going  on  under  the  window;  the  Den- 
ises were  carrying  books  out  of  the 
house,  and  putting  them  in  the  back 


of  the  runabout,  and  covering  them 
carefully  from  the  possibility  of  mud 
stains. 

'I  wonder  where  they're  takin'  all 
them  books,'  said  Mrs.  Haw  hungrily. 
'To  somebody  that  has  plenty  of  'em, 
I  reckon.' 

Mrs.  Denis  slipped  into  the  room,  all 
smiles,  and  pink  color,  and  eagerness. 

'What's  your  number,  Mrs.  Haw? 
We  are  n't  quite  sure.' 

'Fo'teen.' 

'Will  any  one  be  at  home?'  . 

'Lilly '11  be  there.  Them  shirts  ain't 
ready  to  go  yit.  I'll  take  'em  when 
I  go.' 

'It's  the  books,'  said  Mrs.  Denis 
happily;  'Mr.  Denis  thought  there  was 
no  use  packing  so  many,  and  he 
thought  you  might  like  to  have  them, 
and  we  thought  we'd  drive  them  over 
this  morning.  There,  I've  told  you, 
and  we  meant  it  to  be  a  surprise ! '  said 
Mrs.  Denis  in  deep  regret. 

Mrs.  Haw  watched  her  books  drive 
off;  she  had  never  dreamed  of  owning 
so  many,  and  such  nice  ones;  it  seemed 
'too  good  to  be  true,'  as  we  say  in  this 
vale  of  tears.  The  mountains  were 
cloudless  and  blue,  the  day  was  fresh- 
washed,  and  sweet  with  honeysuckle, 
and  the  smell  of  wet  earth. 

'It's  turned  out  to  be  a  pretty  day,' 
said  Mrs.  Haw,  'an'  after  all  there's  a 
heap  of  good  people  in  this  world  —  ef 
it  is  a  bad  one!' 


A  SOUTH  AFRICAN  SWEET-TOOTH 


BY   MARK    F.    WILCOX 


IN  my  early  Natal  days  my  sweet- 
tooth  was  a  matter  of  small  concern.  I 
only  knew  that  I  liked  sugar-cane  and 
could  chew  my  fill,  in  season,  off  the 
great  piles  around  the  Kafir  mill.  I 
used  to  scramble,  barefoot,  over  shaky 
mountains  of  cane  until  the  grizzly- 
haired  native  owner,  puffed  with  im- 
portance and  European  clothes,  would 
nearly  lose  his  tongue  clicking  Zulu 
maledictions  upon  me.  There  was  plen- 
ty of  risk,  too,  for  the  long  heavy 
canes  were  never  securely  stacked, 
and  might  hurl  me  down  at  any  mo- 
ment to  pin  me  beneath  their  sweet 
weight. 

But  my  dearest  delight  was  to  ab- 
scond to  the  river-bank  with  half  a 
dozen  native  companions  and  an  arm- 
ful of  canes,  and  there  bask  in  the  sun- 
shine on  the  hot  sand  or  play  in  the 
lukewarm  water,  all  the  while  munch- 
ing the  tough  stalks.  No  Kafir  young- 
ster could  outdo  me,  then,  at  peeling 
cane  with  my  teeth.  That  is  why  my 
sweet-tooth  now  occupies  so  much  of 
my  time  and  attention,  and  why  among 
my  boyhood  memories  nothing  stands 
out  with  more  grim  distinctness  than 
the  old  sugar-mill. 

Since  my  tooth  remains,  I  suppose  the 
old  mill  still  sprawls  on  a  wide  stretch 
of  bottom-land,  like  a  big  brown  spider 
in  the  centre  of  its  web.  There  is  no- 
thing much  in  the  factory's  external 
appearance  to  suggest  the  Kafir  own- 
ership, unless  it  is  the  general  air  of  de- 
cay. Observed  from  our  house,  which 
is  on  a  hill  overlooking  the  river,  the 
curling  old  iron  of  the  roof  and  the 

830 


crumbling  walls  seem  only  the  result  of 
a  respectable  desuetude. 

All  around  spreads  a  deep  green  sea 
of  billowy  sugar-cane,  broken  here  and 
there  by  vari-colored  islands  of  reeds 
and  mimosa  bush,  and  cut  by  a  wind- 
ing, yellow-green  isthmus  of  thick-set 
syringa  trees,  that  shade  the  road  from 
the  river  to  the  high  lands.  Touching 
the  yellow  isthmus  and  turning  back 
the  green  sea  in  a  russet-and-sienna 
wave  of  cut  sugar-cane,  the  mill  rises, 
dark  and  weatherbeaten,  seemingly  as 
old  as  the  giant  boulders  sticking  to 
the  flanks  of  the  distant  blue  hills. 

It  is  only  when  you  leave  our  veran- 
da to  descend  the  hill  and  cross  the 
river  that  you  begin  to  question  the 
antiquity  of  the  mill's  dilapidation. 
Whether  you  wade  the  shallow  stone 
weir,  or  ride  across  in  trap  or  on  horse- 
back, you  cannot  muffle  by  splashing 
feet  or  grinding  wheels  the  noise  of  a 
periodic  and  most  hideous  screek-scrack, 
a  sound  that  seems  to  fill  the  heavens, 
and  yet  is  like  nothing  so  much  as  a 
starved  wheelbarrow.  When  at  last  you 
locate  the  din,  you  receive,  then  and 
there,  your  first  lesson  in  native  lack 
of  thrift. 

Upon  the  farther  river-bank,  about 
thirty  feet  above  the  water,  lies  a  huge 
cylindrical  tank  of  rusty  iron;  and 
mounted  on  this  is  a  hand-pump  and  a 
dark  figure  of  a  man,  who  moves  up 
and  down  with  the  handle  of  the  pump, 
so  automatically  that  you  are  almost 
ready  to  believe  the  pump  is  moving 
him.  As  you  pass  by  up  the  dusty  road 
he  hails  you  in  guttural  Zulu;  and  if 


A  SOUTH  AFRICAN  SWEET-TOOTH 


831 


you  can  understand  him,  he  is  ready  to 
stop  his  labor  long  enough  to  tell  you 
what  he  is  doing  —  in  my  day  he  would 
also  tell  you  all  there  was  to  tell  about 
the  mill,  the  mission,  the  country,  or 
anything  else  that  would  keep  his 
tongue  clacking,  while  his  arms  rested 
and  the  water-supply  ran  low  in  the 
mill. 

This  sociable  darky,  you  soon  find 
out,  furnishes  all  the  water  used  at  the 
factory.  That  the  pump  should  run  by 
wasteful  and  uncertain  hand-power  is 
evidence  enough  of  bad  management, 
but  that  this  same  hand-power  should 
be  negligently  weakened  by  lack  of 
lubrication  is  proof  conclusive. 

The  gurgle  of  water  through  a  rusty 
pipe,  lying  above  ground,  speaks  the 
way  to  the  mill.  After  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
of  level  road,  you  come  to  an  abrupt 
rise  of  about  twenty  feet,  where  the 
river  once  made  its  bank;  and  there  is 
the  mill.  The  gurgling  water  is  swal- 
lowed by  an  open  cistern, — a  few  ant- 
eaten  boards  are  all  that  remain  of  the 
cover,  —  from  thence  to  be  drawn  by  a 
whining  steam-pump  up  to  some  con- 
cealed reservoir  inside  the  building. 
And  now,  if  the  odor  of  dusty  sugar- 
cane and  pungent  syringa  has  previ- 
ously withstood  the  crowning  aroma  of 
the  mill,  your  nostrils  are  pleasantly 
assailed  with  the  full  quota  of  odors 
saccharine,  from  the  sweety-sour  smell 
of  boiling  sap  to  the  bitter-sweet  of 
burning  sugar. 

The  boiler-room  stands  on  the  side 
nearest  the  river  —  a  sheet-iron  lean- 
to,  with  the  entire  front  exposed  to  the 
inclemencies  of  the  weather.  You  see 
no  coal  nor  any  piles  of  wood,  but  the 
mystery  of  the  fuel-supply  is  soon 
solved.  Near  the  boiler-room  are 
standing  in  the  yard  great  stacks  of 
dried  refuse  from  the  cane, — cut  tops, 
raked-up  leaves,  crushed  stalks,  —  and 
these  are  being  fed  by  the  armful  into 
the  yawning  fire-box.  The  stuff  burns 


like  paper,  and  the  constant  attention 
of  three  men  is  required  to  keep  the 
fire  from  going  out,  while  six  more  are 
needed  to  replenish  the  stacks;  but 
coal  and  wood  are  thereby  saved.  Such 
is  the  economy  of  the  Kafir. 

Next  to  the  stacks  of  refuse,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  main  entrance  to  the 
building,  are  huge  piles  of  cut  sugar- 
cane. You  wander  around  among  the 
great  heaps,  which  in  the  busy  season 
mount  as  high  as  the  gable  of  the 
single-storied  mill,  and  wonder  where 
it  all  comes  from.  Six  more  men  are 
needed  to  feed  the  stalks  into  the  low- 
growling  calenders.  Thence  there  flows 
across  the  mill  to  the  boiling  vats  the 
sweet  sap,  filtered  with  only  one  mesh 
of  screen  and  flowing  along  an  open 
trough,  where  congregate  innumerable 
bees,  flies,  and  wasps,  many  of  whom, 
full  to  repletion,  tumble  headlong  into 
the  fragrant  flood,  and  are  borne  de- 
liriously, like  so  many  drunkards,  to 
their  doom. 

From  the  vats,  whose  scummy  steams 
assault  your  nostrils  with  almost  sick- 
ening sweetness,  the  sap  emerges  a 
muddy  brown  syrup,  that  is  cooled  in 
broad,  shallow  pans  resting  on  the  rear 
floor  of  the  main  room.  The  broken 
window-panes  are  unscreened,  as  are 
the  cooling-pans,  and  an  interesting  as- 
sortment of  insects  soon  sacrifice  them- 
selves for  their  own  sweet-tooth  and 
the  flavor  of  the  sugar.  From  the 
pans  you  watch  the  syrup  dipped  up 
to  hum  merrily  through  a  pair  of  cen- 
trifugal machines,  and  come  out  a  dark, 
thin  treacle;  but  inside  the  conical  sieve 
of  each  machine  you  find  a  quantity  of 
golden-yellow  sugar. 

There  are  other  processes  of  which 
I  have  but  a  vague  memory,  that  are 
used  to  separate  the  different  grades  of 
sugar,  from  the  nearly  white  to  the 
nearly  black.  I  only  remember  toward 
the  end  of  the  room  two  large  pans  full 
of  a  very  black  liquid,  in  both  of  which 


832 


A  SOUTH  AFRICAN  SWEET-TOOTH 


two  very  black  men  were  stamping  in- 
dustriously with  bare  feet.  Of  what  ad- 
vantage this  process  was,  I  never  knew; 
but  long  afterwards  I  used  to  find  much 
satisfaction  in  shocking  those  who  knew 
no  better  by  informing  them  that  sugar 
was  made  by  having  Negroes  wade  in 
molasses  until  it  crystallized. 

At  the  rear  of  the  mill  is  another 
open  shed,  and  here  a  dozen  more  na- 
tives dip  sugar  out  of  numbered  bins 
into  burlap  sacks,  weighing  them  when 
full,  and  sewing  them  up  for  shipment. 
This  shed,  too,  has  its  usual  contingent 
of  insects;  so  it  is  little  wonder  that  the 
finished  product  seems  more  like  a 
burying-ground  for  bees  and  wasps  than 
a  life  necessity. 

Turning,  you  walk  back  through  the 
long  low  building  until  you  come  to  a 
short  flight  of  stairs  which  brings  you 
to  the  engine-room  and  the  front  door. 
Here,  at  last,  are  signs  of  intelligent 
and  provident  care.  The  battered  old 
compound  working  wheezily  on  the 
right-hand  side  of  the  room  still  glit- 
ters in  spots,  while  the  silent  little 
auxiliary,  standing  on  the  other  side, 
is  a  miracle  of  shining  brass.  The  old 
engine,  though  asthmatic,  performs  its 
duty  smoothly,  and  the  big  fly-wheel 
whirls  with  scarcely  a  sound.  Instinct- 


ively you  look  around  for  a  white 
man,  and  you  find  him.  Though  clad  in 
greasy  trousers  and  shirt,  with  face  and 
hands  as  black  as  those  of 'any  Kafir 
laborer,  you  recognize  the  European 
profile,  you  understand  the  English, 
'Hisye!' 

He  asks  you  first  for  a '  bit  o'  baccy ' ; 
then  launches  forth  on  a  melancholy 
wail,  spiced  with  picturesque  half- 
English,  half-Zulu  expletives,  concern- 
ing the  fate  of  this  Kafir-managed 
institution.  Should  you  happen  to  ex- 
press your  wonder  because  he  stays 
there  at  all,  under  such  conditions,  he 
comes  closer  to  explain  that  the  mill 
belonged  to  a  '  dam  fine  Hinglishman ' 
when  he  first  became  engineer,  and 
that  afterwards  he  had  become  so  at- 
tached to  his  engine  that  he  could  not 
leave  it  when  the  exchange  of  owner- 
ship was  made. 

He  waxes  sentimental,  leaning  even 
closer,  and  you  get  a  sudden  whiff, 
from  his  labored  breathing,  of  tobacco 
soaked  in  cheap  whiskey;  and  you  back 
out  of  the  front  door,  saying  that  you 
understand. 

'Hi  sye!'  he  calls  after  you  in  an 
anxious  stage  whisper,  'ye  hain't  got 
a  drop  about  ye,  hev  ye?' 

You  understand  very  well. 


IF  THE  UNITED  STATES  SHOULD  GO  TO  WAR 


BY   JOHN   BIGELOW,    JR. 


IN  the  course  of  the  last  few  years 
a  succession  of  events  has  given  rise 
among  our  people  to  an  uncommon,  if 
not  unprecedented,  interest  in  our  milit- 
ary affairs,  and  a  corresponding  amount 
of  discussion  of  our  preparedness  or  un- 
preparedness  for  war.  A  good  deal  of 
the  arguing  has  seemed  to  be  based 
upon  uncertain  and  insufficient  data 
regarding  our  actual  resources  in  men, 
arms,  and  equipment.  The  purpose  of 
this  paper  is,  not  to-settle  the  question 
of  our  military  preparedness  or  unpre- 
paredness  for  war,  but  to  assist  the 
reader  in  pondering  the  question  for 
himself,  and  perhaps  enable  him  to  get 
somewhat  nearer  to  a  satisfactory  an- 
swer than  he  has  yet  come. 

In  time  of  peace,  the  military  land 
force  of  the  United  States  consists  of 
the  Army,  or  Regular  Army.  In  time 
of  war,  or  of  domestic  disturbance,  the 
Army  may  be  supplemented  with  a 
contingent  of  Militia,  or  with  a  con- 
tingent of  Militia  and  a  contingent 
of  Volunteers.  The  Militia  is  a  state 
force  except  when  called  into  the  serv- 
ice of  the  United  States.  It  cannot 
be  called  into  such  service  except  by 
the  President,  who  is  the  sole  judge 
of  the  occasion  therefor,  and  of  the 
number  to  be  called  out.  Volunteers 
can  be  called  for  only  by  Congress,  or 
under  authority  of  an  act  of  Congress. 
The  Militia  is  divided  into  the  organ- 
ized Militia,  or  National  Guard,  and 
the  unorganized  Militia.  The  Regular 
Army,  the  Volunteer  Army,  and  the 
National  Guard,  are  all  recruited  in 
time  of  peace  by  voluntary  enlistment; 

VOL,  106  -  NO.  <? 


but  in  time  of  war  the  Regular  and  the 
Volunteer  armies  have  been  recruited 
by  draft  or  conscription. 

Let  us  now  try  to  determine  what 
force  the  country  commands  for  im- 
mediate use  against  a  possible  invad- 
ing force.  According  to  the  official 
Army  Register  for  1911,  published 
December  1,  1910,  we  have  in  the 
Army  85,392  officers  and  men.  Num- 
bers are  but  one  of  the  factors  of  mili- 
tary power.  Among  the  other  factors 
are  composition,  organization,  equip- 
ment, and  training.  By  composition  is 
meant  the  character  and  strength  of 
the  various  elements,  such  as  infantry, 
cavalry,  artillery,  etc.,  of  which  the 
Army  is  composed.  The  proportioning 
of  the  several  arms  to  one  another  is 
determined  by  the  needs  of  one  arm. 
In  all  armies  this  principal  or  main  arm 
is  the  infantry,  for  the  reason  that  the 
infantry  is  the  most  mobile  of  all  arms, 
taking  into  account  all  kinds  of  ground 
or  terrain.  Troops  that  are  or  may  be 
formed  into  field  armies  are  called  mo- 
bile troops,  as  distinguished  from  depot 
or  garrison  troops.  In  our  Army  we 
have  no  depot  troops;  and  our  only 
garrison  troops  are  the  coast  artillery. 
These  man  our  seacoast  forts. 

Organization  is  the  arrangement  of 
the  parts  of  the  Army  into  companies, 
regiments,  brigades,  divisions,  and 
such  other  units  as  may  be  necessary 
to  their  efficient  command  and  admin- 
istration in  peace  and  in  war.  In  our 
Regular  Army  the  most  irregular  con- 
ditions obtain  in  respect  to  organiza- 
tion. The  largest  unit  of  organization  is 

333 


834 


IF  THE   UNITED  STATES  SHOULD   GO  TO  WAR 


the  regiment,  which  numbers  on  a  peace 
footing  from  800  to  1000  men.  In  a 
regularly  organized  army,  regiments  of 
the  same  arm  of  the  service  are  grouped 
together  to  form  brigades,  and  groups 
of  brigades,  with  proper  reinforce- 
ments of  other  arms,  constitute  mixed 
divisions,  or  divisions.  A  division  is 
the  smallest  unit  which  regularly  com- 
prises more  than  one  tactical  arm. 
While  a  company,  battalion,  regiment, 
or  brigade,  is  all  infantry,  all  cavalry, 
or  all  artillery,  a  division  regularly 
comprises  infantry,  cavalry,  and  artil- 
lery. 

In  the  armies  of  Europe,  divisions 
are  grouped  together,  as  they  were  in 
our  Civil  War,  to  form  army  corps.  In 
our  Army,  that  is,  in  our  Field  Service 
Regulations,  —  for  it  is  only  there  that 
we  have  an  army,  —  they  are  grouped 
together  to  form  what  we  call  field 
armies.  The  largest  unit  which,  march- 
ing on  one  road,  can  be  expected  to 
form  up  from  column  into  line  of  bat- 
tle in  one  day  is  in  Europe  the  army 
corps,  numbering  about  30,000  men; 
and  in  our  army,  the  division,  num- 
bering about  20,000  men. 


Our  Regular  Army  is  distributed  over 
our  territory  and  island  possessions, 
from  Maine  and  Alaska  to  Porto  Rico 
and  the  Philippines.  To  get  at  the  force 
available  for  our  defense  against  in- 
vasion, we  must  determine  the  portion 
of  it  that  is  stationed  in  the  United 
States,  exclusive  of  Alaska.  Taking  the 
situation  as  it  was  just  before  the  mo- 
bilization for  manoeuvres  in  Texas,  and 
considering  only  mobile  troops,  we  have 
in  the  United  States  35,456  officers  and 
men,  with  104  pieces  of  artillery,  as 
shown  in  columns  1  to  3  of  Table  I. 

Of  heavy  field  artillery  we  have,  it 
would  seem  from  official  representa- 
tion, 140  pieces,  but  no  personnel,  not 
even  an  organization  on  paper.  For 
these  reasons  I  have  not  considered 
any  of  this  arm  as  available. 

Each  regiment  of  infantry  and  of 
cavalry  should  include,  according  to 
our  Field  Service  Regulations,  a  com- 
pany of  machine-gun  men,  with  six 
machine  guns.  Each  has,  in  fact,  but 
one  platoon  with  two  such  guns.  The 
infantry  and  cavalry  are  thus  short  of 
two  thirds  of  their  proper  complement 
of  machine  guns. 


TABLE  I.    REGULAR  MOBILE  TROOPS  IN   UNITED  STATES  AT  PEACE 

STRENGTH 


Troops 

Units 

Officers 
and  Men 

Pieces  of 
Artillery 

Corresponding  to 

Infantry 

20  regiments  and  1 

18,107 

battalion 

Cavalry 

10  regiments   and  2 

9,166 

55,913  Infantry 

troops 

Field  Artillery 

Light  and  Moun- 

3 regiments   and   2 

3,026 

80 

24,122       " 

tain 

batteries 

Horse 

1  regiment 

908 

24 

136,032 

Heavy 

7,000 

Engineers 

2  battalions  and   2 

1,376 

36,975 

companies 

Signal  Troops 

4  6eld  companies 

349 

17,364 

Sanitary 

4  field  hospitals,   4 

426 

10,000 

ambulance   com- 

panies 

detachments 

2,098 

45,528 

Total 

35,456 

104 

IF  THE   UNITED   STATES  SHOULD   GO  TO   WAR 


835 


Our  present  battalion  of  engineers 
consists  of  four  companies.  The  Field 
Service  Regulations,  however,  require 
that  it  shall  consist  of  three  companies, 
which  would  transform  the  two  bat- 
talions and  two  companies  of  the  fore- 
going table  into  three  battalions  and 
one  company. 

Apart  from  the  forementioned  de- 
ficiencies, the  several  arms  of  the  serv- 
ice are  not  in  proper  proportion  to 
one  another.  The  number  of  infantry 
to  which  each  of  the  auxiliary  arms 
would  correspond,  in  a  mixed  force 
properly  organized,  is  shown  in  column 
4.  It  will  be  seen  therefrom  that  no 
two  of  them  correspond  to  the  same 
number;  and  that  the  largest  number 
of  infantry  for  which  we  have  a  pro- 
portional complement  of  auxiliary 
troops  is  7000,  or,  discarding  the  heavy 
artillery,  10,000.  Taking  the  latter 
number  as  the  basis  of  our  calculation, 
and  figuring  out  the  proportional  forces 
of  auxiliary  arms,  we  get  as  a  possible 
field  division  the  force  shown  in  Table 
II,  below. 

The  infantry  will  have  to  be  organ- 
ized in  to  brigades,  and  the  signal  troops 
into  a  battalion.  It  would  also  be  nec- 
essary to  form  a  division  staff.  This 
work  involves  the  detailing  of  officers 
from  Washington,  and  the  travel  of 
these  officers  from  their  various  sta- 
tions to  division  headquarters.  How- 
ever well-instructed  and  well-trained 


they  may  be,  they  will  lack  experience 
in  their  new  positions,  and  will  be  at 
a  disadvantage  compared  with  officers 
serving  on  permanent  staffs,  such  as 
the  corresponding  officers  of  European 
armies. 

The  formation  of  this  division  will 
leave  a  surplus  of  all  classes  of  troops, 
which,  with  some  transference  perhaps 
from  one  arm  of  the  service  to  another, 
would  about  suffice  to  guard  the  com- 
munications of  the  division  and  repair 
the  losses  in  men. 

This  division  is  the  largest  force 
which  we  can  consider  ourselves  able 
to  put  into  the  field  to  advance  against 
an  enemy,  within  a  period  of  from 
three  to  six  weeks  after  mobilization 
commences.  The  time  would  depend 
upon  the  original  disposition  of  the 
troops,  and  the  point  or  points  at  which 
they  are  concentrated. 

The  quota  of  heavy  artillery,  in  case 
it  could  be  provided,  would  be  one  bat- 
tery or  four  pieces,  and  one  hundred  and 
twenty- two  officers  and  men. 

An  act  of  Congress  authorizes  the 
President  to  expand  the  organizations 
of  the  Regular  Army  to  their  full  war 
strength  when  it  may  seem  to  him  ex- 
pedient to  do  so,  and  to  add  to  the  med- 
ical corps  accordingly.  The  result  of  a 
mobilization  on  a  war  strength,  and  the 
number  of  infantry  corresponding  to 
each  of  the  several  arms,  is  shown  in 
Table  III  on  the  following  page.  It  is 


TABLE  II.    REGULAR  TROOPS  IN  UNITED  STATES  AS  A  MOBILE  DIVISION 


Officers  and  Men 

Infantry 
Cavalry 
Field  Artillery 

Light  and  Mountain 

Horse 

Heavy 
Engineers 
Signal  Troops 
Sanitary  Troops 


Total 


10,000 
1,639 

1,538 
90 

370 

204 

704 

14,545 


Pieces  of  Artillery 


32 

2 
0 


34 


assumed  that  the  necessary  machine- 
gun  companies  are  formed  and  equip- 
ped, that  the  forementioned  unorgan- 
ized troops  of  the  engineer  corps,  signal 
corps,  and  hospital  corps  have  been 
organized  (the  medical  department  be- 
ing slightly  increased),  and  that  the 
engineer  battalions  are  formed  of  three 
companies  each. 

From  these  62,853  officers  and  men, 
we  could  get  24,122  infantry  with  the 
proper  complement  of  auxiliary  troops. 
This  force,  being  sorted  into  independ- 
ent cavalry,  two  mixed  divisions  and 
an  auxiliary  division,  might  be  dignified 
with  the  name  of  field  army,  though  it 
is  little  larger  than  a  European  army 
corps.  (See  Table  IV,  on  page  837.) 

The  surplus  of  men  would  about  suf- 
fice to  guard  the  communications  and 
keep  the  ranks  full  for,  say,  six  months. 
But  the  mobilization  of  this  force  in- 
volves the  incorporation  of  about 
27,000  additional  men.  In  all  the  great 
armies  of  the  world  this  is  done  by  call- 
ing to  the  colors  what  are  known  as 
Reserves,  men  who  have  served  from 
one  to  three  years  in  the  ranks,  and 


upon  discharge  are  held  to  service  only 
for  an  occasional  manosuvre  and  to  fill 
up  the  ranks  in  time  of  war.  All  the 
arms,  uniforms,  and  equipments  for 
these  men  are  kept  in  store,  ready  for 
immediate  issue  when  needed.  In  our 
Army  there  is  no  such  provision  for  fill- 
ing the  ranks.  Our  27,000  men  would 
have  to  be  newly  enlisted.  To  get  them 
of  the  physical  standard  which  now 
obtains  in  the  Army,  it  would  be  neces- 
sary to  examine  over  135,000,  for  not 
one  in  five  applicants  is  accepted.  Before 
they  are  sent  to  a  camp  of  instruction, 
all  the  necessary  uniforms,  tentage,  and 
other  equipment  would  have  to  be,  or 
should  be,  collected  there  for  them.  It 
would  then  be  necessary  to  see  that  the 
arms,  uniforms,  and  personal  equip- 
ment are  properly  issued  to  them, 
which  includes  the  fitting  of  each  in- 
dividual man.  Only  when  this  work, 
or  the  greater  part  of  it,  is  done,  should 
the  training  of  these  raw  recruits  be- 
gin, to  be  carried  on  until  they  are 
transformed  into  reliable  soldiers.  All 
this  would  prolong  the  process  of  mo- 
bilization, so  that  six  months  should  be 


TABLE  III.      REGULAR  MOBILE  TROOPS  IN  UNITED   STATES  AT  WAR 

STRENGTH 


Troops 

Units 

Officers 
and  Men 

Pieces  of 
Artillery 

Corresponding  to 

Infantry 

20  regiments  and  1 

39,055 

battalion 

Cavalry 

10  regiments  and  2 

13,426 

81,898  Infantry 

troops 

Field  Artillery 

Light  and  Moun- 

3 regiments  and    2 

3,854 

80 

24,122 

tain 

batteries 

Horse 

1  regiment 

1,168 

24 

136,032 

Heavy 

7,000 

Engineers 

3  battalions  and   1 

1,733 

42,532 

company 

Signal  Troops 

5  battalions 

903 

46,355 

Sanitary  Troops 

7  field  hospitals  and 

2,044 

24,122 

7  ambulance  com- 

panies 

attached 

670 

24,122       " 

Total 

62.853 

104 

IF  THE   UNITED  STATES  SHOULD   GO  TO  WAR 


837 


allowed  for  it.  In  this  time,  or  before 
the  first  general  engagement,  the  Army 
might  provide  for  its  quota  of  heavy 
artillery,  say  eleven  batteries,  or  forty- 
four  pieces  and  1342  officers  and  men. 
The  equipping  and  training  of  this  army 
might  be  done  partially  or  imperfectly 
in  less  time  than  the  writer  has  allowed 
for  it.  But  he  assumes  in  his  calcula- 
tion that  the  force  raised  is  all  to  be 
used,  and  is  to  meet  the  enemy  on  equal 
terms,  and1,  not  to  humiliate  us  with 
a  new  Bladensburg  or  Bull  Run,  nor 
saddle  us  for  another  generation  with 
a  monstrous  pension  budget. 

This  regular  force  might  be  in- 
creased with  militia.  Let  us  suppose 
that  the  organized  Militia,  or  National 
Guard,  is  all  called  out.  According  to 
the  last  War  Department  report,  this 
force  numbers  119,660  officers  and  men. 
Deducting  the  contingent  of  Hawaii, 
the  coast  artillery,  the  general  staffs, 
altogether  9805,  we  get  for  comparison 
with  the  foregoing  figures,  a  remainder 
of  109,855.  This  aggregate  of  the  forces 
of  forty-eight  states  and  territories 
would  be  made  up  as  indicated  in 
Table  V,  on  page  838. 

These  officers  and  men,  nearly  110,- 
000,  will  furnish  us  the  personnel  for  an 
army  based  upon  25,000  infantry,  with 
a  sufficient  force  for  the  protection  of 
the  communications,  and  reserves  to 
keep  the  ranks  full  for  about  five  years. 
The  field  army  would  number  about 


36,000  officers  and  men,  and  eighty 
pieces  of  artillery.  It  would  have  no 
horse  artillery  or  heavy  artillery,  and 
very  few  machine  guns. 

In  a  mobile  army  there  should  be 
about  one  general  officer  to  every  2500 
enlisted  men.  Our  Regular  Army  con- 
tains about  one  for  every  3400,  and  the 
National  Guard  about  one  for  every 
2600.  The  proportion  in  the  National 
Guard  being  about  right,  practically 
all  of  the  National  Guard,  if  acting  as 
a  unit,  would  be  commanded  by  Na- 
tional Guard  generals.  We  know  little 
or  nothing  as  to  the  ability  of  these 
officers.  The  popular  estimate  of  it,  in 
and  out  of  military  circles,  does  hot 
seem  to  be  high.  Judging  from  our 
military  history,  and  what  the  writer 
has  personally  observed,  it  should  be 
pretty  low. 

It  may  as  well  be  admitted  too  that 
in  our  Regular  Army  the  generals  are 
not  our  best  card.  Few,  if  any  of 
them,  have  done  anything  that  can 
be  considered  a  demonstration  of  fit- 
ness for  their  high  offices  in  the  field. 
But  they  are  well  instructed  theoret- 
ically, and  their  lack  of  practical  train- 
ing is  being  gradually  repaired  by  ex- 
perience at  manoeuvres.  There  is  good 
reason  for  believing  that,  so  far  as 
the  regular  forces  are  concerned,  the 
officers  and  men,  assuming  the  re- 
cruits to  be  trained  as  before  indicated, 
will  be  approximately  up  to  the  stand- 


TABLE  IV.    REGULAR  MOBILE  TROOPS  IN  UNITED  STATES  AT  WAR  STRENGTH 


Officers  and  Men 

Pieces  of  Artillery 

Infantry 

24,122 

Cavalry 

3,954 

Field  Artillery 

Light  and  Mountain 

3,711 

78 

Horse 

208 

4 

Heavy 

0 

0 

Engineers 

893 

Signal  Troops 

4  2 

Sanitary  Troops 

2,714 

Total 

36,094 

80 

838 


IF  THE  UNITED   STATES  SHOULD   GO  TO   WAR 


ard  of  the  best  foreign  armies,  and  be 
fully  armed  and  equipped. 

Of  the  National  Guard,  eighty-seven 
per  cent  are  reported  by  the  Chief  of 
the  Division  of  Militia  Affairs  to  be 
'sufficiently  armed  and  equipped  for 
field  service.'  But  the  word  'equipped ' 
as  used  in  this  report  seems  not  to  in- 
clude horses  or  mules,  wagons,  ambul- 
ances, or  caissons,  and  it  is  uncertain 
how  far  it  includes  medical  and  surgical 
equipment,  signal  and  engineer  equip- 
ment. Referring  to  the  National  Guard, 
the  Secretary  of  War  reported  to  Con- 
gress, December  12,  1910:  'It  is  not 
fully  equipped  for  field  service.' 

Neither  does  the  Chief  of  the  Divi- 
sion of  Militia  Affairs  report  what 
per  cent  of  the  National  Guard  is  phys- 
ically fit  for  field  service.  The  only 
figures  bearing  on  this  point  are  given 
in  a  quotation  from  the  report  of  the 
medical  officer  who  inspected  the  sani- 
tary troops  in  a  number  of  camps  of 
instruction.  Referring  to  the  contin- 
gents from  three  states,  he  says,  '  The 
physical  disqualifications  of  at  least 
fifty  per  cent  of  the  personnel  was 
apparent.  Anaemia,  deficient  physical 
development,  and  evidences  of  im- 
proper nourishment  before  entering 
camp,  were  in  evidence,  .  .  .  cases  of 
infectious  diseases  were  brought  into 
this  camp  that  should  have  been  ap- 


parent before  the  organizations  left 
their  stations,  such  as  typhoid  fever 
and  advanced  tuberculosis.'  An  in- 
spector of  infantry  remarks:  'The 
physical  examination  of  the  men  in  the 
National  Guard  is  not  strict  enough. 
.  .  .  We  are  spending  ammunition  and 
imparting  instruction,  such  as  it  is,  on 
a  great  many  men  who  would  never  be 
accepted  for  service.' 

There  is  no  report  as  to  what  per 
cent  of  the  National  Guard  is  ade- 
quately trained,  or  has  attained  any 
definite  standard  of  proficiency.  All 
the  training  that  is  required  of  it  by 
law  is  five  consecutive  days  of  camp 
or  field  service,  and  twenty-four  drills 
or  periods  of  target  practice  or  other 
instruction,  in  the  course  of  a  year. 
Of  the  organizations  that  assembled 
during  the  last  year  for  drill  or  target 
practice,  about  forty  per  cent  failed 
to  parade  an  average  strength  of  two 
thirds  of  their  number.  Only  seventy- 
two  per  cent  of  the  enrolled  strength 
attended  target  practice.  The  course 
pursued  in  this  exercise  is  so  different 
from  that  of  the  Regular  Army  that  no 
satisfactory  comparison  can  be  made 
between  the  marksmanship  of  the  Mili- 
tia and  that  of  the  Army.  It  is  plain, 
however,  that  the  infantry  of  the  Na- 
tional Guard  is  very  deficient  in  this 
cardinal  qualification.  '  The  field  ef- 


TABLEV.     MOBILE  NATIONAL  GUARD  IN  THE   UNITED  STATES  AT  PEACE 

STRENGTH 


Troops 

Units 

Officers 
and  Men 

Pieces  of 
Artillery 

Corresponding  to 

Infantry 

1,620  companies 

96,489 

Cavalry 

69  troops 

4,167 

25,418  Infantry 

Field  Artillery 

Light  and  Mountain 

51  batteries 

4,565 

195 

50,452 

Horse 

5,000 

Heavy 

7,000 

Engineers 

20  companies 

1,200 

32,400 

Signal  Troops 

25  companies 

1,339 

65,611 

Sanitary  Troops 

125  detachments 

2,095 

29,540 

Total 

109,855 

195 

IF  THE   UNITED  STATES  SHOULD  GO  TO  WAR 


839 


ficiency  of  the  organized  Militia  of  the 
United  States  varies  from  that  of  a 
high  standard  to  a  very  low  one.  The 
officers  and  men  of  some  state  forces 
know  little  even  of  their  elementary 
duties.' 

When  armies  move  toward  each 
other  at  the  outbreak  of  war  the  three 
tactical  arms  come  into  contact  with 
the  enemy,  and  engage  him  in  the  fol- 
lowing order:  first,  cavalry;  second,  ar- 
tillery; third,  infantry.  The  arm,  there- 
fore, that  should  be  the  readiest,  the 
best  prepared  for  active  service,  is  the 
cavalry;  the  next  readiest  should  be 
the  artillery,  and  the  least  the  infantry. 
In  our  National  Guard  the  order  of 
readiness  is  just  the  reverse  of  this. 
The  best  prepared  is  the  infantry,  and 
the  least  prepared  the  cavalry.  The 
horse  artillery,  which  should  accom- 
pany the  independent  cavalry,  does  not 
exist. 

The  first  encounters  of  cavalry  are 
fought  mounted.  These  contests  are  de- 
cided by  shock  of  horse  against  horse, 
or  cut  and  thrust  of  sabre  and  pistol- 
shot  from  the  saddle.  The  cavalry,  if 
so  it  may  be  called,  that  can  only  fight 
dismounted,  will  be  about  as  effective 
against  regular  cavalry  as  it  would  be 


against  a  cruising  airship.  What  so- 
called  cavalry  there  is  in  our  National 
Guard  is  generally  mounted  infantry. 
The  Chief  of  Staff  of  the  Army  reports : 
'In  the  cavalry  and  field  artillery  of 
the  National  Guard  the  difficulty  of 
providing  horses  renders  satisfactory 
training  next  to  impossible.' 

The  special  inspector  of  the  field  ar- 
tillery says:  'Of  all  the  batteries  seen 
this  summer  there  was  but  one  (A  of 
Massachusetts)  capable  of  delivering 
an  effective  fire.'  Referring  to  this 
arm,  the  Chief  of  Staff  of  the  Army 
says:  'It  is,  with  the  exception  of  a 
few  batteries,  practically  uninstructed 
in  field  duty  and  wholly  unprepared 
for  service.'  While  cavalry  is  the  first 
arm  to  become  engaged,  once  the  en- 
gagement becomes  general,  the  light 
artillery  is  the  more  important  auxil- 
iary arm.  Without  it  the  main  arm, 
the  infantry,  would  be  paralyzed;  for 
infantry  cannot  advance  under  the  fire 
of  modern  infantry  and  artillery  with- 
out the  support  of  an  efficient  artil- 
lery. 

But  let  us  for  the  moment  overlook 
the  matter  of  training.  Allowing  only 
for  lack  of  equipment,  physical  unfit- 
ness,  business  engagements,  and  other 


TABLE  VI.    CONSOLIDATED  MOBILE  REGULAR  AND  MOBILE  NATIONAL  GUARD 
FORCES  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

REGULAR    UNITS    AT    WAR    STRENGTH 


Troops 

Officers  and 
Men 

Pieces  of 
Artillery 

Corresponding  to 

Corresponding  Army 

Officers 

and  Men 

Infantry 

106,597 

66,038 

Cavalry 

16,343 

99,696  Infantry 

10,825 

Field  Artillery 

Light  and  Mountain 

7,050 

275 

66,038 

7,050 

147 

Horse 

1,168 

24 

136,032 

576 

12 

Heavy 

1,092 

36 

66,039 

1,092 

36 

Engineers 

2,573 

69,471 

2,446 

Signal  Troops 

1,840 

90,160 

1,348 

Sanitary  Troops 

4,809 

67,806 

4,684 

Total 

141,472 

335 

|      94,059 

195 

840 


IF  THE  UNITED  STATES  SHOULD  GO  TO  WAR 


deterring  causes,  we  should  not  reckon 
on  more  than  seventy  per  cent  of  the  re- 
ported strength  of  the  National  Guard, 
or  in  round  numbers  about  83,000  offi- 
cers and  men,  to  report  in  answer  to  a 
call;  and  these  would  probably  include 
a  considerable  percentage  of  new,  un- 
trained men,  taking  the  places  of  stay- 
at-homes.  Taking  seventy  per  cent  of 
the  numbers  given  in  column  2  of 
Table  V  and  adding  them  to  the  corre- 
sponding numbers  in  Table  III,  we  get 
for  the  combined  National  Guard  at 
peace  strength  and  Regular  Army  at  war 
strength  the  forces  shown  in  Table  VI, 
on  page  839  (columns  1  and  2).  The 
auxiliary  arms  correspond  to  infantry 
as  indicated  in  column  3;  the  corre- 
sponding army,  based  on  66,038  infan- 
try, is  shown  in  column  4.  It  is  assumed 
that  the  heavy  artillery  indicated  has 
been  provided  for. 

This  force  might  be  formed  into  a 
field  army  composed  of  a  brigade  of 
independent  cavalry,  three  divisions, 
and  an  auxiliary  division.  The  neces- 
sary commanders  and  staffs  for  these 
divisions  and  the  field  army  would 
increase  the  aggregate  strength  to  a 
little  over  94,000.  We  will  suppose  that 
the  surplus  of  about  50,000  men  will 
repair  the  losses  in  men  during  the 
first  year.  If  provision  is  made  for 
prolonging  the  war  beyond  this  time, 
giving  recruits  a  year's  training  and 
forwarding  proper  reinforcements  of 
trained  men  every  three  months,  we 
should  have  at  the  end  of  every  three 
months,  while  the  war  lasts,  say  10,000 
new  men  to  uniform. 

Under  the  head  of  supply  we  must 
consider  the  whole  establishment  — 
about  140,000  men  and  335  pieces  in 
the  mobile  army  within  the  United 
States,  and  75,000  men  and  forty  pieces 
outside  of  the  mobile  army  within  and 
without  the  United  States,  making 
about  215,000  men  and  375  pieces, 
without  counting  recruits  or  reservists. 


We  have  in  the  Army  a  six  months' 
supply  of  clothing,  including  bed-blank- 
ets, for  about  170,000  men.  And  in  the 
Militia  a  six  months'  supply  for  about 
125,000.  These  supplies  might  last 
215,000  men  about  nine  months.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  we  should  have 
a  supply  equal  to  all  demands.  In  re- 
gard to  personal  equipment  (haversack, 
canteen,  cartridge-belt,  meat-can,  etc.) 
no  accurate  information  is  obtainable 
as  to  the  stock  on  hand.  For  a  number 
of  years  the  Chief  of  Ordnance  of  the 
Army  has  been  trying  to  accumulate 
a  reserve  for  300,000  infantry,  50,000 
cavalry,  and  300  batteries  of  artillery. 
But  how  far  he  has  succeeded  is  not 
known.  It  would  appear  from  his  last 
annual  report l  that  he  has  stored,  in 
division  depots,  sufficient  equipment 
for  eleven  full  divisions  at  war  strength 
— about  238,000  officers  and  men  — 
for  a  period  of  six  months.  Equip- 
ments could  be  produced  by  the  Ord- 
nance Department  at  the  rate  of  600 
sets  per  day.  In  these  six  months, 
added  to  six  months  of  preparation, 
the  department  could  produce  a  fresh 
supply  of  about  187,000  from  its  pre- 
sent plant;  as  many  more  as  might  be 
wanted  would  come  from  additional 
plants,  public  or  private,  put  up  in  the 
mean  time.  Allowing  three  months  for 
enlisting  the  new  men  and  assembling 
the  troops  at  camps  of  instruction, 
and  four  for  equipping  and  training 
them,  the  army  would  be  ready  for  the 
field  about  seven  months  after  begin- 
ning to  prepare  for  it,  though  with 
a  number  of  militia  generals,  whose 
education  would  lack  something  more 
than  a  finishing  touch. 

The  force  necessary  for  the  protec- 
tion of  the  communications  depends 
upon  many  factors,  the  chief  of  which 
are  the  number  and  the  length  of  the 
lines.  It  may  be  assumed  that  there 
will  be  four  of  them.  The  length  will 

1   1910,  pages  25,  26. 


IF  THE   UNITED  STATES  SHOULD   GO  TO  WAR 


841 


ordinarily  be  less  on  the  defensive  than 
on  the  offensive,  and  will  increase  with 
the  progress  of  an  offensive  campaign. 
We  should  allow  for  guarding  the  com- 
munications of  our  field  army  at  least 
a  division,  say  20,000  men,  with  forty- 
eight  pieces  of  artillery,  which  would 
reduce  the  first  line  of  our  field  army 
to  about  73,000  men,  with  135  pieces 
of  artillery. 

Under  modern  conditions  the  aver- 
age piece  of  artillery  in  a  field  army  will 
fire  about  500  rounds  in  one  good  day's 
fighting.  Taking  three  such  days  of 
fighting  as  falling  to  the  average  piece 
per  year,  we  have  1500  rounds  as  the 
average  expenditure  per  piece  per  year 
in  a  field  army,  and  220,500  as  the 
yearly  expenditure  of  the  147  pieces  in 
the  first  line  of  our  field  army.  Add- 
ing for  the  remaining  228  pieces  of  our 
whole  establishment  500  per  piece,  we 
get  for  the  total  annual  expenditure, 
334,500  rounds.  We  have  altogether 
about  220,000  rounds,  or  a  supply  for 
about  eight  months  of  campaigning.  By 
the  end  of  that  time  and  seven  months 
of  preparation  our  government  factory 
would  have  furnished  us  about  120,000 
rounds,  and  private  factories  the  re- 
mainder. Thereafter  these  establish- 
ments would  produce  fast  enough  to 
meet  all  demands. 

The  infantry  and  cavalry  would 
need  about  1200  additional  machine 


guns.  These  are  manufactured  in  the 
United  States,  both  in  government  fac- 
tories and  in  private  factories,  but  at 
what  rate  the  writer  does  not  know  and 
cannot  learn  for  publication.  We  may 
hope,  but  should  not  expect,  that  in 
seven  months  the  Army  and  the  Na- 
tional Guard  could  be  fully  equipped 
with  them  and  properly  trained  in 
their  use. 

The  Surgeon-General  has  in  store  a 
field  equipment  for  200,000  men.  How 
long  this  equipment  will  last  and  at 
what  rate  it  can  be  replaced,  the  writer 
has  indeed  learned,  but  is  not  allowed 
to  publish.  He  cannot  say  with  any 
accuracy  how  the  Army  would  be  off 
for  transportation,  engineer  equipment, 
and  signal  equipment.  Information  on 
these  points  either  is  not  obtainable 
or  is  confidential,  but  he  assumes  that 
the  Army  could  supply  itself  in  these 
respects. 

Apart  from  the  items  considered,  we 
have  or  can  probably  procure,  a  timely 
supply  of  all  necessary  munitions  of 
war.  But  producing  and  purchasing 
under  the  strain  and  stress  of  war 
would  be  very  much  more  expensive 
than  would  a  proper  provision  for  our 
war  requirements  in  time  of  peace.  Not 
only  this, — the  supply  obtained  in  time 
of  war  would  be  largely  of  inferior  qual- 
ity. It  would  not  be  possible  to  sub- 
ject all  purchases  to  the  thorough  test 


TABLE  VII.     SHOWING  THE  ORGANIZED  FORCES  FORMING  THE  FIRST  LINE 


Period 

Force* 

Number 

Pieces  of 
Artillery 

Short  of 

3  to  6  weeks 

Regulars  at  peace  strength 

15,000 

38 

Machine  guns 

6  months 

Regulars  at  war  strength 

37,000 

124 

Machine  guns  ? 

7  months 

Regulars  at  war  strength,  Na- 

73,000 

147 

Transportation,  med- 

tional Guard  at  peace  strength 

ical  equipment,  signal 

equipment,     engineer 

equipment  ? 

9  months 

Regulars  and  National  Guard 

180,000 

432 

? 

at  war  strength 

1  to  2  years 

Regulars,  National  Guard,  and 

300,000 

719 

Volunteers,  at  war  strength 

842 


IF  THE  UNITED  STATES  SHOULD   GO  TO   WAR 


or  inspection  to  which  they  are  sub- 
jected in  time  of  peace. 

A  simple  way  to  raise  a  larger  force 
than  we  have  yet  considered  would  be 
to  recruit  the  National  Guard  as  well 
as  the  Army  to  its  full  war  strength. 
This  would  give  us  about  130,000 
more  Militia,  making  our  whole  estab- 
lishment number  346,000  men.  Our 
supply  of  uniforms  would  last  these 
men  about  five  months.  To  provide  for 
adequately  increasing  it  and  keeping  it 
up,  we  should  allow,  say,  ten  months; 
we  should  not  commence  issuing  from 
our  reserve  until  five  months  after  tak- 
ing the  first  steps  toward  replenishing 
it.  That  would  delay  recruiting  more 
or  less,  according  to  the  extent  to  which 
we  could  handle  recruits  in  civilian 
clothing  and  without  bed-blankets.  Let 
us  put  this  delay  at  two  months.  Al- 
lowing two  months  for  enlistment  and 
concentration,  and  five  months  for 
training,  we  have  for  the  minimum 
period  of  mobilization  nine  months.  We 
have  but  572  pieces  of  field  artillery,  in- 
cluding 140  heavy;  and  forty  pieces  are 
supposed  to  be  outside  of  the  United 
States.  Assuming  that  the  additional 
Militia,  with  the  available  pieces,  all 
went  into  the  field  army,  it  would  give 
the  latter  a  strength  of  224,000  men 
with  532  pieces  of  artillery,  of  which, 
say,  180,000,  with  432  pieces,  would  be 
in  the  first  line,  or  in  advance  of  the 
lines  of  communication,  and  44,000, 
with  100  pieces,  on  the  lines  of  commun- 
ication. Our  reserve  of  artillery  am- 
munition would  last  the  whole  estab- 
lishment about  four  months.  But  this 
time  added  to  the  nine  months  of  mobil- 
ization would  make  thirteen  months. 
In  that  time  we  should  have  provided 
the  manufacturing  plants  to  furnish  us 
ammunition  and  all  other  necessary 
munitions  of  war  as  fast  as  we  should 
need  them.  Our  surplus  of  men  should 
provide  for  keeping  the  ranks  pretty 
well  filled  for  about  a  year. 


We  could  not  go  on  expanding  our 
military  establishment  by  enlistment. 
Any  further  expansion  of  it  would  in- 
volve the  formation  of  new  organiza- 
tions, the  appointment  of  additional 
officers,  which  means  raising  volun- 
teers. Allowing  the  necessary  time, 
there  is  no  limit  to  the  numbers  that  we 
may  enroll,  and  organize,  except  that 
of  our  military  population.  Taking  this 
to  consist  of  our  male  citizens  between 
eighteen  and  forty-five  years  of  age,  it 
numbers  about  16,000,000.  Allowing 
for  the  physically,  mentally,  and  mor- 
ally unfit,  those  religiously  opposed  to 
war,  and  those  who  on  other  grounds 
should  be  or  who  succeed  in  being  ex- 
empted from  conscription,  and  allowing 
also  for  the  Navy,  Naval  Militia,  and 
Marine  Corps,  we  have  about  8,000,000 
available  men.  The  rate  at  which  we 
could  convert  this  population  into 
armies  would  depend  upon  how  far, 
and  how  fast,  we  could  eke  out  our 
inadequate  supplies  by  purchases  from 
abroad;  and  would  be  determined 
largely  by  the  number  of  trained  of- 
ficers and  men  that  we  furnished  from 
the  Regular  Army  as  instructors  and 
leavens  to  the  new  organizations. 

Just  how  we  would  go  about  the 
formation  of  a  volunteer  army  is  not 
known.  A  bill  making  provision  for 
it  in  detail  has  been  before  Congress 
for  three  years,  but  there  has  not  been 
enough  interest  in  the  matter  to  bring 
it  to  a  vote.  We  might,  by  judicious 
and  energetic  use  of  our  resources,  put 
a  million  of  men  on  a  war  footing, 
trained,  as  well  as  equipped  and  organ- 
ized, to  meet  a  first-class  foreign  army, 
in  from  one  to  two  years.  Deducting 
100,000  for  service  outside  of  the 
United  States,  we  should  have  900,000 
for  service  within  the  United  States. 
Deducting  300,000  more  for  reserves  to 
repair  losses  for  about  a  year,  we  should 
have  600,000  men  for  active  service 
within  the  United  States.  Judging  by 


IF  THE   UNITED  STATES  SHOULD   GO  TO  WAR 


843 


the  exigencies  of  our  Civil  War,  this 
force  would  be  partitioned  about  as 
follows :  — 

First  line,  in  advance  of  lines  of  com- 
munication 300,000 
Second  line,  on  lines  of  communication  200,000 
Third  line,  in  home  depots  and  garrisons  100,000 

600,000 

After  about  a  year  and  a  half  of  pre- 
paration we  might  be  able  to  add  to 
our  forces  by  the  half-million  or  mil- 
lion, until  we  were  limited  by  the  num- 
ber necessary  to  be  kept  in  reserve  to 
repair  losses.  We  should  figure  on  at 
least  twenty-five  per  cent  of  our  whole 
military  establishment  as  marked  for 
death,  capture,  discharge,  desertion,  or 
other  such  casualty,  in  the  course  of  the 
year. 

The  conclusions  arrived  at  in  the 
foregoing  discussion  are  summarized  in 
Table  VII,  at  the  foot  of  page  841, 
showing  the  properly  organized  forces 
that  we  can  put  in  the  field  as  a  first 
line,  in  the  periods  indicated,  including 
the  heavy  artillery. 

Along  the  3000  miles  of  our  north- 
ern frontier  we  are  confronted  by  a 
powerful  empire  with  which  we  have 
done  a  large  part  of  our  fighting  and 
have  had  more  friction  and  differences 
than  with  any  other  foreign  power. 
From  Vancouver  to  Halifax,  and  from 
Halifax  to  Jamaica,  dependencies  of 
Great  Britain  girdle  the  United  States 
with  a  cordon  of  military  and  naval 
bases  of  operation.  On  our  western 
side,  where  she  holds  no  such  position 
of  vantage,  she  has  an  ally  in  our  one 
formidable  rival  and  only  supposable 
opponent.  We  could  not  build  a  canal 
across  the  Isthmus  of  Panama  without 
stipulating  with  her,  not  only  as  to  her 
own  rights,  but  also  as  to  those  of  all 
other  nations,  in  the  projected  water- 
way, and  providing — which  provision, 
to  be  sure,  we  are  now  practically  re- 
pudiating—  that  foreign  nations  should 


be  allowed  to  use  the  canal  in  waging 
war  against  the  United  States. 

On  our  southern  border  a  nominal 
republic  is  in  a  condition  of  disorder 
which  may  at  any  time  lead  to  our 
intervention,  or  some  other  nation's. 
Should  Great  Britain  go  into  Mexico 
and  decide,  as  she  did  in  Egypt,  to  take 
her  time  about  going  out,  the  United 
States  would  have  to  put  her  out  or 
swallow  the  Monroe  Doctrine. 

On  our  eastern  and  western  fron- 
tiers we  can  no  longer  look  for  safety 
to  the  vast  wet  ditches  formed  by  the 
Atlantic  and  Pacific  oceans.  Should 
our  fleets  be  defeated,  or  diverted  from 
the  defense  of  our  coasts,  a  single  ex- 
pedition across  the  Atlantic  or  the  Pa- 
cific might  land  on  our  shore  a  force  of 
100,000  men.  The  operation  need  not 
last  twenty  days.  Such  a  force  might 
be  followed  by  another  one  of  equal 
number  in  from  twenty  to  forty  days. 
Thus,  inside  of  two  months,  200,000 
men  may  have  descended  upon  us. 
Deducting,  say,  one  fourth  as  guards 
for  the  communications,  there  would 
be  about  150,000  for  the  first  line  of  an 
invading  army. 

Our  seacoasts  are  fortified  at  the 
entrances  of  the  principal  ports.  But 
these  fortifications  are  short  of  men 
and  ammunition,  and  lacking  in  other 
elements  of  equipment,  such  as  fire- 
control,  search-lights,  and  power-plants 
for  the  movement  of  ammunition. 
On  the  Atlantic  coast  they  need  as  a 
minimum  force  to  man  them  39,549 
men.  To  meet  this  need  they  would 
probably  have  16,200  Regulars  and  4200 
Militia,  together  20,400  men,  making 
a  deficiency  of  19,149  men.  On  the 
Pacific  side  they  would  have  more  than 
enough  men.  The  guns  and  mortars 
are  provided  with  sufficient  ammuni- 
tion for  all  of  them  to  fire  continuously 
forty-one  minutes,  or  for  half  of  them 
to  fire  continuously  for  an  hour  and 
twenty-two  minutes.  The  Chief  of 


844 


THE   PEDIGREE   OF   PEGASUS 


Ordnance  of  the  Army  thinks  there 
should  be  ammunition  for  half  of  the 
guns  and  mortars  to  fire  continuously 
for  two  hours.  But  let  us  believe  that 
there  is  a  sufficiency  of  men  and  of  am- 
munition for  the  efficient  working  of 
the  armaments.  There  can  still  be  no 
greater  delusion  than  to  think  that  our 
seacoast  forts  constitute  a  protection 
to  our  coast-lines.  Forts  can  defend  a 
strategic  line  or  front  only  under  one 
or  two  conditions :  that  they  command 
by  their  fire  every  practicable  line  of 
march  to  or  between  the  forts,  or  that 
they  include  in  their  garrisons  forces 
adapted  and  adequate  to  sallying  out 
and  attacking  the  invading  columns  or 


cutting  their  communications.  In  our 
seacoast  forts  neither  of  these  condi- 
tions obtains.  The  guns  and  mortars 
command  only  the  channels  by  which 
hostile  vessels  may  enter  the  ports,  and 
the  direct  approaches  from  these  chan- 
nels to  the  forts.  The  garrisons  include 
no  mobile  troops,  no  forces  suited  to 
sallying  out  against  the  enemy.  On  the 
unprotected  roads  leading  from  rivers, 
creeks,  estuaries,  and  beaches  where 
troops  might  be  landed,  we  should 
meet  the  enemy  with  field  armies  or 
detachments  therefrom  that  will  pre- 
vent him  from  landing,  or  drive  him 
back  upon  the  sea.  Are  we  prepared  as 
we  should  be  to  do  this? 


THE  PEDIGREE   OF  PEGASUS 


BY    FREDERICK    MORGAN    PADELFORD 


MY  summers  are  usually  spent  in  a 
little  colony  on  the  shores  of  our  beauti- 
ful Puget  Sound.  In  this  colony  each 
family  has  its  cottage,  while  we  dine  in 
a  common  hall.  The  children  play  by 
the  water,  or  underneath  the  great  fir 
trees  of  a  forest  which  Nature  has  been 
centuries  in  the  making.  Here  is  fur- 
nished a  primitive  environment,  and 
the  children  grow  up  as  they  should, 
very  real  little  savages,  repeating  the 
experiences  of  the  race.  One  evening 
last  summer  while  we  were  at  dinner, 
a  herd  of  innocent  and  perfectly  well- 
disposed  cows  wandered  on  to  the 
premises.  The  children  caught  sight  of 
them,  and  with  one  war-whoop  their 
tables  were  emptied,  and,  snatching 
up  such  weapons  as  were  at  hand,  they 
hastened  to  encounter  the  enemy.  The 


scene  was  indeed  stirring.  Children 
and  cattle  plunged  this  way  and  that, 
the  plan  of  battle  showing  about  as 
much  intelligence  on  one  side  as  on  the 
other.  But  eventually  the  superior  race 
got  the  best  of  it,  and  the  cows  fled 
over  the  hill,  with  the  victors  in  pur- 
suit. A  half-hour  later,  as  the  shadows 
were  gathering,  there  were  heard  the 
strains  of  martial  music,  and  there 
danced  into  camp  a  lusty  group  of  war- 
riors, glowing  with  the  excitement  of 
victory;  and  as  they  danced  they 
chanted  the  verses,  — 

'  We  chased  them, 
We  chased  them, 
We  chased  them  all  home.' 

Here  was  primitive  verse  in  the  mak- 
ing, testimony  not  to  be  slighted,  and 
when  the  excitement  allowed,  I  inter- 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  PEGASUS 


845 


posed  the  question,  '  Who  made  up  the 
verses  ? '  For  a  moment  they  looked  at 
one  another  with  perplexity,  and  then 
came  the  unanimous  answer, '  Why,  we 
all  did  it.  We  just  all  said  it  at  once.' 

This  little  episode  summarizes  much 
of  the  story  of  primitive  verse.  But  I 
leave  the  illustration,  to  pursue  the 
more  orthodox  course  of  the  historian. 

The  clear,  truth-compelling  light  of 
modern  science  has  penetrated  one 
after  another  of  those  remote  cham- 
bers of  the  past  which  have  hitherto 
been  sacred  to  poetry  and  to  myth. 
We  have  come  to  adjust  our  minds  to 
the  process  and  its  findings  in  such 
fields  as  geology  and  biology,  but  now 
we  find  that  we  must  acquiesce  as 
gracefully  even  in  the  very  province 
of  the  arts.  The  severe  conclusion  of 
the  scientist  is,  to  be  sure,  not  always 
a  balm  to  our  self-esteem.  I  had  this 
brought  home  to  me  the  other  day  by 
my  friend  the  biologist,  who  observed, 
apropos  of  the  fact  that  I  sleep  out- 
of-doors  on  a  downstairs  porch,  that  it 
is  the  custom  among  certain  species  of 
South  American  apes  for  the  male  to 
sleep  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  while  the 
female  and  the  young  repose  in  the 
branches  above.  But  to  be  thus  cited 
as  an  example  of  a  reversion  to  type  is 
no  harder  than  to  give  up  the  youth- 
long  fancy  of  the  early  bard,  standing, 
with  august  beard  and  flowing  robes, 
on  the  hill-top,  the  inspired  lay  pour- 
ing into  his  soul  from  the  serene  above. 
Yet  engaging  as  is  Carlyle's  picture 
of  the  god-man,  Thor,  it  is,  after  all, 
but  the  poet's  dream.  Thor  must  make 
way  for  Caliban,  the  demi-god  for  the 
dancing  savage.  For  poetry  had  its 
humble  beginning  in  nothing  more  re- 
fined than  the  rhythm  that  invariably 
accompanies  the  rude  dances  and  the 
common  work  of  the  most  primitive 
community.  Before  men  knew  any  god 
or  acknowledged  a  leader,  they  yet 
worked  and  played  in  rhythm. 


Indeed,  even  before  the  tribal  days, 
though  of  this  no  absolute  testimony 
can  be  had,  I  fancy  that  men  made 
play  of  work  by  the  same  means.  We 
do  this  to-day,  and  why  not  much 
more  the  unrestrained  children  of  the 
eldest  time?  Our  American  Negroes, 
who  for  the  most  part  have  only  a  thin 
veneer  of  civilization,  turn  instinctively 
to  rhythm  in  performing  any  simple 
task.  The  boy  at  the  stand  who  blacks 
my  shoes  plays  me  a  merry  tune  with 
brush  and  rag,  and  an  old  Negro,  whose 
duty  it  is  to  awaken  the  guests  in  a 
southern  hotel,  tempers  the  early  morn- 
ing call  with  the  consoling  ditty,  — 

I  know  you's  tired,  and  sleepy,  too; 
I  hates  to  wake  you,  but  I  has  to  do; 
So  please  raise  up. 

But  whatever  may  be  the  truth  as 
to  the  solitary  savage,  the  social  sav- 
age is  rhythmical  in  work  or  play. 
Rhythm  controls  the  blows  of  the 
women  as  they  pound  the  roots  in  the 
crude  stone  mortar,  and  the  feet  of  the 
men  as  they  fall  into  the  dance  which 
relieves  the  tedium  of  the  camp. 
Rhythm  is  the  well-nigh  invariable 
condition  to  activity.  Thus,  when  our 
Puget  Sound  Indians  migrate  in  au- 
tumn or  spring,  the  paddles  all  swing 
in  time  to  the  beating  of  a  drum  from 
a  canoe  which  holds  a  central  position 
in  the  fleet. 

In  these  rhythmical  movements 
poetry  has  its  lowly  origin,  for  rhythmi- 
cal movement  prompts  rhythmical 
sound.  At  first  this  is  simply  an  oral 
imitation  of  the  reverberating  feet  or 
of  the  instrument  of  work.  To  this 
very  day  the  peasant  women  of  Poland 
pound  the  corn  to  the  accompaniment 
of  one  interjection;  and  who  has  not 
heard  the  'he-eave '  of  the  sailors  at  the 
halyards?  Many  of  the  primitive  Ger- 
manic interjections  have  survived  in 
the  counting-out  rhymes  of  our  child- 
ren's games,  just  as  the  games  them- 
selves are  descended  from  the  cult  of 


846 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  PEGASUS 


the  past.  Of  what  early  ritual  was  our 
familiar  'fe,  fie,  fo,  fum'  a  part?  Did 
the  rude  Teuton  therewith  charm  the 
ground  against  the  evil  spirit  of  steril- 
ity or  blight,  or  was  it  a  thank-offer- 
ing to  a  god  for  goodly  favors? 

How  long  the  savage  was  content  to 
confine  his  poetry  to  simple  interjec- 
tions we  cannot  tell,  but  in  time  the 
interjection  gave  way  to  the  choral 
sentence.  This  was  at  first  a  mere  ob- 
servation of  some  fact  of  tribal  experi- 
ence. Thus,  a  woman  who  has  spent 
much  time  in  Africa,  records  that  a 
certain  tribe  will  dance  for  full  four 
hours  to  the  single  verse,  — 

The  shark  bites  the  Bubi's  hand, 
a  verse  that  prompts  one  to  turn  pun- 
ster. It  is  indeed  a  long  look  from  such 
a  poem,  impersonal,  objective,  sung 
by  an  automatic,  homogeneous  ring  of 
savages,  to  the  modern  lyric,  purely 
subjective,  intensely  personal,  in  which 
a  solitary  soul  feels  out  into  the  dark- 
ness for  contact  with  a  kindred  spirit; 
but  remote  as  are  these  extremes,  they 
are  yet  related,  and  embrace  the  se- 
quence of  a  great  art. 

It  was  but  natural  that  different 
choral  sentences  should  some  day  be 
thrown  together  into  a  stanza,  and  the 
formation  of  such  a  stanza  marks  the 
next  step.  I  once  had  the  good  fortune 
to  catch  such  a  poem  in  the  making. 
During  the  interval  between  the  St. 
Louis  Exposition  and  the  Lewis  and 
Clark  Exposition  in  Portland,  Oregon, 
a  Filipino  tribe,  the  Igorrotes,  who 
had  been  brought  to  America  to  ex- 
hibit the  native  life,  spent  a  portion 
of  the  time  in  the  city  where  I  live, 
and  were  on  exhibition,  illustrating, 
among  other  activities,  their  dances. 
Now  it  chanced  that  an  acquaintance 
of  mine,  who  is  an  enthusiastic  student 
of  primitive  music,  was  making  a  study 
of  the  music  to  which  these  Igorrotes 
danced,  and  trying  to  transcribe  it. 
This  he  found  extremely  difficult  to  do. 


But  one  day  he  confided  to  me  the 
startling  information  that,  being  satis- 
fied that  success  awaited  him  if  only 
he  himself  could  join  in  the  dancing 
and  the  singing,  he  had  arranged  with 
the  interpreter  for  a  private  session,  at 
which  he  could  actually  participate. 

It  was  a  spectacle  not  to  be  missed, 
and  he  finally  consented  to  take  me 
along  as  a  valet  extraordinary.  The 
dance  in  question  was  of  a  most  primi- 
tive type,  in  which  the  savages  form 
almost  a  complete  circle,  and  with 
hands  resting  on  one  another's  shoul- 
ders dance  to  the  right,  stamping 
strongly  with  the  advanced  foot  and 
dragging  the  other,  and  chanting  a 
monotonous  refrain  to  the  time  of  the 
resounding  feet.  To  try  to  qualify  in 
such  an  exercise  was  certainly  a  test  of 
nerve,  but,  nothing  daunted,  the  mu- 
sician watched  his  chance  and,  leaping 
forth,  clutched  the  shoulders  of  the 
last  man  in  the  dance  and  started  on 
his  novel  voyage.  It  was  a  glorious 
tribute  to  the  enthusiasm  and  self- 
abasement  of  science,  and,  it  is  safe  to 
say,  a  spectacle  quite  without  parallel 
even  in  the  triumphant  records  of  that 
great  branch  of  human  learning,  to  see 
this  goodly  man,  clad  in  frock  coat  and 
Windsor  tie,  with  flowing  locks,  car- 
ried along  by  these  dancing  savages, 
—  whose  sun-burned  bodies  were  re- 
strained only  by  the  earliest  post-Eden 
garb, —  and  frisked  hither  and  yon  like 
the  tail  of  a  capricious  comet  or  of  a 
cavorting  kite. 

But  assuredly  his  reward  awaited 
him,  for  presently  the  interpreter,  who 
was  watching  the  effect  with  inter- 
est, turned  to  me  and  said,  'They  like, 
him,  for  they  have  put  him  into  the 
chant,  and  are  now  singing  "Man  with 
long  hair,  Igorrote's  friend." '  And  a 
moment  later  he  remarked,  'Now  they 
sing,  "  Man  with  the  long  hair  dance 
very  well." ' 

At  first  the  ad  venturer  had  attempted 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  PEGASUS 


847 


only  the  step,  but,  as  his  confidence  in- 
creased, he  essayed  the  chant  as  well. 
This  brought  out  the  commendation, 
'  Man  with  the  long  hair  sing  very  well.' 
And  then  the  three  verses  were  united 
into  a  little  chorus,  which  was  used 
throughout  the  rest  of  the  dance:— 

Man  with  the  long  hair,  Igorrote's  friend; 
Man  with  the  long  hair  dance  very  well; 
Man  with  the  long  hah"  sing  very  well. 

Not  a  very  intellectual  poem,  to  be 
sure,  but  nevertheless  a  long  remove 
from  the  simple  interjection,  and  able 
to  hold  its  own  with  the  chorus  of  many 
a  chapel  hymn  that  I  have  heard.  Not 
even  the  interpreter  could  tell  who 
suggested  the  verses,  nor  doubtless, 
could  the  men  themselves  have  done  so. 
The  verses  just  sprang  forth,  like  the 
chorus  of  our  children. 

The  duration  of  this  stage  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  art,  who  can  tell?  It  would 
depend  upon  the  capacity  of  a  tribe  for 
advancement,  upon  the  readiness  with 
which  the  sense  of  individuality  would 
mature.  Some  time,  with  a  growing 
consciousness  that  'I  am  I,  and  thou 
art  thou,'  would  dawn  the  eventful  day 
when  some  intrepid  man  would  break 
from  the  impersonal  group,  and  im- 
provise verses  of  his  own,  alternating 
with  the  tribal  refrain. 

This  was  the  more  advanced  stage 
that  our  American  Negroes  had  reached 
in  their  native  Africa  —  if,  indeed,  they 
were  not  precipitated  into  it  by  the 
quickening  contact  with  white  civiliza- 
tion —  and,  along  with  the  stage  last 
discussed,  is  illustrated  by  the  Negro 
worship  and  festal  gatherings  to  this 
day,  even  in  communities  where  the 
blacks  have  been  in  touch  with  Christ- 
ianity for  some  generations. 

I  once  spent  an  eventful  evening, 
rich  in  folk-lore,  in  Uncle  Jasper's 
church  in  Richmond.  Uncle  Jasper, 
you  must  know,  was  the  theologian 
who  discomfited  the  higher  critics  and 
physicists  by  proving  that  'de  sun  do 


move — else  how  could  Joshua  hab  com- 
manded de  sun  and  de  moon  to  stan' 
still.'  Uncle  Jasper  himself  was  not 
present,  the  young  man  who  piloted  us 
to  the  church  explaining  that  because 
of  age  he  had  given  up  all  services  but 
the  monthly  communion.  The  key  to 
the  meeting,  which  was  the  last  for  the 
year,  was  given  by  the  lay  brother  who 
opened  the  service.  After  stumbling 
through  a  chapter  of  the  Bible,  he 
launched  into  a  passionate  appeal  to 
his  hearers,  if  unsaved,  to  repent.  He 
pictured,  in  language  which  for  graphic 
description  I  have  never  heard  sur- 
passed, the  dark  waters  of  Death,  the 
terrors  of  the  Judgment,  the  agony  of 
the  damned,  and  the  delectable  ex- 
istence of  the  saved,  closing  with  the 
persuasive  announcement  that,  'De 
wicked  culyed  folks  is  bein'  summoned 
fast;  tree  membuhs  of  dis  congugation 
was  covuhd  up  yestuhday,  and  oders 
is  even  now  on  de  coolin'  board.'  These 
preliminaries  concluded,  the  meeting 
fell  into  the  usual  swing.  Now  some 
man  arose  and  chanted  verses  of  his 
own  invention,  alternating  with  the 
general  chorus,  the  improvised  hymn 
running  for  many  stanzas,  the  Negroes 
swaying  in  time  and  joining  hands  with 
their  neighbors  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left.  A  favorite  chorus,  which  smacked 
of  a  source  quite  foreign  to  a  prayer- 
meeting,  ran,  — 

Oh!  de  shelf  behin'  de  doah! 
Oh!  de  shelf  behin'  de  doah! 
Brudder  take  de  bottle  from 
De  shelf  behin'  de  doah! 

And  now  some  brother  fell  upon  his 
knees,  and  launched  into  a  cadenced 
prayer,  which  provoked,  by  way  of 
accompaniment,  an  ever-growing  vol- 
ume of  sighs  and  half-articulated  sen- 
tences. Thus  the  service  ran  into  the 
night,  song  and  prayer  alternating,  the 
excitement  becoming  more  intense  as 
the  hours  wore  on.  It  was  an  occasion 
not  to  be  forgotten,  weird  and  fascinat- 


848 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  PEGASUS 


ing,  illustrating  a  great  epoch  in  the 
development  of  a  universal  art. 

Nor  do  we  have  to  look  beyond  our 
own  race  for  echoes  of  such  a  past.  A 
few  years  ago  a  desperate  criminal 
named  Tracy  escaped  from  the  Oregon 
penitentiary,  and,  providing  himself 
with  firearms,  worked  his  way  up  into 
Washington,  applying  at  ranches  for 
food  and  killing  those  who  offered  him 
any  violence.  For  several  weeks  he 
eluded  the  police  and  lived  in  the 
forest.  He  was,  however,  invariably 
courteous  to  women,  and  there  was  in 
him  a  touch  of  the  gallant  that  ap- 
pealed to  the  romantic  imagination  of 
the  popular  mind.  Excitement  was  in- 
tense, and  politics  and  world-affairs 
paled  into  insignificance;  a  presidential 
candidate  never  received  more  flat- 
tering attention  from  the  press.  One 
evening  I  had  occasion  to  be  in  the 
rougher  part  of  the  city,  and  noticed  a 
crowd  of  excited  men  gathering  around 
a  saloon.  Evidently  something  unusual 
was  taking  place.  I  elbowed  my  way 
through  the  crowd  to  the  door:  there, 
on  the  bar,  stood  a  drunken  fiddler,  im- 
provising the  story  of  Tracy's  exploits. 
I  took  down  a  portion  of  the  song,  of 
which  a  typical  stanza  runs  thus: — 

The  valiant  Tracy  has  such  nerve 
Behind  the  bars  he  would  not  serve; 
Said  he,  'A  better  lot  I  deserve'; 
Now  list  to  the  tale  of  Tracy. 

Between  the  stanzas  the  men  caught 
up  the  air,  and  there  quickly  evolved 
a  little  chorus:  — 

Tracy,  Tracy,  ha!  ha!  ha! 
Tracy,  Tracy,  ta!  ta!  ta! 
Tracy,  Tracy,  ha!  ha!  ha! 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  Tracy. 

Thus  among  these  rude  men  was  repro- 
duced, as  it  were,  a  chapter  of  the  past : 
the  improvising  poet,  singing  of  an 
event  of  common  interest,  and  sus- 
tained by  a  choral  group,  who  shouted 
a  refrain  which  had  sprung  forth  in 
obedience  to  a  common  impulse. 


The  next  step  in  the  development  of 
poetry  was  a  social  group,  to  which 
every  member  contributed  by  song. 
It  is  illustrated  in  that  beautiful  story 
of  Csedmon,  as  told  in  the  tender  lan- 
guage of  the  Venerable  Bede.  In  its  re- 
fined form  it  produced  the  minnesinger 
and  the  troubadour,  those  remarkable 
masters  of  ready  verse.  American 
college  students  do  unwitting  homage 
to  it  to-day,  when  a  group  of  men 
amuse  themselves  of  an  evening  by 
singing  Limericks  in  turn,  the  chorus 
joining  in  the  refrain :  — 

Oh,  won't  you  come  up, 
Oh,  won't  you  come  up, 
Oh,  won't  you  come  up  for  a  penny. 

Next  came  the  period  of  the  profes- 
sional singer,  when  the  most  expert 
man  was  set  aside  to  amuse  the  rest. 
This  was  the  epoch  of  the  minstrel. 
Fortunate  he  whose  gift  of  song  in- 
sured him  a  universal  welcome,  in  the 
castle  a  seat  at  the  board  beside  the 
lord,  and  lands  and  jewels;  in  the  vil- 
lage the  no  less  sincere  hospitality  of 
the  common  folk.  No  picture  of  medi- 
aeval life  would  be  complete  without  the 
minstrel,  whose  songs  of  the  heroes 
and  deeds  of  old  turned  to  sunshine 
the  dreary  hours.  But  this  is  a  tale  that 
requires  no  retelling. 

What  wight  who  hung  upon  the  ac- 
cents of  the  bard,  as  with  glowing  eye 
and  stirring  lay  he  led  captive  the 
hearts  of  heroes,  could  have  conceived 
the  time  when  minstrelsy  should  be  no 
more?  But  the  minstrel  has  gone,  gone 
as  went  my  lady's  favor,  and  the 
bright  trappings  of  her  knight  —  all 
done  to  death  by  printers'  ink.  For 
books  put  an  end  to  minstrelsy  as  in- 
evitably as  they  sounded  the  knell  of 
feudalism.  When  you  can  read  the  tale 
yourself,  why  listen  to  another's  tell- 
ing! For  a  while,  to  be  sure,  the  min- 
strel took  advantage  of  the  gayety  of 
the  Christmas  season  to  insinuate  him- 


THE   PEDIGREE  OF  PEGASUS 


self  once  more  into  the  great  hall,  a 
sorry  reflection  of  his  former  self;  but 
the  day  came  when  the  baron's  gate 
was  shut  upon  him  forever  and  he  de- 
generated into  the  mere  wayside  fid- 
dler, bargaining  his  songs  for  ill-brewed 
ale. 

Last  stage  of  all  is  the  professional 
poet,  who  composes  in  the  secrecy  of 
his  study  for  an  audience  that  reads, 
and  who  unlocks  the  secrets  of  his  own 
heart  for  such  as  may  understand. 
How  far  he  seems  removed  in  his  isola- 
tion from  the  ring  of  dancing  tribes- 
men, how  far  from  the  village  folk 
singing  songs  upon  the  green,  how  far 
even  from  the  minstrel  with  his  epic 
lay!  Communism  has  given  way  to 
individualism,  the  external  to  the  in- 
ternal, the  objective  to  the  subject- 
ive, the  unanalytical  to  the  analytical. 
Browning  could  never  have  written 
A  Woman's  Last  Word  or  Cristina,  if 
the  savage  had  not  once  danced  his 
dance  and  chanted  his  rude  chorus. 

Poetry  of  this  ultimate  character  is 
assuredly  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of 
all  knowledge,  and  occasions  the  most 
exquisite  spiritual  sympathies  and  in- 
spirations. It  but  becomes  more  pre- 
cious as  society  becomes  more  com- 
pletely individualized,  and  the  sense 
of  solitude  more  poignant.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  am  glad  that  we  are  still 
able  to  complement  it  with  poetry  of  a 
more  primitive  character;  to  find,  for 
example,  in  the  sturdy  ballads  that 
time  has  so  kindly  preserved,  a  litera- 
ture that  reflects  the  hardy  vigor  of 
naive  society,  the  homely  episodes, 
now  humorous  and  now  pathetic,  that 
were  shaped  and  fashioned  by  the  ele- 
mentary passion  of  simple,  communal 
life.  Such  poetry  invigorates  one  and 
universalizes  one's  sympathy,  as  does 
a  sojourn  with  peasant  folk,  where  a 
whole  community  seem  to  share  a  com- 
mon life,  and  where  ideas,  and  even 

VOL.  107 -NO.  6  


emotions,  seem  in  a  measure  to  be  im- 
personal and  persuasive. 

I  used  to  visit,  when  a  lad,  a  bleak 
island  which  lies  some  twenty  miles  off 
the  New  Brunswick  coast.  Protected 
by  frowning  sea-walls,  four  hundred 
feet  in  height,  that  allow  only  an  occa- 
sional harbor,  and  fog-engulfed  a  great 
part  of  the  time,  this  little  island  knew 
few  visitors.  But  when  one  actually 
landed  upon  it,  the  honest  Scotch  folk 
who  dwelt  there  received  him  as  a  kins- 
man. I  was  once  overtaken  by  dusk 
when  crossing  the  island,  and  put  up 
for  the  night  at  a  farmhouse.  While 
the  younger  women  were  preparing  sup- 
per, I  chatted  with '  Grandma '  McKin- 
ley,  then  in  her  eightieth  year,  who 
sat  in  a  bed-quilt  easy-chair  by  the 
fire.  Wishing  to  sustain  my  end  of  the 
conversation,  I  presumed  to  suggest 
that  life  must  have  been  a  bit  lonely 
and  tame  in  the  long  winter  months. 
The  old  lady  turned  her  sharp  eyes 
upon  me,  detecting  that  my  tone  was 
a  trifle  patronizing,  and  rejoined, '  Now, 
young 'un,  you  need  n't  pity  us.  There 
is  a  plenty  of  old  folk  on  the  island,  and 
winter  is  the  time  when  they  keep 
droppin'  off,  and  we  just  fill  a  picnic 
basket  and  go  and  spend  the  week,  and 
eat  and  sing,  and  it  breaks  up  the  long 
spell  somethin'  wonderful.'  Well,  after 
all,  smile  as  you  may,  that 's  squeezing 
the  nectar  out  of  life.  What  must  she 
have  done  at  twenty!  —  footed  it  full- 
feateously,  I  trow. 

Precious  to  the  modern  spirit  is  the 
poetry  that  modern  days  have  wrought; 
but  it  is  not  a  little  thing  that  song  has 
become  so  scant  a  part  of  our  lives, 
that  we  no  longer  do  —  or  may  —  sing 
at  our  tasks.  To  be  sure,  we  have  our 
professional  musicians,  trained  to  sur- 
passing excellence,  but  life  at  large  is 
a  bare,  ruined  choir.  When,  and  how, 
shall  we  get  back  our  song?  Must  we 
say  good-bye  to  it  forever,  the  sunshine 
of  an  unrecoverable  childhood? 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


IN     PRAISE     OF    JOURNEYS 

HE  who  confides  these  words  to  a 
long-suffering  typewriter  has  not  been 
truly  happy  since  he  declared — in  print 
—  that '  there  is  only  one  thing  stupid- 
er than  the  average  person's  travels: 
and  that  is  the  book  written  to  describe 
them.'  There  is  some  truth  in  the  state- 
ment, and  that,  precisely,  is  why  it  is 
an  ungrateful  thing  for  one  to  have 
inscribed  who  has  derived  much  com- 
fort from  his  own  wanderings  and  from 
those  of  other  people.  Do  you,  O  Su- 
perior Person,  consider  travel  literature 
an  insipid  kind?  That  is  but  natural 
if  you  have  just  been  reading  one  of 
the  contemporary  atrocities  got  out  to 
serve  as  letterpress  for  pictures  in  three 
colors.  I  can  even  imagine  a  robust 
reader  turning  from  Mr.  Lucas's  latest 
travel-book  on  the  ground  that  it  is  too 
saccharine  in  its  song  of '  the  joy  of  en- 
tering and  reentering  Paris.'  Let  such 
an  one  turn,  after  hearing  Mr.  Lucas 
out,  to  the  Totall  Discourse  of  William 
Lithgow.  'Paris,  I  confesse,  is  pop- 
ulous,' he  writes;  'a  masse  of  poore 
People,  for  lacques  and  pages,  a  nest 
of  rogues,  a  tumultuous  place,  a  noc- 
tuall  denne  of  Theeves,  and  a  confus- 
ed multitude.'  Between  Lithgow,  with 
his  seventeenth-century  testimony,  and 
Lucas,  with  his  of  the  twentieth,  we 
somehow  manage  to  get  the  real  Paris: 
the  Paris  that  had  Villon  and  has  Apa- 
ches; the  Paris  that  has  Sorbonne  and 
Comedie  Francaise  and  Louvre  thrown 
in  for  good  measure.  Travel  literature 
is  ever  rich  in  just  such  mutual  correct- 
ives. 

Frivolous  though  it  is,  in  the  main, 
an  essay  on  this  bastard  genre,  with 

850 


due  attention  paid,  not  only  to  the  ex- 
periences of  travelers  throughout  the 
lands  and  ages,  but  also  to  their  senti- 
ments and  philosophies,  and  the  atti- 
tudes of  worldly  men  and  wise  toward 
this  pastime  of  travel,  would  make  a 
magnum  opus  worthy  of  the  dustiest 
labors.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  attempt 
anything  so  scholarly.  I  am  content  in 
setting  myself  down,  for  my  part,  a 
confirmed  and  habitual  nomad.  And 
that  is  the  fact  which  best  proves  to 
me  that  I  am  really  an  American. 

Formerly,  men  traveled  from  mo- 
tives of  materialism.  But  we  have 
changed  all  that,  we  Americans.  No 
one  says  to-day  what  Dr.  Fuller  wrote 
in  the  long,  long  ago:  'Labor  to  unite 
and  distil  into  thyself  the  scattered  per- 
fections of  several  nations.'  We  know 
too  well  that  those  'scattered  perfec- 
tions' are  out-perfected  here  in  the 
States.  We  travel  —  some  of  us  —  ra- 
ther to  enjoy  the  opportunity  of  telling 
foreigners  how  much  better  we  do  this 
or  that  at  home.  '  You  must  come  to 
Chicago  and  see  for  yourself,'  we  urge; 
whereas  Richard  Lassels,  Dr.  Fuller's 
worthy  contemporary,  counseled  that 
'  the  traveler  have  a  care  not  to  carry 
himself  along  with  himself,  but  to  leave 
behind  all  his  faults  and  vices,  so  that 
when  he  comes  back  and  meets  some 
evil  companion  he  may  avoid  him;  and 
when  the  other  protests,  "  I  am  so  and 
so,"  he  may  answer,  "It  may  be  so, 
but  I  am  no  more  I."'  The  nearest 
approach  to  so  old-fashioned  a  counsel 
is  James  Russell  Lowell's;  and  I  really 
think  that  the  American's  is  the  better 
statement  of  the  case.  'The  wise  man,' 
he  writes, '  travels  to  discover  himself;  it 
is  to  find  himself  out  that  he  goes  out  of 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


851 


himself  and  his  habitual  associations.' 
And  the  principle  is  the  same,  whether 
we  use  ocean-liner,  tunnel-train,  or 
arm-chair. 

Lowell  speaks  true  in  his  Fireside 
Travels  when  he  writes  that  one  may 
find  his  antipodes  without  a  voyage 
to  China.  Certainly,  of  all  the  ever- 
charming  travel  books  the  very  most 
delightful  is  Xavier  de  Maistre's  Voy- 
age autour  de  ma  Chambre.  Richard 
Lassels,  Gent.,  the  excellent  authority 
whose  name  one  need  not  apologize  for 
repeating,  expressed  it  as  his  conviction 
that '  traveling  maketh  a  man  sit  still 
in  his  old  age  with  satisfaction.'  But 
the  genuine  philosopher  does  his  best 
traveling  of  all  in  the  very  act  of  sitting 
still.  Never  was  there  framed  a  fallacy 
more  vulgar  or  more  mischievous  than 
that  which  takes  motion  for  the  sine 
qua  non  of  happy  voyaging. 

And  if  self '  is,  after  all,  the  Blue  Flow- 
er of  the  traveler's  unending  search, 
that,  perhaps,  explains  why  so  many  of 
our  fellow  travelers  seem  utterly  want- 
ing in  personality.  If  they  had  it,  they 
would  be  tending  it  carefully,  no  doubt, 
in  the  home  garden.  Even  as  it  is,  they 
will  as  likely  as  not  find  themselves 
when  they  return  home,  like  the  Grail- 
seeker  in  the  legend.  So,  at  least,  I  like 
to  think:  apologizing  for  my  conduct 
and  for  yours,  good  reader,  since  you 
are  equally  a  traveler,  whose  eyes  have 
already  strayed  from  this  poor  page  to 
study  the  far  more  interesting  ship- 
news.  Nor  do  I  blame  you:  one  smells 
salt  on  reaching  that  corner  of  the  news- 
paper. One  may  even  hear  the  whistle 
blowing  its  final  five  minutes  in  praise 
of  the  ocean,  and  all  the  wonders  over- 
seas. 

Half  of  the  pleasure  of  travel  consists 
in  the  advance  study  of  time-tables  and 
'Shipping  Intelligence.'  These  docu- 
ments call  .up  new  pictures  and  refresh 
old  ones.  Anticipation  and  retrospect 
blend  into  one  perfect  composition. 


The  happiest  day-dreamer  of  all  is  the 
intending  traveler,  in  springtime. 

Wise  men,  to  be  sure,  decry  every  sort 
of  travel  literature,  even  time-tables. 
As  for  the  thing  itself,  they  call  travel- 
ing a  fool's  paradise.  But  wise  men  have 
never  heard  of  the  Blue  Flower.  The 
learning  they  prate  of  is  book-learning 
—  a  sorry  substitute  for  the  knowledge 
of  men  and  things,  the  varied  cheer,  the 
shifting  scenes,  the  scarcely  ever  seri- 
ous fatigues,  of  reasonable  travel.  Nor 
need  a  man  stop  acquiring  even  the 
thing  called  learning  because  his  legs  or 
some  other  engine  carry  him  hither  and 
thither.  When  Lecky  tramped  the  Pyr- 
enees he  carried  Spinoza  in  his  pocket, 
'getting  exceedingly  enthusiastic  about 
the  scenery  and  exceedingly  perplexed 
about  the  difference  between  Hegel  and 
Schelling.'  Lecky 's  idea  of  mountain 
climbing  is  not  mine,  yet  there  is  the 
precedent  for  any  one  to  follow  who 
thereto  inclines.  Certainly  there  was 
never  a  want  of  peripatetic  philoso- 
phers. Travel  of  some  sort  mankind 
must  have  —  or  takes  it,  like  Xavier, 
in  his  bed-room.  Some  write  books 
about  lands  they  hope  to  visit  on  the 
proceeds;  as  Gautier  in  the  case  of  his 
Spain.  Some,  more  conventional,  actu- 
ally use  steamships  and  railways  and 
motor-cars.  For,  to  the  normal  man, 
'All  the  world's  his  soil.'  And  the  less 
cause  we  can  allege  for  our  travels, 
The  greater  is  the  pleasure  in  arriving 
At  the  great  end  of  travel  —  which  is  driving. 

THE  IMMORALITY  OF  TRAVEL 

TRAVELING  is  the  vice  of  the  many 
and  the  virtue  of  the  few.  'Travel  in 
the  younger  sort  is  a  part  of  education; 
in  the  elder,  a  part  of  experience,'  said 
Bacon;  but  Bacon  lived  fortunately 
early  and  so  escaped  the  modern  cult. 
He  never  saw  what  we  have  seen :  the 
devastation  of  fair  countries,  the  desola- 
tion of  old  cities,  the  desecration  of  sa- 


852 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


cred  shrines,  by  the  intrusive  presence 
of  people  who  do  not  belong.  My  bitter 
complaint  is  not  directed  solely  against 
my  own  countrymen,  albeit  Americans 
are  multitudinous  in  offense.  I  protest 
against  all  folk  who  get  out  of  their 
frames  and  insist  on  making  a  part  of 
pictures  for  which  they  were  not  de- 
signed by  nature,  whether  they  be  Ger- 
man or  Turk,  English,  Spanish,  French, 
Japanese,  or  Hindustanee.  The  day  is 
past  when  I  could  welcome,  as  I  could 
in  childhood,  the  sight  of  a  Chinese 
coolie  pattering  home  to  his  laundry, 
because  he  gave  me  the  sensation  of 
somehow  touching  the  Orient;  the  later 
day  has  gone,  when  a  supple  Lascar 
along  the  docks  would  set  me  dream- 
ing of  the  world  beyond  Suez.  Against 
Turkish  travelers  in  particular  I  have 
nourished  a  grudge  since  a  swarthy  and 
probably  distinguished  Red-fez  poked 
his  head  over  my  shoulder  while  I  was 
reading  a  manuscript  in  the  Bodleian. 
I  felt  his  breath  on  my  cheek,  and 
looked  up  into  beady  and  curious  eyes. 
Shade  of  Sir  Thomas!  He  did  not  be- 
long there;  nor,  by  the  same  token, 
did  I. 

Experience  leads  me  to  think,  indeed, 
that  most  of  us  would  do  much  better 
to  stay  at  home.  Let  travelers  travel, 
and  write  exciting  books  about  places 
not  made  common  by  intruding  thou- 
sands of  foreigners.  By  our  own  fireside 
we  could  then  read  of  Paris  as  if  it  were 
Thibet;  whereas  we  now  all  go  to  Paris 
and  fail  to  get  much  sense  of  foreign 
parts  in  seeing  the  pavements  of  the 
boulevards  throng  with  our  compatri- 
ots as  do  the  sidewalks  of  Fifth  Avenue. 
There  are  not  many  civilized  regions  of 
the  earth  that  one  can  visit  any  longer 
with  the  hope  of  finding  the  exotic 
unpolluted  by  commonplace  visitors. 
There  are  certain  parts  of  Asia,  like 
Thibet  and  Turkestan;  there  are  one  or 
two  spots  in  Europe;  but  I  do  not  know 
of  others. 


Travel  is  the  great  epidemic  of  the 
modern  world,  common  to  most  races, 
wasteful  of  time  and  money,  disastrous 
to  the  places  visited,  most  unbeauti- 
ful  in  all  its  effects.  No  one  has  yet 
described  the  malady.  In  the  hope 
that  some  doctor  of  society  —  so  num- 
erous a  company  nowadays  —  may  be 
induced  to  study  its  causes  and  advise 
as  to  its  remedy  and  prevention,  I  make 
these  jottings.  I  have  suffered  from  the 
disease  in  my  own  person,  as  well  as 
vicariously,  and  I  recognize  the  possi- 
bility that  I  may  again  be  smitten.  In 
a  time  of  health,  I  present  my  evidence 
for  the  benefit  of  other  sufferers  —  suf- 
ferers in  a  double  sense. 

The  malady  is,  indeed,  a  modern  one. 
For  a  great  while  men  have  traveled, 
but  they  have  done  so  decently  and 
sanely  for  the  most  part.  Merchants 
have  always  sought  and  sold  their 
wares  abroad,  as  they  do  to-day,  with 
perfect  propriety.  The  much-traveled 
Odysseus  did  not  garner  his  experience 
altogether  of  his  own  will ;  and  he  repre- 
sents sufficiently  well  the  classical  tra- 
dition. In  the  Middle  Ages  people  went 
on  pilgrimages,  multitudes  of  them;  yet 
they  made  their  journeys  with  an  end 
in  view  beyond  the  mere  satisfaction  of 
curiosity  and  the  quest  of  new  sensa- 
tions. Clerks  and  minstrels  traveled; 
but  they  wished  to  learn,  or  to  make  a 
living.  Their  purpose  saved  them.  Only 
in  the  Crusades  do  we  find  a  parallel  to 
the  madness  of  our  times,  while  even 
they  were  sanctified  by  an  idea.  During 
the  Renaissance,  and  down  to  the  nine- 
teenth century,  there  is  no  trace  of  the 
disease  as  we  know  it. 

'  Travel  in  the  younger  sort  is  a  part  of 
education.'  Clearly  Bacon  had  in  mind 
for  youth  what  afterwards  came  to  be 
known  as  the  grand  tour.  No  harm  came 
from  this.  The  young  squire,  plentifully 
supplied  with  money,  and  mayhap  with 
a  learned  tutor  (scholars,  I  may  say  in 
parenthesis,  should  always  be  encour- 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


853 


aged  to  travel  for  the  benefit  of  the  na- 
tions), set  off  for  a  round  of  the  Contin- 
ent. He  learned  much,  good  and  bad, 
but  he  was  never  legion.  Moreover,  if 
the  milord  became  too  obnoxious  to  the 
inhabitants  of  any  region,  they  could 
take  a  short  way  with  him  and  prevent 
the  repetition  of  the  nuisance  for  a  con- 
siderable time.  If  the  young  man's 
father  traveled,  he  went  on  some  suf- 
ficient errand;  and  his  gain  was,  as 
Bacon  declared,  'a  part  of  experience.' 
Most  people,  however,  stayed  at  home, 
and  listened  to  travelers'  tales  with 
understanding  suspicion.  This  state  of 
mind,  I  submit,  was  healthy  and  very 
sensible. 

In  lust  for  travel,  as  for  gold,  we 
moderns  do  not  heed  the  wise  example 
of  our  forbears.  We  have  followed  too 
much  the  enthusiasms  of  the  Romanti- 
cists, of  Goethe,  of  Byron,  and  of  Heine, 
who  taught  the  world  that  journeys 
were  good  for  their  own  sake.  We  travel 
because  we  have  the  money;  because  it 
is  the  fashion ;  because  we  wish  to  com- 
pare other  lands  with  ours,  probably  to 
the  disadvantage  of  both.  We  travel  for 
all  reasons  except  good  ones;  we  are,  in 
short,  the  victims  of  a  disease.  We  fail 
to  realize  what  unlovely  spectacles,  as 
average  human  beings,  we  present  when 
uprooted  from  our  native  soil.  In  our 
own  place  we  do  very  well ;  abroad  we 
display  our  defects,  and  hide  our  vir- 
tues. 

On  tour,  the  Englishman's  blustering 
bashfulness  makes  him  unpleasant;  the 
Frenchman 's  suave  impracticality  lends 
itself  to  ridicule;  the  German's  splendid 
egotism  becomes  unbearable.  In  what 
light  Americans  appear  abroad,  it  be- 
comes no  patriotic  citizen  to  tell.  Fur- 
thermore, most  of  us  do  not  travel  wisely 
but  too  fast.  It  is  a  symptom  of  dis- 
ease. We  may  plan  a  leisurely  sojourn 
in  a  few  carefully-selected  towns,  or 
in  some  hallowed  country  district;  we 
usually  end  with  a  mad  scamper.  Such 


an  outbreak  of  the  latent  malady  ends 
in  exhaustion  of  the  purse  and  the  man. 
And  death-bed  confessions  on  the  home- 
bound  steamer  serve  no  useful  purpose. 
'  Globe-trotting '  is  no  more  scandalous 
as  a  word  than  as  a  fact.  That  persons 
in  whom  the  disease  of  travel  has  as- 
sumed this  virulent  form  should  be  per- 
mitted to  spread  the  infection  as  they 
do,  is  a  crime  against  society. 

I  receive,  from  time  to  time,  invita- 
tions to  join,  at  a  considerable  premium, 
'travel-study  tours.'  Could  there  be  a 
more  ironic  comment  on  Bacon's  phrase 
as  interpreted  in  our  day?  Or  a  madder 
perversion  of  educational  method?  To 
cram  pictures  in  Italy  under  the  guid- 
ance of  a  tutor,  to  absorb  cathedrals. in 
France  under  the  tutelage  of  a  guide! 
Not  for  one  hour,  I  suppose,  do  the  en- 
thusiasts who  follow  these  febrile  quests 
of  culture  permit  themselves  an  undi- 
rected taste  of  lands  not  their  own. 
They  must  be  too  busy  about  the  im- 
provement of  their  minds  to  care  for  the 
enlargement  of  horizons  that  real  travel 
gives.  I  can  console  myself  only  by  the 
shrewd  suspicion  that  they  do  not 
really  study  either,  and  so  return  to 
their  homes^quite  unaffected  by  their 
jaunt,  except  for  being  mortally  tired. 
They  are  more  to  be  pitied  than  globe- 
trotters, but  less  to  be  blamed. 

One  of  the  saddest  features  of  the 
whole  matter  is  the  havoc  wrought  up- 
on innocent  regions  by  the  pestilence- 
breathing  hordes  of  travelers.  I  have 
already  deplored  the  decay  of  the  exotic, 
the  disappearance  of  the  sense  of  won- 
der from  the  world.  I  have  alluded  to 
the  wretched  condition  of  Paris.  I  must 
go  further  if  I  am  to  stir  right-minded 
people  to  a  consciousness  of  the  terrible 
devastation  that  the  disease  has  accom- 
plished during  the  last  century.  Have 
you  ever  chanced  to  see  at  Verona  the 
late  Roman  sarcophagus,  purporting  to 
be  the  tomb  of  Juliet,  half-filled  with 
German  visiting-cards?  Have  you  ever 


854 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


visited  the  Island  of  Marken  and  noted 
how  a  village  of  fisher-folk  can  be  trans- 
formed into  a  race  of  harpies?  You  must 
have  been  saddened  to  find  a  charming 
English  country  town  like  Stratford-on- 
Avon  turned  into  a  tawdry  shrine  for 
the  worship  of  a  poet  who  learned  only 
too  well  in  his  lifetime  the  foibles  of  hu- 
manity. The  very  church  where  he  is 
buried  has  become  a  temple  filled  with 
money-changers.  At  least,  I  have  seen 
placards  with  figures  in  two  systems  of 
moneyaffixed  to  its  walls.  And  Chester, 
with  blatant  rapture,  welcomes  to  her 
"smug  and  raw  antiquity  the  incoming 
or  departing  hosts  of  Americans.  I  won- 
der, when  I  read  that  one  of  the  leading 
performers  in  the  Bavarian  Passion  Play 
is  advertised  to  accompany  an  Ameri- 
can party  up  the  Nile,  whether  even 
Oberammergau  has  escaped  the  taint. 
Has  not  Boston,  proud  of  being  our  own 
sacred  Mecca,  adorned  herself  with 
patches  of  black  and  white,  tablets  of 
wood,  more  to  satisfy  the  appetites  of 
travel-smitten  strangers  than  to  honor 
the  dead? 

As  to  the  method  by  which  the  dis- 
ease is  transmitted,  I  am  no  wiser  than 
you;  but  I  feel  sure  that  there  is  a 
germ.  jo 

WEDDING     JOURNEYS    BY    PROXY 

MEETING  in  the  street  the  other  day 
an  old  friend  and  his  wife  who  live  in 
a  distant  city,  I  expressed  my  pleased 
surprise.  'This  is  a  wedding  journey,' 
they  explained.  'Our  daughter  was 
married  last  week,  and  as  neither  she 
nor  her  husband  is  fond  of  travel,  they 
insisted  that  we  should  make  the  con- 
ventional tour  in  their  stead.  We  have 
got  thus  far  on  our  way,  and  are  enjoy- 
ing the  honeymoon  to  the  utmost.' 

Now,  this  was  putting  to  the  prac- 
tical test  of  experiment  an  idea  which 
has  been  lying  in  the  back  of  my  brain 
many  years,  unexpressed  in  words.  A 


spectacle  familiar  to  every  Contributor 
who  attends  weddings  is  a  bride  worn 
out  by  months  of  nerve-racking  pre- 
paration, better  fitted  for  the  hospital 
than  the  altar,  yet  doomed  to  start  on 
a  season  of  moving  from  pillar  to  post, 
with  its  incessant  strain  on  body,  brain, 
and  senses.  Nobody  protests  audibly, 
not  even  the  family  doctor,  because 
this  is  the  orthodox  custom.  It  remains 
for  a  few  bold  spirits  to  start  a  new 
fashion  and  require  the  bride  to  stay 
at  home  after  the  wedding  and  take 
a  good  rest,  letting  some  kind  friend 
do  her  traveling  for  her. 

The  customary  tour  is,  of  course,  only 
one  of  many  inanities  connected  with 
weddings,  which  have  nothing  better  to 
urge  in  self-defense  than  immemorial 
tradition.  Why,  for  instance,  must  a 
lot  of  well-wishers  be  corralled  on  the 
fateful  day  for  a  breakfast,  stuffed  with 
sweets  and  deluged  with  champagne  at 
high  noon,  and  thus  condemned  to  a 
term  of  indigestion  and  repentance? 
Dread  of  appearing  churlish,  a  crow  in 
a  dove-cote,  prompts  many  a  guest  at 
such  a  feast  to  throw  prudence  to  the 
winds  and  do  what  his  inward  monitor 
warns  him  to  avoid.  Is  there  not  here 
another  opening  for  vicarious  activity? 
If  a  repast  is  imperative,  why  not  call 
in  the  services  of  the  younger  brothers 
and  sisters  of  the  bride  for  the  con- 
sumption of  the  solids,  —  asking  of 
them  only  that  they  will  do  in  public 
what  they  are  all  too  prone  to  do  on 
the  sly,  —  and  turn  over  the  liquids 
to  the  servants  with  a  like  assurance. 
This  plan  would  at  any  rate  confine 
the  physicians'  ministrations  and  the 
drug  bills  within  the  offending  house- 
hold, instead  of  spreading  them  all 
over  its  more  intimate  acquaintance. 

But  whether  at  a  later  stage  we  mod- 
ify the  breakfast  habit  or  any  of  the 
other  mediaeval  incidentals,  surely  the 
wedding  journey  is  something  that  will 
bear  changing  at  once.  Grant  all  that 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


855 


could  be  pleaded  in  its  favor,  such  as 
the  need  of  the  young  couple  to  isolate 
themselves  for  a  while  and  get  better 
acquainted,  or  the  special  virtue  of 
travel  as  a  temper-ordeal  and  a  revealer 
of  unsuspected  quips  and  quirks  of  dis- 
position, my  faith  is  still  anchored  to 
the  efficacy  of  a  carefully  managed  sub- 
stitution. Let  the  newly  married  pair 
settle  down  quietly  somewhere,  —  in 
the  bride's  old  home  if  you  will,  or  in 
one  of  which  she  is  thereafter  to  be  mis- 
tress, or  in  a  little  cottage  in  the  coun- 
try,— deny  themselves  to  visitors,  and 
study  each  other  at  close  range  under 
the  same  conditions  which  will  normally 
environ  their  future  life.  At  the  same 
time,  let  the  old  folk  be  turned  loose  to 
do  the  jaunting.  Ten  to  one,  they  will 
enjoy  it  immensely,  and  be  the  better 
for  the  change.  It  will  make  a  pleasant 
bridge  over  that  little  interval  of  heart- 
sinking  which  comes  to  the  parents  of 
a  girl  after  her  marriage,  before  they 
have  accommodated  themselves  to  her 
habitual  absence  from  the  table  and 
the  fireside. 

When  the  young  couple  shall  have  be- 
come old  in  their  turn,  and  are  sending 
out  branches  from  the  family  tree  laden 
with  new  little  homes,  they  can  per- 
form a  corresponding  service  for  their 
girls.  It  will  multiply  their  honey- 
moons, and  refresh  the  fires  of  senti- 
ment in  their  maturer  hearts;  and  we 
all  know  how  a  whole  family  feels  the 
influence  of  anything  which  tends  to 
perpetuate  the  spirit  of  courtship  be- 
tween father  and  mother. 

MY  VIEW 

ON  entering  my  tiny  apartment  re- 
cently a  charming  little  lady  exclaim- 
ed with  real  enthusiasm,  'Why,  this  is 
like  being  aboard  ship,  an  air-ship!' 
And  as  our  little  group  looked  down 
upon  miles  of  vari-colored  houses  and 
bridges  and  pointed  church-spires,  and 


the  distant,  glittering  Sound,  instinct- 
ively we  waited  to  feel  that  floating, 
slightly  rocking  sensation  known  to  the 
traveler  on  shipboard,  whether  he  be 
traveling  over  land  or  sea. 

This  very  rare  lady,  possessed  of  the 
grace  of  tact,  said  other  pretty  things 
about  my  high,  green-lined  nook;  yet 
she  came  from  a  real  house  of  her  own 
in  a  town  of  houses  and  lawns,  where 
the  happy  citizens  merely  read  in  the 
magazines  concerning  that  horror,  the 
modern  apartment-house!  And  still,  in 
the  voice  of  my  guest  there  was  no  hint 
of  pity  for  me  as  she  surveyed  my  mi- 
nute domain.  She  looked  at  my  books, 
at  my  few  and  dear  pictures  on  the 
woodland-green  walls,  at  my  divan  and 
easy-chair  set  deep  in  the  window- 
niches,  and  then  she  turned  again  to  the 
panorama  spread  ever  before  my  eyes 
and  said,  with  a  little  sigh  of  pleasure, 
'How  restful  a  view  is,  a  big  outlook, 
like  this !  How  far  you  seem  from  all  the 
hurly-burly,  and  yet  how  close  to  the 
heart  of  life!' 

Really  this  dear  lady  almost  took 
away  my  breath;  for  you  see  I  am  used 
to  the  guerdon  of  thinly  veiled  sym- 
pathy for  the  misfortune  of  living  where 
I  live. 

Some  of  my  visitors  come  from  Jer- 
sey, where  they  have  brown  earth  to 
dig  in,  and  fresh  vegetables  in  the 
spring,  and  the  comfort  of  roomy 
porches,  inclosed  in  wire  netting!  And 
others  come  from  houses  down  town, 
real  private  houses,  with  white  colo- 
nial doorways,  and  beautiful  old  stairs, 
and  back  yards,  and  butlers,  —  but  of 
course  without  such  a  superfluity  as  a 
real  view,  for  people  living  in  their  own 
houses  do  not  yearn  for  such  trifles,  and 
besides,  what  would  the  butler  do  with 
it  anyhow? 

Or  again  my  friend  comes  from  a  ten- 
room-and-three-bath  apartment  in  the 
most  fashionable  apartment-house  sec- 
tion in  the  city.  There  also  the  inhab- 


856 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


itant  has  no  need  of  a  view,  since  he 
looks  out  upon  a  wide,  modern,  sanitary 
court;  opposite  is  the  immaculate  tiled 
kitchen  and  picturesque  Japanese  cook 
of  his  prosperous  neighbor,  while  many 
feet  below  is  the  clean  asphalt  pave- 
ment; the  court  containing  by  way  of 
ornament  a  geranium  bed  in  summer, 
and,  the  year  round,  four  prim  and 
architecturally  correct  evergreens !  But 
inside  the  apartment  are  wonderful 
floors  of  polished  wood,  and  built-in 
mahogany  book-cases,  and  decorative 
private  telephones,  and  convenient 
mail-shutes,  and  burglar-proof  jewel- 
and-silver  safes,  and  beautiful  electric 
lamps,  and  marble  baths  as  splendid  as 
the  baths  of  Imperial  Rome! 

Certainly  these  various  friends  of 
mine  have  a  right  to  pity  me,  for  my 
bathtub  is  a  trivial  affair,  as  there  is  not 
one  bit  of  genuine  marble  in  this  whole 
ramshackle  house,  none  of  the  many 
tenants  have  butlers,  and  not  all  of  us 
possess  even  so  much  as  a  maid-of-all- 
work. 

In  short,  we  are  impecunious,  every- 
day folk,  city-bound,  living  in  an  ob- 
long brick  box  that  fronts  on  a  dusty, 
prosaic  street.  What,  then,  is  the  real 
use  of  living  at  all,  and  why  emphasize 
our  woes  to  the  extent  of  writing  about 
them? 

Dear  reader,  this  is  my  compensa- 
tion, the  reason  why  I  envy  my  friends 
neither  their  trim  gardens,  nor  their 
men-servants,  nor  their  spacious  rooms, 
nor  even  the  bliss  of  many  closets !  This 
ugly,  box-like  structure  is  builded  on  a 
high  hill,  and  the  hill  overlooks  on  its 
eastern  side  a  great,  conglomerate, 
mysterious  city,  a  city  which  by  night 
becomes  an  enchantment,  and  by  dawn 
a  vision  of  pearl  and  gold  and  amethyst, 
and  by  noon  a  clear  stretch  of  irregular 
roof-tops  and  churches  and  arching 
bridges,  and  again,  at  dusk,  once  more 
vague,  illusive,  a  wonderland  sketched 
in  purple  shadow  and  fiery  light,  every- 


where traces  of  sheer  magic,  the  magic 
of  man's  handiwork  under  God's  sky. 

Tour  clean,  pure  country,  —  I  love 
it.  Your  gardens  and  hedges  and  pink 
babies  digging  up  the  outraged  flower- 
beds, —  I  envy  you  these  joys.  Even 
marble  tubs  possess  for  me  a  poetic 
charm,  and  the  English  man-servant 
and  the  Japanese  butler  summon  before 
me  visions  of  luxurious,  beatific  inac- 
tion !  But  that  which  I  need,  on  which 
my  spirit  leans,  is  an  outlook  contain- 
ing, or  seeming  to  contain,  all  things: 
leagues  of  sky,  leagues  of  peopled  city, 
leagues  of  far,  shining  water  outlining 
the  whole  picture,  great  splashes  of  hill- 
side, green  or  brown,  and  color,  color 
everywhere! 

To-day  it  rains;  my  windows  are 
blurred;  the  lights  are  gray,  not  gold. 
Yet  when  I  turn  my  head  from  my  chat- 
tering typewriter,  I  see  through  half- 
closed  eyes  emerging  shapes,  a  tall  spire 
here  and  there,  blotches  of  pure  color 
gleaming  through  the  mist,  and  in  the 
foreground  a  group  of  preening  pigeons 
fluttering  against  a  golden-brown  wall. 
Blocks  and  blocks  away  I  hear  the 
grumbling  of  the  elevated  trains,  and 
occasionally  I  see  a  moving  dot  which 
from  this  distance  and  height  looks  like 
a  child's  abandoned  toy. 

At  the  moment  there  is  little  in  my 
view  of  obvious  charm  —  unless  a  pur- 
ply-silver  haze  and  spirals  of  blowing 
smoke  and  the  delight  of  distance  fasci- 
nate you — as  they  do  me!  To-day  my 
view  is  like  a  fair  woman,  in  street-gown 
and  hat  and  veil.  Only  the  woman's 
lover  there  by  her  side  knows  the  possi- 
bility of  that  form  and  face,  remembers 
the  gleam  of  bright  hair  when  the  scoop 
hat  is  flung  away,  the  white,  curved 
arms  under  the  heavy  coat,  —  arms 
which  only  last  night  were  relieved  by 
the  delicate  contrast  of  glittering  silk, 
—  knows  also  the  poise  of  the  slim 
throat  and  the  smile  of  the  sweet  mouth, 
now  so  discreet,  so  unsmiling,  as  the 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


857 


lady  sits  in  the  subway  train  beside  her 
discreet,  unsmiling  escort. 

So  with  my  view:  to-day  it  is  dis- 
guised, to-night  it  will  gleam  like  a 
court  beauty  in  jewels  and  lace;  to-day 
it  is  gracious,  but  subdued ;  I  have  seen 
it  passionate  in  summer  lightning,  icily 
magnificent  in  December  snows.  And 
if  only  the  sun  would  come  out  now 
for  one  brief  moment  there  would  be  a 
rainbow  arch  over  my  half  of  Heaven, 
as  I  have  seen  it  many  times,  curving 
like  some  Titanic  necklace  of  gems 
across  the  streets,  the  houses,  the 
bridges,  the  kind  green  hills,  and  that 
far  gleam  of  water. 

Commuters,  you  have  your  gardens, 
your  velvet  turf,  your  shady  trees,  your 
country  club,  and  your  divine  quiet. 
But  I  have  a  little  eyrie  hanging  over 
the  wonder  city  from  which  you  hasten 
each  day  in  weariness  and  scorn.  And 
this  eyrie  is  a  home,  because  those  who 
dwell  within  possess  the  two  essentials 
for  happiness:  love  of  one's  kind,  and  a 
vision  of  the  splendor  of  the  earth ! 

THE     PLEASURES     OF     ACQUAINT- 
ANCE 

What  is  so  pleasant  as  these  jets  of  affection  ? 

—  EMERSON. 

FAR  be  it  from  my  pen  to  dim  the 
glory  of  friendship,  which  all  the  poets 
of  all  the  ages  have  sung  so  sweetly; 
and  yet  I  dare  maintain  that  of  the 
two  degrees  of  social  intercourse,  ac- 
quaintance and  friendship,  a  slight  and 
evanescent  acquaintance  is  the  more 
ideal,  and  possesses  a  superior  pun- 
gency of  flavor.  I  love  my  friends 
with  a  peculiar  extravagance  of  affec- 
tion which  has  only  deepened  with  the 
shifting  of  the  perspective  from  girl- 
hood to  womanhood.  Also,  I  knmc 
these  friends  of  mine,  and  furthermore, 
forgive  them.  I  steel  my  heart  against 
the  biting  frankness  of  one;  I  overlook 
another's  dislike  of  poetry;  and  I  re- 


spond, with  varying  success,  to  the 
warm  and  effusive  nature  of  a  third. 
All  this  I  do  for  the  sake  of  friendship 

—  that  affinity  of  soul  which  draws  us 
together,  and  lends  to  our  intercourse 
its  tender,  deep  and  permanent  quality. 
Because  of  this  permanence  and  depth 

—  because  we  shall  return,  again  and 
again,  to  a  friend's  heart,  as  to  the 
warm  fireside  of  the  home  —  because 
of  the  sympathy  and  love  that  burns 
always  there,  we  willingly  forego  many 
things.     If  friendship  demands  great 
sacrifices,  it  repays  them  all  with  this 
feeling    of    confidence    and    security. 
With  those  whom  I  account  my  best 
and  dearest,  there  is  no  reserve.    Our 
friendship  is  rooted  in  the  bed-rock  of 
intimacy. 

Unlike  Emerson,  I  go  to  my  friend's 
house;  I  know  his  father,  mother,  and 
sisters;  'a  thought,  a  message,  a  sin- 
cerity,' my  friendship  may  be  to  me; 
but  it  is  infinitely  more,  for  it  bears  the 
indelible  stamp  of  concreteness.  It  is 
interwoven  through  and  through  with 
many  problems  of  morality  and  con- 
duct. It  is  in  no  sense  abstract,  for  it 
holds  too  many  threads  of  reality;  nor 
is  it  ideal,  for  a  number  of  those 
threads  are  broken,  and  tangled,  and 
imperfect.  I  fancy  that  friendship  is 
like  an  exquisite  pattern  embroidered 
on  a  coarse  cloth.  The  embroidery,  with 
its  fair  colors  and  graceful  design,  has 
become  a  part  of  the  fabric,  and  is  so 
intermingled  with  the  uncouth  texture 
that  the  one  cannot  be  ripped  from  the 
other  without  marring  both. 

Now,  acquaintance  is  almost  the  ex- 
act opposite  of  this.  All  that  is  im- 
possible in  friendship  is  possible  in  ac- 
quaintance. Acquaintance  resembles  a 
bit  of  bright  silk  raveling  caught  lightly 
in  the  mesh  of  the  cloth.  Without  in- 
jury to  the  fabric,  you  may  pull  out 
the  raveling  and  see  it  lying  there  in 
the  palm  of  your  hand.  It  is  abstract, 
simple,  ideal,  ephemeral.  It  is  not  in- 


858 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


terwoven  with  necessity  or  sordidness. 
It  rests  upon  the  top  of  the  affections, 
lightly;  and  therefore,  I  say,  it  pos- 
sesses a  certain  keenness  of  pleasure 
that  friendship,  welling  up  from  the 
depths,  cannot  know. 

Acquaintance  offers  the  fairest  of 
all  opportunities  —  that  of  idealizing 
one's  self.  With  the  formation  of  an 
acquaintance,  there  comes  into  my  life 
a  stranger  from  another  world.  Can 
I  not  be  to  this  man  or  woman  some- 
thing finer  than  I  know  myself  to  be? 
According  to  the  mood  I  am  in,  can  I 
not,  for  one  half-hour,  sparkle  with  wit, 
or  show  myself  gracious  and  kind,  or 
thrash  out  that  philosophical  dispute 
without  binding  myself  to  everlasting 
observance  of  the  principles  I  have  laid 
down?  I  can  be  a  boon  companion,  a 
literator,  an  optimist,  a  pessimist.  To 
an  acquaintance,  I  can  reveal  what  side 
of  my  nature  I  will.  I  can  show  him 
the  red  apples  that  lie  on  the  top  of  the 
measure.  The  little,  knotty  fruit  below 
will  remain  hidden  from  his  eyes,  un- 
less, indeed,  we  should  become  friends. 
And  then?  Ah!  .then,  he  will  forgive 
me.  But,  for  the  present,  I  am  ideal, 
and  there  is  no  need  for  forgiveness. 

Not  only  do  I  thus  abstract  my  bet- 
ter self  from  the  grossness  and  com- 
plexity of  my  entire  nature,  but  I  con- 
verse with  an  idealized  companion. 
He,  too,  —  be  he  girl  or  boy,  man  or 
woman,  —  sketches  for  me  an  outline 
of  his  beatified  self.  He  displays  his 
most  lovable  side.  If  he  has  unfortun- 
ate habits,  I  am  not  unaware  of  them. 
If  his  jokes  are  a  mere  stock-in-trade, 
and  his  few  theories  of  philosophy  worn 
threadbare  with  hard  use,  I  have  not 
time  to  find  him  out.  It  is  not  my 
purpose  to  play  the  detective,  but  to 
gather  what  delight  I  may  from  my 


brief  converse  with  this  chance  ac- 
quaintance. He  may  be  the  veritable 
black  sheep  of  his  family;  or,  worse,  he 
may  be  that  unfortunate,  lone,  white 
creature  in  a  tribe  of  dusky  fleeces. 
These  things  are  as  nought  to  me.  His 
dogmatic  father,  his  scapegoat  of  a 
brother,  his  pedantic  sister  —  these  I 
know  not.  Only  the  man  himself,  the 
best  part  of  him,  such  as  he  has  chosen 
to  give  me  in  our  brief  acquaintance- 
ship —  that  I  know,  and  in  that  I  take 
delight. 

This  pleasure  in  mere  acquaintance 
is  one  of  the  charms  of  life  for  all  who 
love  the  touch-and-go  of  daily  inter- 
course. It  is  a  sort  of  luxury,  over  and 
above  the  enduring  friendships  which 
demand  great  sacrifices  in  return  for 
their  great  happiness.  Friendship  drags, 
in  consequence,  all  the  joys  and  woes  of 
the  universe.  It  frequently  displays  de- 
formities, scars,  and  ugly  places,  which 
we  prefer  to  hide  and  cover  over.  But 
acquaintance  is  an  ideal,  starlike  point 
of  friendship,  no  part  of  which  one 
could  wish  to  forget. 

You  who  are  staunch  and  loyal 
friends,  who  have  toiled  and  suffered 
and  shed  your  heart's  tears  and  sacri- 
ficed untold  things  to  keep  alive  that 
flower  of  friendship,  be  not  offended. 
I  would  not,  for  the  sum-total  of  my 
acquaintances,  forego  the  least  of  my 
good  friends.  But  when  I  look  back- 
ward, and,  like  a  miser,  count  up  the 
moments  of  human  intercourse  that 
have  given  me  great  pleasure,  the 
starry  points  of  many  an  acquaintance- 
ship shine  out  so  clear  and  bright  that 
I  must  count  them  as  no  mean  portion 
of  my  wealth.  They  have  been  precious 
moments  in  my  life;  and 

I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were 
That  were  most  precious  to  me. 


AP 
2 

A8 
v.107 


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